OR...one of my feminist awakenings.
Not THE feminist awakening, 'cause from the time I was a little girl, I was deeply aware of societal unfairness. I think I may have mentioned it before, but I used to watch Bewitched, one of my favorite shows, when I was six and seven and eight and be absolutely outraged at Darrin bossing Sam around and forbidding her to use magic. I didn't understand why she didn't just zap him. I didn't understand voluntarily ceding power in those days, ahem, but I knew a douchebag when I saw one. Not that I knew that extremely useful term then, of course. So, yeah, I was attuned to unfairness even then, but honestly? I didn't see much of that unfairness in my everyday life as a kid or teenager.
My dad worked, my mom worked. My dad didn't do half the housework, but he helped, and my mom definitely controlled the finances. I'm sure my mother felt like she did way more than her share, but then, my mother was a bitter, bitter woman, and brought a lot of it on herself with her tendencies to martyrdom and insane perfectionism about certain things. (White-trash Martha Stewart, y'all, remember?)
In high school, well, it was the 70s, and I gotta say, our teachers were down with "you're smart girls and you're gonna do stuff." My (male) geometry teacher loved my very meticulously drawn diagrams that accompanied my proofs and several times over the course of the year tried to convince me to go into drafting, 'cause the GE always needed draftsmen and with affirmative action, they HAD to hire women. Um, career advice I'm glad I didn't take, considering what happened to the GE locally in particular and manufacturing in this country generally, but you can't say our teachers weren't absolutely willing to direct us towards male-dominated fields. Similarly, one of the Benevolent L's teachers talked up going into the computer/high tech fields to her, with no compunctions about "you're a girl, that's not a girl thing." Of course, the Benevolent L eventually, through roundabout ways, became a tech writer, which is why she is unemployed as we speak, sigh. So, yeah, we may have been given somewhat shitty career advice, but it wasn't sexist, yo.
And in the outside world, it was also the 70s. All the women's magazines my mom read when I was a kid were full of articles about how your husband should be helping around the house and how you deserved orgasms. The women's magazines I was reading by the time I was a teenager (late 70s Glamour ftw) were full not just of pretty clothes and horrible dieting advice that contributed to my fucked up relationship with my body, but also articles that assumed that their young women readers were going to have apartments and careers and would need to learn to manage their finances and advocate for their own healthcare and fix up and decorate their little studios on the cheap. They were going to take care of themselves! and have adventures! Reproductive freedom was in the air. Birth control was easy to come by, even if you were a teenager; abortion was legal and no one was picketing clinics and harassing patients yet. The ERA may not have passed, but Title IX did, and that meant the girls' locker room got a Nautilus machine, because the football players had one in theirs.
What I'm saying is, I had a general awareness of, and support for, feminism, but by the time I graduated high school, I was pretty sure the battle had been won.
Then I got the job in the nursing home. For three years, during my little college hiatus, and then when I went back to school, I was what would now be called a CNA. Except no one was certifying us in those days. You learned on the job and hopefully didn't kill anybody. It was physically exhausting, sometimes emotionally rewarding, and frequently disgusting work. As I like to say, you really haven't lived till you've cleaned up a 90-something year old woman with dementia who has managed to paint herself and most of her whole half of the room with her own shit while your back was turned. You lose your squeamishness, you do. (You also learn things about being elderly that no one tells you. For example, very old people lose a lot of their body hair, often including their pubes. Did you know that? Ladies, hang in there. By the time you're 85, you probably won't need to spring for Brazilians anymore. Oh, I crack myself up.) And this job? It paid minimum wage. Which I do believe was a little over three bucks an hour. It was, as I said, unskilled labor.
Sometime during my first year doing this, I found out that the janitors whose job was mainly to wash and buff the floors and take out the trash made considerably more money than we did. Like 50 cents an hour more. Their job was also unskilled labor, arguably less physically demanding, and certainly less disgusting. Why did they make a higher hourly wage than we did? Well, obviously, it was because they were all guys and we, the aides, were all women. I cannot tell you how incensed I was when I figured this out, and how much further incensed I was when none of my co-workers could be convinced to be angry about it with me. "We take care of people, they take care of floors," I'd argue. "Which is more important?" But no one gave a fuck that our work was devalued just because it was women's work. I couldn't believe it.
And that, my friends, was my real feminist awakening.
xoxo
Addendum: Not that I learned anything from this experience, of course! I went into a female-dominated profession and guaranteed I would pretty much make shit for money.
Addendum 2: I would go into what prompted this whole post, but does it really matter? Do you really need to know?
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
comments that must be made
Well, okay, they've all actually been made already, pretty much, but now they shall be shared with the class.
1.) Ubaldo remembered how to pitch today. This is a good thing. One cannot remain my favorite Dominican forever while fucking with my team ERA, even with a backlog of stored good will.
2.) Did you know that steaming lobsters is supposedly a crueler way to prepare them, as they die less quickly? I myself prefer to think that in their tiny little lobster brains, they think that they've been sent to the spa and after the steam room comes the massage. And thus they die happy! Oh, shut up. As the proverb I quoted yesterday before ingesting my delicious, delicious steamed lobsters says: I did not claw my way to the top of the food chain to eat tofu. God.
3.) Speaking of delicious seafood...as at least two readers of this blog can testify, at the funeral last week my ex-husband swore he'd call me this week about the fresh-off-the-boat crabs he gets from "a guy". It is now Thursday. Do you see any crabs in my house? Have I even gotten a phone call or text with a lame excuse as to why there are no crabs in my house? Oh, blog readers, if you thought anything different would transpire, you haven't been paying attention! Edited to add: What kind of person would lie to a bereaved person about crustaceans? Again, god.
4.) I got eight cherry tomatoes from my plants today, which is my one-day-total record so far. When I consider what I paid for tomato plants and potting soil vs what cherry tomatoes cost, even at the farmers' market, I have to admit that one does not save money growing one's own vegetables. It does, however, give a person a false sense of accomplishment which is without price!
5.) More stuff.
xoxo
1.) Ubaldo remembered how to pitch today. This is a good thing. One cannot remain my favorite Dominican forever while fucking with my team ERA, even with a backlog of stored good will.
