"We all could use a change of scene..."
-- Pippin
In Washington DC I am pretty much your typical run-of-the-mill guy-- white, average height and build, decently groomed and modestly dressed.
But in exotic ports of call like Ho Chi Minh City, this average daisy morphs into a budding bird of paradise. Suddenly I am a towering, pale, hairy beast that inspires either fear or fascination in children and adults alike. Blue eyed, a little on the chunky side, and hilariously flamboyant all reconfigure themselves in my chrysalis of transformation. A change of "seen" influences self-appraisal ... and worth ...
And my chin-strap beard is the stuff of legends ...
My face became like a pregnant woman's belly -- magnetizing people's attention, prompting profuse compliments and celebratory gestures, and the conversion of private to public property while grown men casually caressed my face like languidly stroking an idle cat.
Oh- and arm hair. Like a barbarian emerging from an isolated swampland, children stood transfixed and adults politely darted their gaze to and fro. While eating dinner one night, an unabashed little girl turned my left arm into her personal unconventional doll, tousling my hair and giving a good yank to ensure the stitching was intact.
Despite the initial awkwardness of unraveling this cocoon, I slowly began to flap my compressed wings and engage the "new" me. Unsettled, foreign, still a little on the chunky side- and downright PASTY white.
Pale skin is prized by some women in Vietnam. It is not uncommon to see a woman riding a motorbike in full-blown winter-time regalia, seemingly an ice princess escaping some brutal blizzard of the Arctic. Gloves, long-sleeved hoodies, scarves and face masks (not to mention stylish shades) could easily be mistaken for Muslim garb. Still, this does not seem to distract their epic pursuit of fair skin while being chased by 95 degree temperatures and 80% humidity.
In Cambodia, my height, weight, and skin tone are readily equated with wealth and lavish spending habits. As I flutter-by the shops and market stalls, my appearance elicits tirelessly rehearsed promises of amazing quality and great deals. I generously pollinate my American dollars from bud to bud, indulging in inflated prices and drinking the sweet nectar of a country so different from my own.
And indulging in a persona that is so different from my own ...
One evening at the Cambodian market (a late-night parade of carnival games and food carts - and unfrequented by tourists), my unusual presence drew a small crowd. I was attempting to unsettle a small stack of tin cans with a lightweight baseball ... and to the disappointment of the Cambodian public, this butterfly is ironically inept at handling balls. Appearances can be deceiving.
Being irrefutably unable to "fit in" is a mixed bag ... entangled in historically-woven stereotypes, uninhibited by the expectations and responsibilities of "normal" society, and exuding an air of mystery despite my admitted ordinariness. Nothing could be so wonderfully confusing and paradoxically coherent.
And so, just like the life cycle of a literal butterfly, this proverbial flight of fancy came to an end after 14 days of flitting, floating, and fleeing the gravity of every day life. It was, truly, a vacation from myself into myself.
And I had such a damn good time ... :-)
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Spotless Minds
"I remember the time I knew what happiness was ...
Let the memory live again" -- Cats
I've been doing some Googling on this quote from the musical Cats, trying to make sure I got it right -- Is it "I remember a time...", or "I remember the time..."? Every source online seems to say "the time".
There's a seemingly subtle but nevertheless substantial difference between the two. "A time" refers back to a pleasant moment past. "The time" refers to a pleasant moment past in the face of a less pleasant present. If I were to say, "I remember the time I was happy", it indicates that there is a part of my life that no longer exists today - a happy part.
Last night I watched the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time. Despite its stoner-esque title, the concept behind the story is pretty intriguing -- What if we could delete someone from our memory ... completely?
Ultimately this boils down to erasing someone from our memory who has hurt us deeply. The ironic twist is that this person is probably the same one who has brought us a lot of happiness ... at one time.
I think there are two categories of "pain"; the kind that we would rather be without, and the kind that we tolerate because we have no choice. For example, it's painful losing your mother ... but you would never want to completely zap her from your memory, right? However you might consider zapping an ex-boy/girlfriend who gave you the pink slip in a harsh way?
One difference between the two kinds is mere accusation. My mom dying was not her decision, but a breakup or fight between friends carries "blame". Another difference is emotional "loitering" ... mom is gone, but ex's still cross paths.
The characters in Spotless Mind chose memory deletion as a way to endure, as if their lives weren't worth living with those memories in tow. I don't want to live like that.
I'd rather approach both kinds of pain in the same way- remember them both for what they have brought me, taught me, and ultimately how they have led me to where I am today. Which is to say, inevitably- very happy ...
So can I look back positively on ex-roommates-gone-psycho, ex-boyfriends-gone-stale, and ex-best-friends-gone-sour ... ? I guess that's what life is all about- wanting the sunshine, and putting up with the shadows that consequently stand out.
Occasional Cloudiness of the Polka-dotted Mind ... sounds like an absolute blockbuster :-)
Let the memory live again" -- Cats
I've been doing some Googling on this quote from the musical Cats, trying to make sure I got it right -- Is it "I remember a time...", or "I remember the time..."? Every source online seems to say "the time".
There's a seemingly subtle but nevertheless substantial difference between the two. "A time" refers back to a pleasant moment past. "The time" refers to a pleasant moment past in the face of a less pleasant present. If I were to say, "I remember the time I was happy", it indicates that there is a part of my life that no longer exists today - a happy part.
Last night I watched the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time. Despite its stoner-esque title, the concept behind the story is pretty intriguing -- What if we could delete someone from our memory ... completely?
Ultimately this boils down to erasing someone from our memory who has hurt us deeply. The ironic twist is that this person is probably the same one who has brought us a lot of happiness ... at one time.