2.) Did you know that steaming lobsters is supposedly a crueler way to prepare them, as they die less quickly? I myself prefer to think that in their tiny little lobster brains, they think that they've been sent to the spa and after the steam room comes the massage. And thus they die happy! Oh, shut up. As the proverb I quoted yesterday before ingesting my delicious, delicious steamed lobsters says: I did not claw my way to the top of the food chain to eat tofu. God.
3.) Speaking of delicious seafood...as at least two readers of this blog can testify, at the funeral last week my ex-husband swore he'd call me this week about the fresh-off-the-boat crabs he gets from "a guy". It is now Thursday. Do you see any crabs in my house? Have I even gotten a phone call or text with a lame excuse as to why there are no crabs in my house? Oh, blog readers, if you thought anything different would transpire, you haven't been paying attention! Edited to add: What kind of person would lie to a bereaved person about crustaceans? Again, god.
4.) I got eight cherry tomatoes from my plants today, which is my one-day-total record so far. When I consider what I paid for tomato plants and potting soil vs what cherry tomatoes cost, even at the farmers' market, I have to admit that one does not save money growing one's own vegetables. It does, however, give a person a false sense of accomplishment which is without price!
5.) More stuff.
xoxo
Monday, July 26, 2010
here's something you may or may not know
...about me! I am, if not easily amused, then at least easily satisfied. It doesn't take a hell of a lot to make me happy. I know, you would think by the amount of bitching, pissing, and moaning that goes on in here that I am never happy, but that is not true. As easily as I am irritated, I am placated.
And so it came to pass that when I stopped by my tiny lil neighborhood liquor store this afternoon to buy my week's bottle of wine (livin' large, livin' large), I saw that they are now carrying a new product. Gnarly Head pinot grigio! Now, up to this point they have had Gnarly Head cab, merlot, pinot noir, and my usual, old vine zin. All reds! Now there is a Gnarly Head white. Isn't that exciting? (It is too, shut up.) And the only thing that kept me from buying it was that it would need to be chilled, and I was not sure I could wait for that. What if I wanted a glass with dinner, not after dinner? What then?!?
Anyway, so now I have something to look forward to. Take that as you will.
In the disappointment column, however, I wasn't really feeling the Mad Men season 4 premier last night. Kinda slow, kinda flat. Not enough Joan, not enough Pete Campbell. And Don in the sad divorced-guy apartment, getting slapped around by hookers? That's not right.
xoxo
And so it came to pass that when I stopped by my tiny lil neighborhood liquor store this afternoon to buy my week's bottle of wine (livin' large, livin' large), I saw that they are now carrying a new product. Gnarly Head pinot grigio! Now, up to this point they have had Gnarly Head cab, merlot, pinot noir, and my usual, old vine zin. All reds! Now there is a Gnarly Head white. Isn't that exciting? (It is too, shut up.) And the only thing that kept me from buying it was that it would need to be chilled, and I was not sure I could wait for that. What if I wanted a glass with dinner, not after dinner? What then?!?
Anyway, so now I have something to look forward to. Take that as you will.
In the disappointment column, however, I wasn't really feeling the Mad Men season 4 premier last night. Kinda slow, kinda flat. Not enough Joan, not enough Pete Campbell. And Don in the sad divorced-guy apartment, getting slapped around by hookers? That's not right.
xoxo
Sunday, July 25, 2010
here's a request!
If you attend someone's wake or funeral, and there is a guestbook, please sign it. Legibly. Printing is good! Then that little space for your address? Write that in too. Again, printing works. Alternately, if you bring a card because, for example, you've bought the deceased a Mass or some prayers***, legibly printing your name and address or affixing an address label is swell. All of this is especially important if the survivor(s) are unlikely to know who you are or, if they do, have no idea what your current mailing address might be.
Because, seriously, the bereaved would *like* to thank you for your kindness, and if you make it impossible or at least very very difficult, they will be sad and frustrated. Do you want to make the bereaved frustrated or more sad than they already are? No. No, you do not. Because you are a good, thoughtful person and that's why you expressed condolences in the first place!
xoxo
***you non-Catholic types may think this kind of thing went out in the Middle Ages, but you would be wrong. I think buying prayers for deceased loved ones is what keeps most of these monastic orders solvent. They're not all brewing beer or making jam, you know.
Because, seriously, the bereaved would *like* to thank you for your kindness, and if you make it impossible or at least very very difficult, they will be sad and frustrated. Do you want to make the bereaved frustrated or more sad than they already are? No. No, you do not. Because you are a good, thoughtful person and that's why you expressed condolences in the first place!
xoxo
***you non-Catholic types may think this kind of thing went out in the Middle Ages, but you would be wrong. I think buying prayers for deceased loved ones is what keeps most of these monastic orders solvent. They're not all brewing beer or making jam, you know.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
being a woman
My dad's oldest brother is still alive. Barely. He was too frail to come to the funeral, can no longer walk, is completely blind. My auntie J can only leave him for maybe half an hour at a time. She came to the funeral home just briefly Wednesday, apologizing that she couldn't stay, and asked gently if my dad had been ill for long. I told her, no, that basically he had just dropped dead. We agreed, as you do, that it's preferable to many of the alternatives. "Like poor uncle B," I said. "Suffering so much. And you--it's so hard on you." She grasped my hand, looked me in the eye, and said simply, "It's hell."
That afternoon, after the funeral, when I got my mail, there was a card in there from her daughter, my cousin C. C wrote that she was sorry to hear of my dad's passing, and that, unfortunately, since she and her husband had recently moved to Florida, she couldn't be at the funeral. I have to admit, I was shocked. Her father is basically dying very very slowly, and her mother is in what she herself refers to as "hell", and they just decided now was the time to pick up and move away? Now, admittedly, C is at least 15 years older than me, so retirement age, and I'd heard they had inherited a condo in FL from her husband's parents. But the times I've gone to see my uncle when he was in the hospital over the last few years, C was always there with auntie J, helping out. It seemed like they were close.
I don't know if C reached a point where she cracked and just couldn't do any more. I don't know if C's husband said "if you don't move to Florida with me, our marriage is over." I don't know if C and auntie J had a falling out. I don't know if auntie J urged her to move while she had the chance, not anticipating how hard it would be without her around, or not caring. I don't know if there's a fifth possibility I'm not entertaining. But in any of those cases, all I can think is, how could you leave your mother?