I think there are two categories of "pain"; the kind that we would rather be without, and the kind that we tolerate because we have no choice. For example, it's painful losing your mother ... but you would never want to completely zap her from your memory, right? However you might consider zapping an ex-boy/girlfriend who gave you the pink slip in a harsh way?
One difference between the two kinds is mere accusation. My mom dying was not her decision, but a breakup or fight between friends carries "blame". Another difference is emotional "loitering" ... mom is gone, but ex's still cross paths.
The characters in Spotless Mind chose memory deletion as a way to endure, as if their lives weren't worth living with those memories in tow. I don't want to live like that.
I'd rather approach both kinds of pain in the same way- remember them both for what they have brought me, taught me, and ultimately how they have led me to where I am today. Which is to say, inevitably- very happy ...
So can I look back positively on ex-roommates-gone-psycho, ex-boyfriends-gone-stale, and ex-best-friends-gone-sour ... ? I guess that's what life is all about- wanting the sunshine, and putting up with the shadows that consequently stand out.
Occasional Cloudiness of the Polka-dotted Mind ... sounds like an absolute blockbuster :-)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Baggage
“I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine.” – Rent
You can pull it, carry it, push, roll, slide, shove and schlep it – luggage is the mainstay of any jet-setter who can't part with their possessions.
Similarly, we tug the emotional baggage of our lives along with us wherever we go. Like a hermit crab, we encase all of our mushy gooey-ness into a thick shell … the messy interior beneath a sturdy facade.
We roll up our emotional essentials and tuck them into psychological suitcases. Sometimes we pack too much, dragging along an aching anchor that slows our pace. And sometimes we pack too little, leaving us completely unprepared for our future destinations.
At the Reagan Airport the recorded message instructs - “Please maintain control of your personal belongings” - which leads me to guess that someone once had an unruly suitcase that airport security had to settle with a taser gun.
But do we maintain control of our personal belongings? Our emotional baggage? Do we drag the suitcase, or does it drag us?
Baggage, with all its variety in multiple compartments, pockets, and sleek designs, generally has the same basic components: zippers, handles, and locks. Zippers to help keep everything inside, and locks to keep them secure. Sometimes we give people the combination, and sometimes people simply break the lock and spill our contents into messy piles. And then the handles are there to … well, “handle” our baggage.
You know that feeling of relief you get when a friend picks you up at the airport? Someone is there to lighten the load, to help you get settled with all your heavy baggage. Close friends offer to help with extended hand and hearty smile, regardless of their own hefty belongings.
At the end of the day while unpacking my mental luggage, I am amazed at how I got everything to fit inside it so neatly. Everything I need to survive is stuffed into one giant suitcase. These are all of the personal possessions that I need to live a bountiful life …
“Still when I'm a mess, still put on a vest with an -S- on my chest, oh yes...” - Alicia Keys
Glad I keep remembering to pack that vest ...
You can pull it, carry it, push, roll, slide, shove and schlep it – luggage is the mainstay of any jet-setter who can't part with their possessions.
Similarly, we tug the emotional baggage of our lives along with us wherever we go. Like a hermit crab, we encase all of our mushy gooey-ness into a thick shell … the messy interior beneath a sturdy facade.
We roll up our emotional essentials and tuck them into psychological suitcases. Sometimes we pack too much, dragging along an aching anchor that slows our pace. And sometimes we pack too little, leaving us completely unprepared for our future destinations.
At the Reagan Airport the recorded message instructs - “Please maintain control of your personal belongings” - which leads me to guess that someone once had an unruly suitcase that airport security had to settle with a taser gun.
But do we maintain control of our personal belongings? Our emotional baggage? Do we drag the suitcase, or does it drag us?
Baggage, with all its variety in multiple compartments, pockets, and sleek designs, generally has the same basic components: zippers, handles, and locks. Zippers to help keep everything inside, and locks to keep them secure. Sometimes we give people the combination, and sometimes people simply break the lock and spill our contents into messy piles. And then the handles are there to … well, “handle” our baggage.
You know that feeling of relief you get when a friend picks you up at the airport? Someone is there to lighten the load, to help you get settled with all your heavy baggage. Close friends offer to help with extended hand and hearty smile, regardless of their own hefty belongings.
At the end of the day while unpacking my mental luggage, I am amazed at how I got everything to fit inside it so neatly. Everything I need to survive is stuffed into one giant suitcase. These are all of the personal possessions that I need to live a bountiful life …
“Still when I'm a mess, still put on a vest with an -S- on my chest, oh yes...” - Alicia Keys
Glad I keep remembering to pack that vest ...
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Donations gladly accepted, only if ...
Here's an excerpt from a classified ad in this week's Express:
"Our dream Donor is 21-31, Caucasian, intelligent, well-rounded, with an excellent personal and family health history. Northern European ancestry, blue or green eyes, and fair complexion preferred."
Well aside from the eerily-similar-to-Nazi-eugenics selection criteria, "Creative Family Connections" doesn't seem to be all that 'creative'. Why can't the couple just come out and say it: "We want white-bred eggs, because anything else would fall short of the 'dream' ".
WTF?
For more discriminatory artificial insemination practices, let's turn now to sperm (every one is sacred) at the Sperm Bank of California.
Let's face it - eggs aren't funny, but sperm makes ya giggle. But if you're shorter than 5'7", your donation is no laughing matter. Also, no illegal aliens can provide the baby batter, and you better be between the ripe ages of 18-40 while the sperm flagella are still a-flappin' up to speed.
"When you visit our lab, you will provide a semen sample by masturbating alone in a comfortable, private room" (story of my naturally-conceived life). The Sperm Bank of California reimburses your deposit with a deposit to the tune of $100 "for every ejaculate that meets our minimum sperm count".
Your contract requires a weekly visit (at least - could be more!) for at least 6 months, which means over $4800 per year for something that happens (twice?) in every male's bedroom across the world on a nightly basis.
This seems unfair that some guys are getting paid a load for blowing their own into a plastic cup! It's like I'm getting screwed or something ... or not screwed. Regardless, my "donation time" always seems to leave me empty handed ... *cough*
Once collected, inspected, and verified for virility, these pricey commodities can be FedEx-ed anywhere around the world (one sperm says to another "Hey what the hell! I thought we only had to travel less than one foot? Rude ...).
While looking through the donor catalog, I can't help but feel like I'm skimming the want ads in the Blade. Status (such as "awaiting first release" ... oh, honey, I can promise it ain't the first one), ethnicity, complexion (fair, rosy ... sperm?), hair color and texture, eye color, height, weight, and blood type.
And lookey here! There's only ONE donor on the list who is temporarily sold out (he must be in high demand, I wonder what his supply's like?). African-American, Native American, German and Yugoslavian ethnicity.
Take that, white bred.
"Our dream Donor is 21-31, Caucasian, intelligent, well-rounded, with an excellent personal and family health history. Northern European ancestry, blue or green eyes, and fair complexion preferred."
Well aside from the eerily-similar-to-Nazi-eugenics selection criteria, "Creative Family Connections" doesn't seem to be all that 'creative'. Why can't the couple just come out and say it: "We want white-bred eggs, because anything else would fall short of the 'dream' ".
WTF?
For more discriminatory artificial insemination practices, let's turn now to sperm (every one is sacred) at the Sperm Bank of California.
Let's face it - eggs aren't funny, but sperm makes ya giggle. But if you're shorter than 5'7", your donation is no laughing matter. Also, no illegal aliens can provide the baby batter, and you better be between the ripe ages of 18-40 while the sperm flagella are still a-flappin' up to speed.
"When you visit our lab, you will provide a semen sample by masturbating alone in a comfortable, private room" (story of my naturally-conceived life). The Sperm Bank of California reimburses your deposit with a deposit to the tune of $100 "for every ejaculate that meets our minimum sperm count".
Your contract requires a weekly visit (at least - could be more!) for at least 6 months, which means over $4800 per year for something that happens (twice?) in every male's bedroom across the world on a nightly basis.
This seems unfair that some guys are getting paid a load for blowing their own into a plastic cup! It's like I'm getting screwed or something ... or not screwed. Regardless, my "donation time" always seems to leave me empty handed ... *cough*
Once collected, inspected, and verified for virility, these pricey commodities can be FedEx-ed anywhere around the world (one sperm says to another "Hey what the hell! I thought we only had to travel less than one foot? Rude ...).
While looking through the donor catalog, I can't help but feel like I'm skimming the want ads in the Blade. Status (such as "awaiting first release" ... oh, honey, I can promise it ain't the first one), ethnicity, complexion (fair, rosy ... sperm?), hair color and texture, eye color, height, weight, and blood type.
And lookey here! There's only ONE donor on the list who is temporarily sold out (he must be in high demand, I wonder what his supply's like?). African-American, Native American, German and Yugoslavian ethnicity.
Take that, white bred.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
the great 2008
It's December 31st. I'm sitting at work, looking at my webcam reflection on the video screen, and thinking rather inquisitively about New Year's and all the metamorphic promises we make to ourselves. While peering ominously at myself, I can't help but wonder ... "How am I different from last year at this time?"
It was a rough, odd, and amazing year. So I don't know how to answer the question.
Can you be optimistic, happy, and cynical all at the same time?
In 2008 I lived in DC for the first time as a non-student ... a real resident. I lived in 3 different places, started my first full-time job (and then quit, and did something better), took up line dancing and got hooked (or lassoed), and spent many happy hours with friends at Nooshi, Kramer's, Starbucks, and La Bomba. There were several trips to NYC for shows, plenty of dancing in Philly, Baltimore, and Houston's country western bars, and a week-long cruise that showed how incredible gay families are.
But this year will always be slightly stained by the memory of my mom. Sometimes I wonder - am I grumpy because I'm sad, or am I sad because I'm grumpy?
I don't feel so different. In 2007 I experienced a lot of radical changes ... triumphs, mostly. 2008 had a few more tears, and not nearly as much growth.
Maybe that's the deal with getting older. You know how birthdays are the end all and be all when you're young? But the more of these milestones we experience, the weaker their impact and fanfare.
What if personal growth is the same? Are we more oblivious to it, or does it just matter less and less to us? When does the anti-monotony of childhood give way to a plateaued life?
Even the word "resolution", the New Year's promise in a resolute society, can be somewhat ambiguous. Is it a beginning (a resolution to change), or an end (a resolution to a problem)? Does a resolution look forward, determined, or backwards, concluded?
Is it hopeful that things will change, or hopeful that things will stay the same? I get whiplashed just looking back-and-forth from the future to the past. Where is the "present" in resolution?
In the bulb there is a flower
In a seed an apple tree
In cocoons a hidden promise
Butterflies will soon be free
Those are words from a song played at mom's memorial service ... I guess it reminds me that where one resolution ends, another begins.
So ... what will be my resolve in 2009?
It was a rough, odd, and amazing year. So I don't know how to answer the question.
Can you be optimistic, happy, and cynical all at the same time?