I was thinking about this today on my way home from the grocery store, thinking about how unfair I'm being. C has two brothers. Why do I think she should be the one to shoulder the responsibility? Why don't I automatically assume they are, and should be, doing everything they can to help with my uncle B? Would I have been shocked if the card from Florida had been from one of them? Why not? Why do I assume, unconsciously or consciously, that if you are a woman, you will, you should, caretake? How is that fair to anyone, woman or man? It's kinda amazing to be slapped upside the head by your own sexist assumptions and prejudices, when you think you're all feminist, not to mention rational.
And I still want to say, but...but how could you leave your mother? Sigh.
xoxo
That afternoon, after the funeral, when I got my mail, there was a card in there from her daughter, my cousin C. C wrote that she was sorry to hear of my dad's passing, and that, unfortunately, since she and her husband had recently moved to Florida, she couldn't be at the funeral. I have to admit, I was shocked. Her father is basically dying very very slowly, and her mother is in what she herself refers to as "hell", and they just decided now was the time to pick up and move away? Now, admittedly, C is at least 15 years older than me, so retirement age, and I'd heard they had inherited a condo in FL from her husband's parents. But the times I've gone to see my uncle when he was in the hospital over the last few years, C was always there with auntie J, helping out. It seemed like they were close.
I don't know if C reached a point where she cracked and just couldn't do any more. I don't know if C's husband said "if you don't move to Florida with me, our marriage is over." I don't know if C and auntie J had a falling out. I don't know if auntie J urged her to move while she had the chance, not anticipating how hard it would be without her around, or not caring. I don't know if there's a fifth possibility I'm not entertaining. But in any of those cases, all I can think is, how could you leave your mother?
I was thinking about this today on my way home from the grocery store, thinking about how unfair I'm being. C has two brothers. Why do I think she should be the one to shoulder the responsibility? Why don't I automatically assume they are, and should be, doing everything they can to help with my uncle B? Would I have been shocked if the card from Florida had been from one of them? Why not? Why do I assume, unconsciously or consciously, that if you are a woman, you will, you should, caretake? How is that fair to anyone, woman or man? It's kinda amazing to be slapped upside the head by your own sexist assumptions and prejudices, when you think you're all feminist, not to mention rational.
And I still want to say, but...but how could you leave your mother? Sigh.
xoxo
Thursday, July 22, 2010
i'm back, sorta
"Jesus and I agreed to see other people. Don't mean we don't still talk from time to time." --Lafayette, True Blood, season 2.
Funeral was yesterday. I got through it. No, actually, I more than got through it. I was happy with how it all turned out; I think it was the funeral my dad would have wanted. Do you know that if you are a veteran--I don't think you even need to be a war veteran, though my dad was--the Department of the Navy (or whatever) will send out two sailors (or, again, whatever) to the graveside part of the service where they will play Taps, salute, fold up the flag ceremoniously, and present it to the survivor? I had managed to hold it together through the whole funeral until the (girl) sailor did the (paraphrased) "Ma'am, on behalf of the Department of the Navy, and (maybe the President?), we would like to present you with this flag in honor of your father's service to his country," at which point I started crying behind my sunglasses, 'cause it was so fucking beautiful. Anyway, if you are entitled to it or you are planning a funeral for someone who is entitled to it, go for it. It's pretty nice.
When the obituary came out earlier in the week, it was passed on to me that one of my surviving uncles was shocked! that I got everything in it right, which pissed me the hell off--you know how I get--but which seemed just about right, 'cause I realize my extended family in general consider me a crazy weirdo***. However, at the after-party (ha! it's actually called a "collation", which, who knew?), I had a bunch of people come up to me and compliment the obituary as being exceedingly good, so I realize that the remark passed on to me wasn't originally meant as a slam. And even more people complimented my semi-non-traditional eulogy. Which, I'm glad people liked it, but it was really for me, and for D, and for my dad. I wanted to honor the real person he was and show the specifics of why we loved him and why we will miss him, not platitudes and generalities. I can almost guarantee you there's never been another eulogy in that church that referenced A.J. Pierzynski or vivid dreams about drinking draft beer. So, yeah. Think it went well.
Special thanks to The Benevolent L, Mr Barma, and Mr Indemnity, my bestest friends in the world, for being there with me, and special special thanks to the Benevolent L for all the practical and emotional support in the days leading up to yesterday. Thanks to everyone else who sent messages of love and comfort. I was shocked to see M1 in the church, such that I had to stop and hug the shit out of her on the way out, and M2 forwarded the news throughout our massage-friends grapevine, such that I got lovely surprise condolence messages from people I did even know knew about it. I've said it before and I'll say it again--when something bad happens, the upside is that you are reminded once again how kind and good most people are. All other evidence to the contrary.
I promise to return to regular blog content soon. I am sure if I spend enough time on the interwebs today, I can find something to get worked up about!
xoxo
***not that they would be wrong, they just think it's a bad thing, yo
Funeral was yesterday. I got through it. No, actually, I more than got through it. I was happy with how it all turned out; I think it was the funeral my dad would have wanted. Do you know that if you are a veteran--I don't think you even need to be a war veteran, though my dad was--the Department of the Navy (or whatever) will send out two sailors (or, again, whatever) to the graveside part of the service where they will play Taps, salute, fold up the flag ceremoniously, and present it to the survivor? I had managed to hold it together through the whole funeral until the (girl) sailor did the (paraphrased) "Ma'am, on behalf of the Department of the Navy, and (maybe the President?), we would like to present you with this flag in honor of your father's service to his country," at which point I started crying behind my sunglasses, 'cause it was so fucking beautiful. Anyway, if you are entitled to it or you are planning a funeral for someone who is entitled to it, go for it. It's pretty nice.