In 2008 I lived in DC for the first time as a non-student ... a real resident. I lived in 3 different places, started my first full-time job (and then quit, and did something better), took up line dancing and got hooked (or lassoed), and spent many happy hours with friends at Nooshi, Kramer's, Starbucks, and La Bomba. There were several trips to NYC for shows, plenty of dancing in Philly, Baltimore, and Houston's country western bars, and a week-long cruise that showed how incredible gay families are.
But this year will always be slightly stained by the memory of my mom. Sometimes I wonder - am I grumpy because I'm sad, or am I sad because I'm grumpy?
I don't feel so different. In 2007 I experienced a lot of radical changes ... triumphs, mostly. 2008 had a few more tears, and not nearly as much growth.
Maybe that's the deal with getting older. You know how birthdays are the end all and be all when you're young? But the more of these milestones we experience, the weaker their impact and fanfare.
What if personal growth is the same? Are we more oblivious to it, or does it just matter less and less to us? When does the anti-monotony of childhood give way to a plateaued life?
Even the word "resolution", the New Year's promise in a resolute society, can be somewhat ambiguous. Is it a beginning (a resolution to change), or an end (a resolution to a problem)? Does a resolution look forward, determined, or backwards, concluded?
Is it hopeful that things will change, or hopeful that things will stay the same? I get whiplashed just looking back-and-forth from the future to the past. Where is the "present" in resolution?
In the bulb there is a flower
In a seed an apple tree
In cocoons a hidden promise
Butterflies will soon be free
Those are words from a song played at mom's memorial service ... I guess it reminds me that where one resolution ends, another begins.
So ... what will be my resolve in 2009?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
3 steps forward, 2 waves back, 6 feet under
Returning to DC was a comforting experience after spending almost 3 weeks in conservative central Florida for my mom's funeral et al. My friend picked me up from Dulles, and immediately I could feel myself ooze with the presence of feeling like "David" again. Like dunking a hard, brittle biscotti into some inviting hot chocolate, I could feel the staleness of my emotions crumble away into the welcoming mug of the city.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
When I got back to my house I was greeted with 3 weeks' worth of mail. The most prominent envelopes were the super-red Netflix DVDs. Within them were my first requests on the queue: Season 1 of Six Feet Under.
Some people hesitate when they hear I've watched the entire series- was that a good idea? wasn't it morbid? did you cry a lot?
Well ... defining "morbid" is a bit of a challenge to me now ... unhealthy, diseased, and gruesome come to mind. And that's precisely what death is ... but it's also normal, ubiquitous, and -- paradoxically, a fact of life.
I guess my conclusion is that discussions in and around death are morbid solely because they are difficult. And things that are difficult become unhealthy and gruesome when we want to avoid pain.
Six Feet Under impresses me with its ability to take death and, with all of its messiness and entangled emotions, poignantly put it right in your face:
Here it is. It's real. It sucks. It's not going away ... ever.
And it's by accepting these things that you start to get through it.
Death is like stepping on a splattering of gum on the sidewalk. At first it's really sticky, and annoying as all get out. You walk and walk, the gum pulling at your every step and distracting you from everything else. But eventually the gum settles in and gets covered up by dirt and other debris from the street. So while it never goes away, you inevitably get used to it ... and keep walking.
Watching Six Feet Under was difficult, but very therapeutic. I remember, with striking clarity, some intense moments laying on the couch watching the show. I could feel this tide of emotions ... mainly sadness ... wash me over, feeling like the waves were literally rocking me backwards, forwards, and sideways all at once.
And it felt good.
Even though the rip tide threatens to drag you out into open and dangerous waters, swimming against it will only make the situation worse. But if you swim through it, parallel to shore -- not struggling, not fearing, and not fighting -- you'll eventually be safe.
So ... during the holidays I expect the ebb and flow of the tides will be particularly ripping *grin* ... and I'm not really looking forward to it.
But, luckily, my friends and family will throw me the lifesaver I need when my body can't hold out anymore.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Grieving, Super Heroes, & Obama
"Seize the day, boys,
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Make your lives extraordinary"
-Dead Poets Society
For serious, Dead Poets Society appeals to any budding queen in his teenage years- what could be better than a bunch of men sittin' round a cave reading poetry to each other?!? Just add a sauna with some towels and we are in business! (I'm such a poser, that doesn't actually appeal to me at all ... I think ...)
Today I was looking through some pictures of Obama and his family on election night (click) and I delighted in the fly-on-the-wall candidness of the photographs. Here is a family just like the millions of others across the world, and yet a family that is so completely extraordinary in the most fantastic way imaginable.
Obama reminds me of Superman in these photos ... one minute your average man, the next minute a superhero. And only he decides when it's his moment to shine. It was humbling to watch him sitting so serenely on a hotel room couch, the direction of his life guided only by the glow of a TV screen. And it seemed, regardless of the outcome, that he and his family knew that they would be alright.
But Obama is not unique in his ability to change from average-Joe to renowned-hero ... we all have a Batman or WonderWoman lurking just below the surface, and we can show our extraordinary sides even when everything seems to be Gotham-y (Gotham separated is 'got' + 'ham', that's weird).
Losing my mom has been very Got-ham-like for my entire family, and with only 3 months into this race we are not out of the woods yet. In fact, it really is like a hurdling race; some obstacles you clear without a scratch, and others, while presumptuously just like the rest of the hurdles, bring you crashing down. Only the clock never stops ticking, and you have to get your momentum back quick to clear the next challenge.
But in my immediate family I can already see the superheroes struggling to the surface. My dad is still going to choir practice faithfully, and he is even considering buying some cologne (which he hasn't worn in years because it always effected my mom). My sister has uprooted herself and replanted in Atlanta, surrounding herself with close friends and a solid support structure.
And while the finish line of this race doesn't even exist, at least we are all still on the track together ... with plenty of friends on the sidelines cheering, first-aid kits ready and all.
As for me, I'm still looking for my inner extraordinary, my personal SpiderMan or Storm or Wolverine. All that seems to pop up is the Joker, as I try to laugh my worries all the way to the bat cave.
Maybe I should sit quietly, like Obama, and stare at the TV watching my life unfold before me. Patient, reserved, and comforted by the knowledge that no matter what happens ... everything will be alright.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Health Care (sic .... or sick?)
The following is a meddlesome dialogue between myself and the insurance company, taken almost verbatim from a conversation a while back:
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
**********************
Automated British lady: Thank you for calling United HealthCare. How may I mis-direct your call?
Me: Um ... 'benefits' (with emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) gastro-bypass surgery. Is that correct?
Me: Grrr ... 'BE-NI-FITS' (loads of emphasis)
AB lady: You wanted (pause) Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Is that correct?
Me: Sigh ... 'representative'.
AB lady: Hold your horses, you little bitch. You gotta tell me who you want to speak to and then I'll transfer your sick ass.
(after much negotiating, a live person answers the line)
Live Person: Thank you for calling United HealthCare, how can I waste your time today?
Me: Yes. OK here's the deal. I tried to go to a walk-in clinic yesterday, one that was listed on your website as covered in your network. When I got there they said they wouldn't take my kind of UHC. WTF, UHC?
Live Person: Well, sir, let me explain it to you as if you were 5 years old and have recently suffered a severe trauma to the head. You don't have United HealthCare, you have MDIPA, which is a subsidiary company of UHC. However, since you have MDIPA preferred, you still have access to that specific clinic for urgent care.
Me: Oh. So, I don't have the United HealthCare that's printed on my card here?
Live Person: No, you don't.
Me: And you are a customer service representative for ...
Live Person: United HealthCare.
Me: Then ... shouldn't I speak to someone from MDIPA?
Live Person: No, you dumbass. MDIPA falls under the umbrella of UHC, but not all parts of the umbrella are covered.
Me: OK ... so I can go to this clinic, right?
Live Person: Yes ... but only for urgent care. And you'll need a referral from your primary care physician.
Me: I haven't set up my PCP yet.
Live Person: *tsk tsk* What kind of idiot hasn't set up his PCP yet? UHC and MDIPA are not liable for consumers' ignorance.
Me: So I need a referral from a doctor to see a doctor in urgent care? Doesn't that seem a little redundant and silly considering the fact it's called 'urgent'?
Live Person: Sir, your incompetence is petulant. We are a business, and too busy to mettle with petty matters such as patients' care.
Me: Could you call the clinic and verify that my insurance will cover the visit?
Live Person: Oh, absolutely sir. I could also come to your house and clean it from top to bottom, scrub all the floors with a toothbrush, and, for good measure, personally and affectionately wash your skanky feet. I could, but I'm not going to.
Me: I see. Well, is there anything else you can not do for me today?
Live Person: The list is longer than you can possibly imagine. Have a lovely day and thank you for choosing United HealthCare!
Me: My absolute pleasure. Seems I'll be under the weather for quite a while. Fortunately, though, I have your silly umbrella to keep me dry.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Consolation Prizes
Sometimes people don't know what to say when they try and comfort a person who has experienced a loss. Over the past month I have been the unwilling recipient of consolation prizes dished out by the bucketful from those eager to express their condolences.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Some strike a tender chord, harmonizing with my sadness. Others strike me angrily, like a 5-year-old banging on a piano.
Some of my least favorites include: “She’s rejoicing with her Lord now”. “She’s making great music in heaven”. “God has taken her home”.
The audacity of help …
For some of the prize-givers, little or no thought is given to how inappropriate or insensitive their remarks may be. Take, for example, my position on religion. It’s quite presumptuous to automatically assume my mother and I shared the same religion, or that I would be comforted by talk of heaven, and Jesus, and God’s plan to pluck people in their prime.
Personally, I lie somewhere in between the grey mix of agnosticism, atheism, and Unitarianism.
Can you imagine me going up to someone at their relative’s funeral and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Hopefully it will be of some comfort to know that your relative was merely a complex biological organism that has stopped functioning and will never exist again.” … or … “I hope it brings you peace to know that your relative is now part of some nondescript comprehensive epistemological existence that cannot be truly named or identified.”
Can you imagine?
The Wednesday after my mom died her school had their regular chapel meeting, only this time they devoted the service to my mom and they invited my family to attend. There were children everywhere- some performed songs, rang handbells, or walked about the sanctuary singing “Butterfly” and flapping their arms. It was all really touching …
… until one of the pastors got up and delivered his message.
“Boys and girls, I know without a doubt, if Mrs. Bruce were here today and she only had one thing she could tell you all … it would be that she loved Jesus and wants you to tell everyone you know about Jesus.”
My jaw hit the floor. My left eyebrow etched itself like a mountain peak jabbing into my forehead. I sat, transfixed in anger, while the pastor went on to further use my mother’s death to promote his personal agenda. He quite literally turned her passing into a springboard to catapult his religious propaganda into the impressionable minds of young children.
Way not cool …. Waaaaaaaaaay not cool.
She never would have said that. Instead, she would have said "I love all you children so much, and I'm really going to miss being your teacher. Keep practicing, be nice to your teachers, and eat a lot of coffee ice cream".