When the obituary came out earlier in the week, it was passed on to me that one of my surviving uncles was shocked! that I got everything in it right, which pissed me the hell off--you know how I get--but which seemed just about right, 'cause I realize my extended family in general consider me a crazy weirdo***. However, at the after-party (ha! it's actually called a "collation", which, who knew?), I had a bunch of people come up to me and compliment the obituary as being exceedingly good, so I realize that the remark passed on to me wasn't originally meant as a slam. And even more people complimented my semi-non-traditional eulogy. Which, I'm glad people liked it, but it was really for me, and for D, and for my dad. I wanted to honor the real person he was and show the specifics of why we loved him and why we will miss him, not platitudes and generalities. I can almost guarantee you there's never been another eulogy in that church that referenced A.J. Pierzynski or vivid dreams about drinking draft beer. So, yeah. Think it went well.
Special thanks to The Benevolent L, Mr Barma, and Mr Indemnity, my bestest friends in the world, for being there with me, and special special thanks to the Benevolent L for all the practical and emotional support in the days leading up to yesterday. Thanks to everyone else who sent messages of love and comfort. I was shocked to see M1 in the church, such that I had to stop and hug the shit out of her on the way out, and M2 forwarded the news throughout our massage-friends grapevine, such that I got lovely surprise condolence messages from people I did even know knew about it. I've said it before and I'll say it again--when something bad happens, the upside is that you are reminded once again how kind and good most people are. All other evidence to the contrary.
I promise to return to regular blog content soon. I am sure if I spend enough time on the interwebs today, I can find something to get worked up about!
xoxo
***not that they would be wrong, they just think it's a bad thing, yo
Saturday, July 17, 2010
in the spirit of the downfall of western civilization
...in which people tweet their miscarriages and Facebook announce their divorces, I will take the opportunity in this post to tell all y'all who don't already know that the man who brought you Bulgy Polish Catcher's Thighs, not to mention me--that is, my dad--passed away unexpectedly this morning of an apparent massive heart attack. I will, of course, always live with the little bit of guilt that he collapsed while D and I were out for an hour and a half and if someone had been here, he could have been revived in time. As well as the guilt that I didn't make him go to the ER earlier this week when he was vomiting. As well as the guilt that I was pissed off at him Wednesday morning for complaining there was no junk food in the house and whatever else he was pissing me off about that day. As well as all the flippant comments about how his needs were always getting in the way of important shit, like me having date night. Sigh.
And I am so, so sad. As I said to D as we were crying together, "It's just you and me now." Just us, all alone. I told D at least Grampa's with Grandma now, and his brothers, but you know I don't believe that. I wish I did.
Anyway, I don't know why I feel compelled to write this, but I am restless and don't know what to do with myself. D and I looked through a bunch of pictures to see if there was one we want to be printed with his obituary and we picked out clothes for him to be buried in and we tried to find something D can wear to the funeral (found a jacket that'll work if it's not buttoned, and a dress shirt that'll fit, and some shoes that only need new laces, but no pants) and I'm doing laundry and I know I should go clean the floor in dad's room because there's blood on it where he fell face forward and and and... Grief is a weird thing. When my mom died, I didn't cry for months. Crying and typing now.
xoxo
And I am so, so sad. As I said to D as we were crying together, "It's just you and me now." Just us, all alone. I told D at least Grampa's with Grandma now, and his brothers, but you know I don't believe that. I wish I did.
Anyway, I don't know why I feel compelled to write this, but I am restless and don't know what to do with myself. D and I looked through a bunch of pictures to see if there was one we want to be printed with his obituary and we picked out clothes for him to be buried in and we tried to find something D can wear to the funeral (found a jacket that'll work if it's not buttoned, and a dress shirt that'll fit, and some shoes that only need new laces, but no pants) and I'm doing laundry and I know I should go clean the floor in dad's room because there's blood on it where he fell face forward and and and... Grief is a weird thing. When my mom died, I didn't cry for months. Crying and typing now.
xoxo
Thursday, July 15, 2010
oh, kids
Sometimes life is tough.
But why dwell on it? Instead, amuse yourselves with all the interwebs have to offer. There's this. And then there's this. Not to mention this, which never gets old, lemme tell you. It's an Adventures classic!
In other cheerful news, which I am very sure you have been waiting for with bated (baited?) breath, as of today I am officially one pound below my goal weight, so maybe I will stop bothering you with details of my food plan and exercise ambitions. You're feeling more cheerful already, aren'tcha? I can tell. Despite that (uh, the scale success, that is) no one saw me nekkid on my day off, which is not how the universe is supposed to work out. Oops, sorry, that's dwelling. Go look at Ewan McGregor, who is a sop to sexually frustrated women everywhere. As far as I am concerned. Ahem.
xoxo
But why dwell on it? Instead, amuse yourselves with all the interwebs have to offer. There's this. And then there's this. Not to mention this, which never gets old, lemme tell you. It's an Adventures classic!
In other cheerful news, which I am very sure you have been waiting for with bated (baited?) breath, as of today I am officially one pound below my goal weight, so maybe I will stop bothering you with details of my food plan and exercise ambitions. You're feeling more cheerful already, aren'tcha? I can tell. Despite that (uh, the scale success, that is) no one saw me nekkid on my day off, which is not how the universe is supposed to work out. Oops, sorry, that's dwelling. Go look at Ewan McGregor, who is a sop to sexually frustrated women everywhere. As far as I am concerned. Ahem.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
call signs
Did you know that Angelina has a new inner thigh tattoo that she won't identify, saying that it's "only for Brad"? Aw, sweet. Anyway, according to jezebel, the latest theory--based on what you can see of it in a Vanity Fair photo spread--is that it says "Whiskey Bravo" for Brad's real initials (William Bradley). That has lead to numerous commenters figuring out just what theirs would be, which is kinda more fun than your stripper name or whatever. Mine (I'll save you the trouble of figuring it out by your own selves) would be Alfa Juliet Hotel. Which would make a sucky, sucky tattoo.
However! Wouldn't you like to stay there?
Our room service is always prompt, the robes are leopard print, and OMG there's good soundproofing.
xoxo
However! Wouldn't you like to stay there?
Our room service is always prompt, the robes are leopard print, and OMG there's good soundproofing.
xoxo
customer service fail #438793 plus...
he coulda been a contendah!