Sadly, none of these non-consoling consolation prizes come with a return receipt for me to exchange them. But, if they did, I know exactly what I would exchange them for- and in abundance:
a hug,
a smile,
a promise of support,
“my thoughts are with you”,
“she was such a kind and caring woman”, and
“when all the sadness passes what will be left are the amazing qualities she had that are still alive in you”.
The last one still makes me cry … these are the prizes that win first place.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Death is a matter of life
It's hard to believe that just one week ago I was wearing my black cherry boots and prepping my sister for her inaugural visit to Remington's for linedancing lessons.
And then there was a phone call that sent everything spinning in an endless whirl of tears, friends, family, cards, flowers, condolences, food, more food, and much more food.
I knew something was wrong when I called my mom's cell phone back after a missed call- and a man answered the phone.
15 minutes later I was sitting silently on my couch, repeating over and over in my mind "I can't do this ... I can't do this" while my sister's bright blue eyeliner was running down her face like hot fudge on a sundae.
We rode to the airport, seemingly typical DC-ites with our cell phones burning minutes and our responses to the cab driver curt and emotionless. We sailed to Dulles, the sun serenely setting on what shall always be remembered as the day I unexpectedly lost my mother to death- August 20th, 2008.
Within hours I stood collapsed in my father's arms ... the kind of hug where you become weightless and immediately fatigued ... while he stood and stared straightforward with the most eerily vacant expression on his face.
Weightless is probably the best adjective to describe the past week. I feel like I've been coasting directionless out in space, while the "should-s" and "have to-s" and "supposed to-s" have been suspended around me just out of reach ... mindless and delicately spiraling around my body- perfectly in sight, and absolutely nothing I can do to manipulate them. I don't have to do anything. I'm not supposed to be anything.
But for some reason I feel like I do. I have to be strong, organized, attentive to life insurance policies and bills due and clothing that needs to be donated and lunch boxes that remain unpacked and jewelry that stays untouched and photos that need to be sorted and- a life that needs to be lamented.
My family has been inundated by a flood of support via letters, cards, emails, messages, flowers, and food; welcome distractions, and luxurious burdens.
And the grieving is so completely unique to everyone who expresses it. My father has lost 6 pounds in as many days, and I have probably gained just as much or more. My father cries more in the morning, my sister and I more at night.
We are paradoxically helped and helpless- a wealth of support from the richness of ample friends and family, but a cold silence continues to fall upon the house once the pomp and circumstance of grieving has marched itself out the door. Thankful to all those who have shouldered the boulder that is our loss, our emotions are left to clean up the pieces of broken rock that was the cornerstone of our family- my dear sweet mother, rest and bless her soul.
There's so much more to say. I guess that will come in time.
A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends and family who have blossomed in love and support during a time where sunlight is still struggling to find its way through the overcast sky of life's circumstances. You cannot know how much it means to me.
Morale of the story- life matters.
And then there was a phone call that sent everything spinning in an endless whirl of tears, friends, family, cards, flowers, condolences, food, more food, and much more food.
I knew something was wrong when I called my mom's cell phone back after a missed call- and a man answered the phone.
15 minutes later I was sitting silently on my couch, repeating over and over in my mind "I can't do this ... I can't do this" while my sister's bright blue eyeliner was running down her face like hot fudge on a sundae.
We rode to the airport, seemingly typical DC-ites with our cell phones burning minutes and our responses to the cab driver curt and emotionless. We sailed to Dulles, the sun serenely setting on what shall always be remembered as the day I unexpectedly lost my mother to death- August 20th, 2008.
Within hours I stood collapsed in my father's arms ... the kind of hug where you become weightless and immediately fatigued ... while he stood and stared straightforward with the most eerily vacant expression on his face.
Weightless is probably the best adjective to describe the past week. I feel like I've been coasting directionless out in space, while the "should-s" and "have to-s" and "supposed to-s" have been suspended around me just out of reach ... mindless and delicately spiraling around my body- perfectly in sight, and absolutely nothing I can do to manipulate them. I don't have to do anything. I'm not supposed to be anything.
But for some reason I feel like I do. I have to be strong, organized, attentive to life insurance policies and bills due and clothing that needs to be donated and lunch boxes that remain unpacked and jewelry that stays untouched and photos that need to be sorted and- a life that needs to be lamented.
My family has been inundated by a flood of support via letters, cards, emails, messages, flowers, and food; welcome distractions, and luxurious burdens.
And the grieving is so completely unique to everyone who expresses it. My father has lost 6 pounds in as many days, and I have probably gained just as much or more. My father cries more in the morning, my sister and I more at night.
We are paradoxically helped and helpless- a wealth of support from the richness of ample friends and family, but a cold silence continues to fall upon the house once the pomp and circumstance of grieving has marched itself out the door. Thankful to all those who have shouldered the boulder that is our loss, our emotions are left to clean up the pieces of broken rock that was the cornerstone of our family- my dear sweet mother, rest and bless her soul.
There's so much more to say. I guess that will come in time.
A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends and family who have blossomed in love and support during a time where sunlight is still struggling to find its way through the overcast sky of life's circumstances. You cannot know how much it means to me.
Morale of the story- life matters.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The mean of averages ...
Mean people exist - it's a cultural universal. Where 2 or more are gathered, there is a high probability that one of these persons will be a nasty bitch at some point.
We expect this level of animosity among the rich and famous; that is, after all, what we are exposed to on TV everyday. Lou Dobbs, Judge Judy, Rosie O'Donnell when dieting ... the inner bitch becomes a media stunt to draw in viewers who are captivated by the cantankerous and cranky.
But what about the average Joe & Jane? Are we crabby with each other simply to appease our own personal audience? What benefit do we receive by being ill-tempered?