I stopped in Dunkin' Donuts on my way to work today, like the good little Boston white trash girl that I am. Whereupon I proceeded to try to buy a medium iced ($2.50-something with tax) with a twenty dollar bill. The cashier looked at me. "Oh. I can't change that. Do you have anything smaller?" Closer perusal of my wallet yielded a five which I hadn't known*** I had and of course I could have used my debit card if absolutely necessary, even though using plastic for purchases under ten bucks makes the baby Jesus cry. But, seriously? How does a place whose reason for being is to serve coffee fail to have change for a twenty at 7:15 in the morning?
The universe then immediately compensated me for this minor annoyance by allowing me to listen in on a bit of fascinating conversation from two guys, one black, one white, both probably ten years older than me. Apparently they were catching up on, or discovering, various acquaintances they had in common. Talk turned to "Danny". (What is it about that name?) One guy recounts that someone told him Danny had passed away, and he went home and "cried his eyes out" because, man, he knew Danny since kindergarten. Then two or three weeks later he saw Danny walking down the street and it blew his mind! Reports of his death had been, y'know, greatly exaggerated. Other guy says, thoughtfully, "You know, I've got to say I've always been disappointed in Danny. Do you know what he could have been?" Oh, yes, first guy knows. Champ. Danny coulda been the champ. Ali trained Danny. Marvin Haggler's people trained Danny. They all thought Danny was the one. But Danny's bright future, all Danny's promise, went up his nose. Apparently. Oh, Danny. Just say no to drugs, kids.
Now, I know very little about 1980s boxing (as evidenced by my huge trivia fail in same), certainly not enough to figure out what Danny's last name is. But now I kinda want to know. It could come up again.
xoxo
***and as I was typing this out it occurred to me why I had that five. D gave me a hundred dollars cash yesterday to buy something for him. One of the other bills he gave me was a fifty. I probably tried to give that poor woman in Dunkin' Donuts a fifty thinking it was a twenty, and thus this is NOT a customer service fail, but instead evidence that no one should make me do anything that early in the morning. Sigh.
I stopped in Dunkin' Donuts on my way to work today, like the good little Boston white trash girl that I am. Whereupon I proceeded to try to buy a medium iced ($2.50-something with tax) with a twenty dollar bill. The cashier looked at me. "Oh. I can't change that. Do you have anything smaller?" Closer perusal of my wallet yielded a five which I hadn't known*** I had and of course I could have used my debit card if absolutely necessary, even though using plastic for purchases under ten bucks makes the baby Jesus cry. But, seriously? How does a place whose reason for being is to serve coffee fail to have change for a twenty at 7:15 in the morning?
The universe then immediately compensated me for this minor annoyance by allowing me to listen in on a bit of fascinating conversation from two guys, one black, one white, both probably ten years older than me. Apparently they were catching up on, or discovering, various acquaintances they had in common. Talk turned to "Danny". (What is it about that name?) One guy recounts that someone told him Danny had passed away, and he went home and "cried his eyes out" because, man, he knew Danny since kindergarten. Then two or three weeks later he saw Danny walking down the street and it blew his mind! Reports of his death had been, y'know, greatly exaggerated. Other guy says, thoughtfully, "You know, I've got to say I've always been disappointed in Danny. Do you know what he could have been?" Oh, yes, first guy knows. Champ. Danny coulda been the champ. Ali trained Danny. Marvin Haggler's people trained Danny. They all thought Danny was the one. But Danny's bright future, all Danny's promise, went up his nose. Apparently. Oh, Danny. Just say no to drugs, kids.
Now, I know very little about 1980s boxing (as evidenced by my huge trivia fail in same), certainly not enough to figure out what Danny's last name is. But now I kinda want to know. It could come up again.
xoxo
***and as I was typing this out it occurred to me why I had that five. D gave me a hundred dollars cash yesterday to buy something for him. One of the other bills he gave me was a fifty. I probably tried to give that poor woman in Dunkin' Donuts a fifty thinking it was a twenty, and thus this is NOT a customer service fail, but instead evidence that no one should make me do anything that early in the morning. Sigh.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
i'll stop talking about baseball soon
Like, in November. Be patient.
Did anyone see any of that Red Sox game last night? I came home in the midst of that third inning. At first it was gratifying. But soon enough I started feeling sad for the Toronto pitchers who just could not get anyone out. When your team goes ahead 5-0, you feel good. It's a comfortable lead. The night's looking promising. When your team is leading 9-0, and an inning is just going on and on and on, it starts to be less pleasurable. That's not a comfortable lead; that's a pile-on. It may be my excess supply of empathy, but I hate to see anyone humiliated. Except for A-Rod and possibly That Bastard Lackey. (I'd probably add JD "Nancy" Drew to that list, but do we think he's capable of caring about anything enough to *be* humiliated? I seriously doubt it. Anyone who sits out a game because of neck stiffness on the same day Pedroia is filmed fielding grounders from his knees 'cause he can't put weight on his broken foot but wants to keep his hands sharp, and while about six other important players on his team are on the DL has no shame. Obviously. They've got trainers and massage therapists available to work on your poor widdle neck, Nancy. Look into it.)
N E Way, yes, I felt sorry for the Toronto pitching staff. It also made for a boring game, such that eventually D put some show about alien abductions on. ( Did you know that's pretty much all that's on the Learning Channel these days? Alien abductions and Big Foot. Learning, my ass.) If I had been smart, I'd have gone upstairs, 'cause I've got the first DVD of the second season of True Blood waiting, and that, my friends, is a not-so-guilty pleasure. Instead, as usual, I didn't start watching it till 10:30 and promptly fell asleep before there was even one sex scene. What good does that do me? I ask you.
In summary, I recommend closer sporting contests and more perverted vampire sex. You heard it here first.
xoxo
Did anyone see any of that Red Sox game last night? I came home in the midst of that third inning. At first it was gratifying. But soon enough I started feeling sad for the Toronto pitchers who just could not get anyone out. When your team goes ahead 5-0, you feel good. It's a comfortable lead. The night's looking promising. When your team is leading 9-0, and an inning is just going on and on and on, it starts to be less pleasurable. That's not a comfortable lead; that's a pile-on. It may be my excess supply of empathy, but I hate to see anyone humiliated. Except for A-Rod and possibly That Bastard Lackey. (I'd probably add JD "Nancy" Drew to that list, but do we think he's capable of caring about anything enough to *be* humiliated? I seriously doubt it. Anyone who sits out a game because of neck stiffness on the same day Pedroia is filmed fielding grounders from his knees 'cause he can't put weight on his broken foot but wants to keep his hands sharp, and while about six other important players on his team are on the DL has no shame. Obviously. They've got trainers and massage therapists available to work on your poor widdle neck, Nancy. Look into it.)