DC has its fair share of quarrels and spats, as was demonstrated to me in the past couple of weeks:
-CVS-PMS: One evening at a CVS a very disgruntled woman was anxiously waiting in line to check out. Due to some confusion by the manager and other store clerks, some customers were waiting longer than usual. Livid beyond imagination, she began chucking her items this way and that, kicking things across the floor, and stomped out. Wow- no need to get that upset about over-priced gum and Aleve!
-Giant bitch: While waiting in line to check out at a Giant food store, my cashier began speaking to another customer in line using her native language (not English). A short, grisly old white lady looked at both of them and indignantly asked in condescending tones -- "What country am I in???" Shocking ...
-Metro blockade: A man with 3 extra-large suitcases held a train at Union Station an extra minute during rush hour while propping the car doors open and laboriously hauling his stuff on to the train. He pushed his suitcases to the back of the train, cornering me and my friend in our seats so that we couldn't get up. My friend, in a fit of laughter at the audacity of this man's inconsiderateness, began to draw the attention of several people on the train. Suitcase man looked at one of the male passengers and growled "Stop looking at me, or I'll claw your fucking eyes out". Whoa.
.... So what fuels this phenomenon?
Maybe it's fear. Fear of feeling inferior and unappreciated, fear of diversity and sacrificing privilege, and fear of embarrassment and the opinions of others. We are mean to others because we feel ... and we feel because we are mean ...
... average or otherwise.
We expect this level of animosity among the rich and famous; that is, after all, what we are exposed to on TV everyday. Lou Dobbs, Judge Judy, Rosie O'Donnell when dieting ... the inner bitch becomes a media stunt to draw in viewers who are captivated by the cantankerous and cranky.
But what about the average Joe & Jane? Are we crabby with each other simply to appease our own personal audience? What benefit do we receive by being ill-tempered?
DC has its fair share of quarrels and spats, as was demonstrated to me in the past couple of weeks:
-CVS-PMS: One evening at a CVS a very disgruntled woman was anxiously waiting in line to check out. Due to some confusion by the manager and other store clerks, some customers were waiting longer than usual. Livid beyond imagination, she began chucking her items this way and that, kicking things across the floor, and stomped out. Wow- no need to get that upset about over-priced gum and Aleve!
-Giant bitch: While waiting in line to check out at a Giant food store, my cashier began speaking to another customer in line using her native language (not English). A short, grisly old white lady looked at both of them and indignantly asked in condescending tones -- "What country am I in???" Shocking ...
-Metro blockade: A man with 3 extra-large suitcases held a train at Union Station an extra minute during rush hour while propping the car doors open and laboriously hauling his stuff on to the train. He pushed his suitcases to the back of the train, cornering me and my friend in our seats so that we couldn't get up. My friend, in a fit of laughter at the audacity of this man's inconsiderateness, began to draw the attention of several people on the train. Suitcase man looked at one of the male passengers and growled "Stop looking at me, or I'll claw your fucking eyes out". Whoa.
.... So what fuels this phenomenon?
Maybe it's fear. Fear of feeling inferior and unappreciated, fear of diversity and sacrificing privilege, and fear of embarrassment and the opinions of others. We are mean to others because we feel ... and we feel because we are mean ...
... average or otherwise.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Rain, man!
Washington DC can be characterized by the following pissy items: a piss-poor political administration, the mysterious odor of piss on the Metro and in public buildings (most notably the White House), and the contemptuous pissing down of rain. From misty to torrential downpour DC has got you covered, quite literally-- covered head to toe with water, despite your vain attempts to direct your petty umbrella in the direction where the most rain is coming from.
The umbrella is almost pointless in DC's malevolent wind and rainy season. The rain, guided swiftly by DC's obnoxiously unpredictable gusts of wind, sends cascades of moisture scurrying this way and that like a herd of antelope evading a predator. No matter which direction you point your umbrella to combat this precipitating attack by mother nature, the wind somehow manages to circumvent every inch of polyester and soak your legs, torso, and aspirations of arriving to work without your clothes cementing to your body.
I have to wonder ... what's the point? I may as well just wear a plastic grocery bag over my face and call it a day.
And what is the deal with the extra-large umbrellas??? I am for serious-- umbrellas should be regulated so that they are a size proportional to the carrier's body!!! I saw a 90 pound 5'3" lady walking around today with an umbrella that looked like China on a stick. As she was cruising down the street, her dark dome eclipsing almost all of the natural light beneath itself, she continuously rammed every other regular-sized brolly like bumper boats in the air.
Water flying, people whipping around angrily to see who was piloting the polyester vessel, short utterances of surprise and consternation ... unfortunately this woman couldn't hear a blessed thing as her umbrella acoustics only allowed for the reverberation of her own ignorance to the world beyond her 10-food diameter dry zone.
It all ties into the American value of "happy me, screw you hippies". Dry, content, and oblivious to anything other than what is dry and content, we are pleased ... and anyone in the way can take a supersoaker up their arse (why did the song "Superman" just pop into my head). The greater good, i.e. civility and courteousness, can drown itself in its own tears of impertinence; my rights come before yours.
So as I steer my umbrella in the DC breeze, more like a kite than anything else, and enjoy a good lashing of a rain that travels sideways and on occasion from the ground up, I begin to wonder if that lady is also the line-cutter at the grocery store, the intersection-blocker at a stop light, the person who boards a Metro car before others have exited, or the cell phone talker at the movies ... Could they all be the same person???
Not to rain on anyone's parade, but unfortunately there is more than just one umbrella lady out there ...