N E Way, yes, I felt sorry for the Toronto pitching staff. It also made for a boring game, such that eventually D put some show about alien abductions on. ( Did you know that's pretty much all that's on the Learning Channel these days? Alien abductions and Big Foot. Learning, my ass.) If I had been smart, I'd have gone upstairs, 'cause I've got the first DVD of the second season of True Blood waiting, and that, my friends, is a not-so-guilty pleasure. Instead, as usual, I didn't start watching it till 10:30 and promptly fell asleep before there was even one sex scene. What good does that do me? I ask you.
In summary, I recommend closer sporting contests and more perverted vampire sex. You heard it here first.
xoxo
Friday, July 9, 2010
momentous things are occurring
Momentous, I tell you!
First of all, despite a couple of hiccups--like that Red Sox game that shall never be spoken of again--Ubaldo has reached numero quince. Say it with me: KEEEEEN-say. Doesn't that sound good? Sadly, Mr Jhoulys Chacin, Ubaldo's fellow Rockies pitching staff member, has been demoted from starter to long relief, a role he sucked at on his first try. So, (as I said) sadly I had to dump him, and just after I finally learned how to pronounce the boy's name. There's just no real utility in holding onto a long reliever, as far as I can see. I will miss his Ks, however. But! Since I know that some of you, by which I mean "all", don't care as much about the Colorado Rockies as I do, let's move on to something else momentous.
I have this particular dress in my closet. I haven't been able to fit into it since 2004, but unlike the rest of my clothes that particular size, I haven't given it away or donated it. Primarily because I have very fond memories of wearing it to a particular event in the summer of 2003, and I am *such* a chick about such things. I try to suppress this tendency towards imbuing certain objects with sentimental meaning because AS YOU KNOW that way leads to ruin, and an appearance on Hoarders. But this dress I kept. It's a black sheath, square-necked, thin straps, just to the knee, and very fitted. It's a Joan Holloway kinda dress, okay? Last night when I was getting ready to go to bed,and thus looking at myself nekkid in the mirror and thinking about, y'know, joining a gym, I got it into my head to try on that dress and see how close I was to being able to zip it. As motivation to actually start lifting weights, not just thinking/talking/typing about it. Or something. You see where this story is going, right? Not only could I zip it, it actually fit. Sweet Mary, mother of god. I was shocked. (There goes the gym motivation.) Now, there are two problems. The first is that I no longer have the lifestyle in which I have any reason to wear this dress. This is a dress to wear, if not to the same function I last wore it, to a nice restaurant and then later be zipped out of by a handsome gentleman. It is Teh Sex. The second is that this dress has been living its life for the past six years in the spare closet next to a fuzzy angora sweater which I also no longer wear (that one's been too big!) and it is covered with fuzz by osmosis. I mean *covered*. The tag says dry clean only--it's cotton but it's lined--and I think if I take it to my friendly local dry cleaner, they will laugh at me and ask whether I really think the dry cleaning process will get that off. I suppose maybe if I spend about three hours of quality time with a lint brush, or a roll of duct tape, first. Nevertheless! Momentous!
And, finally? As some of you know already, I got a new phone last night, and thus will no longer be mockable. For that reason, anyway. I.like.it. I still do not have the internet in my pants, 'cause I ain't paying for a data plan, plus I think the internet in my pants is a bad, bad idea, but if you text me now, I can actually text you back. Easily. Welcome to 2005, Andrea!
Now, I gotta go, because I have more work to do. Let's hope this publishes, 'cause I've been writing it all damn morning.
xoxo
First of all, despite a couple of hiccups--like that Red Sox game that shall never be spoken of again--Ubaldo has reached numero quince. Say it with me: KEEEEEN-say. Doesn't that sound good? Sadly, Mr Jhoulys Chacin, Ubaldo's fellow Rockies pitching staff member, has been demoted from starter to long relief, a role he sucked at on his first try. So, (as I said) sadly I had to dump him, and just after I finally learned how to pronounce the boy's name. There's just no real utility in holding onto a long reliever, as far as I can see. I will miss his Ks, however. But! Since I know that some of you, by which I mean "all", don't care as much about the Colorado Rockies as I do, let's move on to something else momentous.
I have this particular dress in my closet. I haven't been able to fit into it since 2004, but unlike the rest of my clothes that particular size, I haven't given it away or donated it. Primarily because I have very fond memories of wearing it to a particular event in the summer of 2003, and I am *such* a chick about such things. I try to suppress this tendency towards imbuing certain objects with sentimental meaning because AS YOU KNOW that way leads to ruin, and an appearance on Hoarders. But this dress I kept. It's a black sheath, square-necked, thin straps, just to the knee, and very fitted. It's a Joan Holloway kinda dress, okay? Last night when I was getting ready to go to bed,and thus looking at myself nekkid in the mirror and thinking about, y'know, joining a gym, I got it into my head to try on that dress and see how close I was to being able to zip it. As motivation to actually start lifting weights, not just thinking/talking/typing about it. Or something. You see where this story is going, right? Not only could I zip it, it actually fit. Sweet Mary, mother of god. I was shocked. (There goes the gym motivation.) Now, there are two problems. The first is that I no longer have the lifestyle in which I have any reason to wear this dress. This is a dress to wear, if not to the same function I last wore it, to a nice restaurant and then later be zipped out of by a handsome gentleman. It is Teh Sex. The second is that this dress has been living its life for the past six years in the spare closet next to a fuzzy angora sweater which I also no longer wear (that one's been too big!) and it is covered with fuzz by osmosis. I mean *covered*. The tag says dry clean only--it's cotton but it's lined--and I think if I take it to my friendly local dry cleaner, they will laugh at me and ask whether I really think the dry cleaning process will get that off. I suppose maybe if I spend about three hours of quality time with a lint brush, or a roll of duct tape, first. Nevertheless! Momentous!
And, finally? As some of you know already, I got a new phone last night, and thus will no longer be mockable. For that reason, anyway. I.like.it. I still do not have the internet in my pants, 'cause I ain't paying for a data plan, plus I think the internet in my pants is a bad, bad idea, but if you text me now, I can actually text you back. Easily. Welcome to 2005, Andrea!
Now, I gotta go, because I have more work to do. Let's hope this publishes, 'cause I've been writing it all damn morning.
xoxo
Thursday, July 8, 2010
hate on elizabeth hasselbeck...
and support bodyworkers everywhere.
M2 sent me a link this morning, asking me to sign a petition demanding The View apologize to LMTs for slandering our entire profession. I did, of course. I won't ask you all to sign it, since it's written from the point of view of a massage professional, but should you like to register your own displeasure by writing to The View and telling them they suck for implying M2 and I and all our colleagues are whores, I would not dissuade you. Want to see what we're talking about? This.
But the whole thing about Al Gore supposedly trying to get frisky with a therapist reminds me that someone once told me they had worked on him and that he specifically asked that his glutes and his abdomen not be left out. I wish I could remember who said that to me. It obviously wasn't one of my massage school classmates, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't one of our instructors. So it was either someone I took a seminar from or with or someone I worked with at The Evil Massage place.
Anyway, it occurs to me that perhaps that is the kind of thing that would lead to misunderstandings with a therapist who is inexperienced, especially one who didn't go to a good massage school and/or really doesn't know deep tissue work. I do glutes in probably 90% or more of the massages I give, because a.) it feels good and b.) most people need it. If you haven't had an elbow stuck into your piriformis, you haven't lived, yo. And when I've done it on people I haven't worked on before, I am always surprised at the number of people who've had lots of bodywork who tell me no one's ever done their glutes before and OMG why not? 'cause that was really helpful. In other words, there are a whole lot of massage therapists out there neglecting that part of the body, apparently, and if you haven't been taught to do it as a regular part of a treatment, maybe you do think it's somehow weird and inappropriate for a client of the opposite sex to ask for it. Abdominal work, on the other hand, is something I rarely do, even though I know how and am fine with doing it, because that weirds out most clients. Most people don't like their bellies touched, even if it would be good for them. It's a vulnerable area, plus people have all kinds of shame issues about exposing theirs. So, again, if it weirds you out as a therapist, too, having someone specifically ask for it might make you uncomfortable.
None of this rules out that Al Gore isn't just a skeezebag who made an inappropriate advance, of course. You know how American politicians are. But it just made me wonder. People are capable of misconstruing other people's intentions.
But, in any case, you know you hate those women on The View anyway. Don't you want to tell them they're ignorant just for me and M2?
xoxo
M2 sent me a link this morning, asking me to sign a petition demanding The View apologize to LMTs for slandering our entire profession. I did, of course. I won't ask you all to sign it, since it's written from the point of view of a massage professional, but should you like to register your own displeasure by writing to The View and telling them they suck for implying M2 and I and all our colleagues are whores, I would not dissuade you. Want to see what we're talking about? This.
But the whole thing about Al Gore supposedly trying to get frisky with a therapist reminds me that someone once told me they had worked on him and that he specifically asked that his glutes and his abdomen not be left out. I wish I could remember who said that to me. It obviously wasn't one of my massage school classmates, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't one of our instructors. So it was either someone I took a seminar from or with or someone I worked with at The Evil Massage place.
Anyway, it occurs to me that perhaps that is the kind of thing that would lead to misunderstandings with a therapist who is inexperienced, especially one who didn't go to a good massage school and/or really doesn't know deep tissue work. I do glutes in probably 90% or more of the massages I give, because a.) it feels good and b.) most people need it. If you haven't had an elbow stuck into your piriformis, you haven't lived, yo. And when I've done it on people I haven't worked on before, I am always surprised at the number of people who've had lots of bodywork who tell me no one's ever done their glutes before and OMG why not? 'cause that was really helpful. In other words, there are a whole lot of massage therapists out there neglecting that part of the body, apparently, and if you haven't been taught to do it as a regular part of a treatment, maybe you do think it's somehow weird and inappropriate for a client of the opposite sex to ask for it. Abdominal work, on the other hand, is something I rarely do, even though I know how and am fine with doing it, because that weirds out most clients. Most people don't like their bellies touched, even if it would be good for them. It's a vulnerable area, plus people have all kinds of shame issues about exposing theirs. So, again, if it weirds you out as a therapist, too, having someone specifically ask for it might make you uncomfortable.
None of this rules out that Al Gore isn't just a skeezebag who made an inappropriate advance, of course. You know how American politicians are. But it just made me wonder. People are capable of misconstruing other people's intentions.
But, in any case, you know you hate those women on The View anyway. Don't you want to tell them they're ignorant just for me and M2?
xoxo
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
no pain, no gain
Oh, hey, kids. Look at that. It's July 7th and I haven't written a single post this month. We'll have to remedy that, won't we? I hereby declare blogcation to be over.
So what shall we talk about? Despite the title, not strength training, because I still haven't started that yet. Not that I don't look in the mirror nekkid just about every day and say to myself, "Andrea, if you were lifting right now, you'd look awesome." Maybe I don't *want* to look any more awesome than I already do (ha!), did you ever think of that? Maybe if I looked any more awesome even more persons with y chromosomes would feel entitled to my conversation just because I own a vagina and leave my house occasionally. Maybe instead of lifting weights, I should take up some of your martial arts so I could take down said annoying male persons with one punch*** Besides, as I told Mr Indemnity a few years ago when he steadfastly refused to go to the free trial class at the kickboxing gym with me (I found the postcard on *his* coffee table), hitting stuff is FUN. But alas, I know I am incapable of martial artistry. I know because D took, I dunno, three years of kenpo karate when he was a little kid (until basically our house burned down and our life was severely disrupted for a bit and then he didn't go back to it), and karate involves remembering all sorts of complicated series of moves and doing them just right in order to advance to your next belt. I lack the motor coordination for that. I can barely follow along in yoga, fer crissakes. I do, however, like to hit things.
Did you notice that huge digression there? With the parenthetical asides n' all? Keep that in mind, it'll be important later. Hand to god. (I was gonna give you yet another digression about how bad my mother was with this, such that you would be driven to say, "Ma! I know there's a point to this story. GET TO IT." But you'll just have to settle for another parenthetical aside instead.)
What were we talking about? No pain, no gain! Writing-style, that is.
Over the long weekend (the epic**** details of which I will spare you), I had a couple of people ask me for my blog address. This was after I had made a statement that I don't write any more and was told in return that blogging *is* writing. Well, all y'all know I don't believe that. At least, I don't believe my blogging is real writing. I was challenged to explain that, and I couldn't. Not coherently anyway. And then, having read, these kind and writerly people sent me some very nice compliments about The Adventures and told me to, and I quote, "STFU about the 'not-real writing' thing!"
So, I was pondering, as you do, why I felt that way, and how I might more coherently explain it. And it came to me that the reason I feel that is that IT'S TOO EASY. Man, writing fiction is hard. Believe me, I spent a good ten years learning and practicing, and while one's results do get better over time, it doesn't ever get easier. There is so much to worry about: plot, characterization, dialogue, believability, prose style, emotional impact, entertainment value. Writing a blog? All you need to do is have an idea pop into your head and then write it down in a vaguely entertaining manner. It's not hard if a.) you have ideas and b.) you have a writing style capable of keeping people from falling asleep and drooling onto their keyboards. It doesn't even require editing. If it did, would there be all those digressions and parenthetical asides in this lovely piece of prose you're reading right now? I think not!
Now, I suppose there are people out there--brought up in different sociocultural milieus from me I would imagine--who don't subscribe to the idea that all good things require hard work. I don't know what my rebuttal to them would be. I'ma think on that some more.
Meanwhile, you all stay hydrated; it's hot out there. And use some product in your hair. Yeah.
xoxo
*** I fear that at least one of my new readers, unaccustomed to the style and tone of Adventurous rants, thinks I'm about *this* close to snapping and taking out a few people with a semi-automatic weapon. Or a nail file. One of the two. Long term readers are welcome to add testimonials in the comments that I am really a very sweet person who does the metta meditation and who exaggerates her annoyances for humorous effect. Well, most of the time. But, seriously, not in danger of punching anyone. Especially if one of yous will go to the kickboxing gym with me and let me hit stuff there instead.
****I was gonna say EPIC, but I decided that adjective is only going to be used from now on when Our Lil MILF reappears in my (your/our) life again.
So what shall we talk about? Despite the title, not strength training, because I still haven't started that yet. Not that I don't look in the mirror nekkid just about every day and say to myself, "Andrea, if you were lifting right now, you'd look awesome." Maybe I don't *want* to look any more awesome than I already do (ha!), did you ever think of that? Maybe if I looked any more awesome even more persons with y chromosomes would feel entitled to my conversation just because I own a vagina and leave my house occasionally. Maybe instead of lifting weights, I should take up some of your martial arts so I could take down said annoying male persons with one punch*** Besides, as I told Mr Indemnity a few years ago when he steadfastly refused to go to the free trial class at the kickboxing gym with me (I found the postcard on *his* coffee table), hitting stuff is FUN. But alas, I know I am incapable of martial artistry. I know because D took, I dunno, three years of kenpo karate when he was a little kid (until basically our house burned down and our life was severely disrupted for a bit and then he didn't go back to it), and karate involves remembering all sorts of complicated series of moves and doing them just right in order to advance to your next belt. I lack the motor coordination for that. I can barely follow along in yoga, fer crissakes. I do, however, like to hit things.
Did you notice that huge digression there? With the parenthetical asides n' all? Keep that in mind, it'll be important later. Hand to god. (I was gonna give you yet another digression about how bad my mother was with this, such that you would be driven to say, "Ma! I know there's a point to this story. GET TO IT." But you'll just have to settle for another parenthetical aside instead.)
What were we talking about? No pain, no gain! Writing-style, that is.
Over the long weekend (the epic**** details of which I will spare you), I had a couple of people ask me for my blog address. This was after I had made a statement that I don't write any more and was told in return that blogging *is* writing. Well, all y'all know I don't believe that. At least, I don't believe my blogging is real writing. I was challenged to explain that, and I couldn't. Not coherently anyway. And then, having read, these kind and writerly people sent me some very nice compliments about The Adventures and told me to, and I quote, "STFU about the 'not-real writing' thing!"
So, I was pondering, as you do, why I felt that way, and how I might more coherently explain it. And it came to me that the reason I feel that is that IT'S TOO EASY. Man, writing fiction is hard. Believe me, I spent a good ten years learning and practicing, and while one's results do get better over time, it doesn't ever get easier. There is so much to worry about: plot, characterization, dialogue, believability, prose style, emotional impact, entertainment value. Writing a blog? All you need to do is have an idea pop into your head and then write it down in a vaguely entertaining manner. It's not hard if a.) you have ideas and b.) you have a writing style capable of keeping people from falling asleep and drooling onto their keyboards. It doesn't even require editing. If it did, would there be all those digressions and parenthetical asides in this lovely piece of prose you're reading right now? I think not!
Now, I suppose there are people out there--brought up in different sociocultural milieus from me I would imagine--who don't subscribe to the idea that all good things require hard work. I don't know what my rebuttal to them would be. I'ma think on that some more.
Meanwhile, you all stay hydrated; it's hot out there. And use some product in your hair. Yeah.
xoxo
*** I fear that at least one of my new readers, unaccustomed to the style and tone of Adventurous rants, thinks I'm about *this* close to snapping and taking out a few people with a semi-automatic weapon. Or a nail file. One of the two. Long term readers are welcome to add testimonials in the comments that I am really a very sweet person who does the metta meditation and who exaggerates her annoyances for humorous effect. Well, most of the time. But, seriously, not in danger of punching anyone. Especially if one of yous will go to the kickboxing gym with me and let me hit stuff there instead.
****I was gonna say EPIC, but I decided that adjective is only going to be used from now on when Our Lil MILF reappears in my (your/our) life again.
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