The umbrella is almost pointless in DC's malevolent wind and rainy season. The rain, guided swiftly by DC's obnoxiously unpredictable gusts of wind, sends cascades of moisture scurrying this way and that like a herd of antelope evading a predator. No matter which direction you point your umbrella to combat this precipitating attack by mother nature, the wind somehow manages to circumvent every inch of polyester and soak your legs, torso, and aspirations of arriving to work without your clothes cementing to your body.
I have to wonder ... what's the point? I may as well just wear a plastic grocery bag over my face and call it a day.
And what is the deal with the extra-large umbrellas??? I am for serious-- umbrellas should be regulated so that they are a size proportional to the carrier's body!!! I saw a 90 pound 5'3" lady walking around today with an umbrella that looked like China on a stick. As she was cruising down the street, her dark dome eclipsing almost all of the natural light beneath itself, she continuously rammed every other regular-sized brolly like bumper boats in the air.
Water flying, people whipping around angrily to see who was piloting the polyester vessel, short utterances of surprise and consternation ... unfortunately this woman couldn't hear a blessed thing as her umbrella acoustics only allowed for the reverberation of her own ignorance to the world beyond her 10-food diameter dry zone.
It all ties into the American value of "happy me, screw you hippies". Dry, content, and oblivious to anything other than what is dry and content, we are pleased ... and anyone in the way can take a supersoaker up their arse (why did the song "Superman" just pop into my head). The greater good, i.e. civility and courteousness, can drown itself in its own tears of impertinence; my rights come before yours.
So as I steer my umbrella in the DC breeze, more like a kite than anything else, and enjoy a good lashing of a rain that travels sideways and on occasion from the ground up, I begin to wonder if that lady is also the line-cutter at the grocery store, the intersection-blocker at a stop light, the person who boards a Metro car before others have exited, or the cell phone talker at the movies ... Could they all be the same person???
Not to rain on anyone's parade, but unfortunately there is more than just one umbrella lady out there ...
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Dentist
Dentists are evil and must be destroyed.
This morning I had my first cleaning with a new dentist in Silver Spring. Granted, I hadn't been for a dental cleaning in a long while because Gallaudet's health insurance covers its students about as much as Britney Spears covers her no-no parts. Still, I feel that my cleaning was unusually harsh and unnecessarily painful, like spraying alcohol on a paper cut when all you really need is a band-aid.
The year is 2008, people. Teeth have been around quite a while; they are not a new phenomenon in the evolution of our species. Therefore, I believe it is a serious disappointment that in our advancement as conscious beings we have not yet invented a more suitable way to bring our molars and bicuspids up to their hygienic par.
It's a very compromising position to have your head tilted back and your mouth gaping wide open, like a baby bird in a nest waiting for its pre-digested meal from mommy. You are at the complete mercy (or lack of mercy) of the hygienist or dentist- who could obviously use a seminar or two on empathy and compassion for human suffering. What ever happened to "do no harm"?!?
That little scraper they use to grind in between the teeth and gums is barbaric yet surprisingly legal. I swear my dentist was using it like a pickax going after gold in some cave. I was clutching the sides of the chair and wincing when I opened my eyes and silently pleaded with the man to leave me in peace- in peace!!! And the only thing this bastard could say was "Wow, the rain is sure coming down hard, isn't it?" Yeah, the rain is very interesting, especially when you're trying to saw my face in half.
I think dentists take it personally when you haven't been for your checkup in a while. They're like a disgruntled date who is steamed that you didn't call soon enough, only in this situation the date has unlimited power to maximize your pain-- and then you actually pay for it!!! They always give you that look like "Oh ... you haven't been back promptly at 6 months ... well, I hate to see you suffer, but I have a contract with Satan and must do as he bids ..."
It must be a very dissatisfying experience to know that your entire career is disliked by the general public- quite like auto mechanics, telemarketers, and Richard Simmons. But dentists are consoled by the mantra they say to themselves every morning-- "Because of plaque, they'll always come back".
And so we do, and so we shall, until modern medicine actually becomes modern. Until then, I fear that these closeted S&M fetish-ers will have free reign over our cake holes and continue to manipulate the population with their scrapers, water pics, and saliva-slurping vacuums that always seem excessively loud ...
Perhaps that noise is there to drown out the wails of despair from another schmuck down the hall who is suffering an all too familiar fate at the hands of a monster we affectionately call the dentist.
This morning I had my first cleaning with a new dentist in Silver Spring. Granted, I hadn't been for a dental cleaning in a long while because Gallaudet's health insurance covers its students about as much as Britney Spears covers her no-no parts. Still, I feel that my cleaning was unusually harsh and unnecessarily painful, like spraying alcohol on a paper cut when all you really need is a band-aid.
The year is 2008, people. Teeth have been around quite a while; they are not a new phenomenon in the evolution of our species. Therefore, I believe it is a serious disappointment that in our advancement as conscious beings we have not yet invented a more suitable way to bring our molars and bicuspids up to their hygienic par.
It's a very compromising position to have your head tilted back and your mouth gaping wide open, like a baby bird in a nest waiting for its pre-digested meal from mommy. You are at the complete mercy (or lack of mercy) of the hygienist or dentist- who could obviously use a seminar or two on empathy and compassion for human suffering. What ever happened to "do no harm"?!?
That little scraper they use to grind in between the teeth and gums is barbaric yet surprisingly legal. I swear my dentist was using it like a pickax going after gold in some cave. I was clutching the sides of the chair and wincing when I opened my eyes and silently pleaded with the man to leave me in peace- in peace!!! And the only thing this bastard could say was "Wow, the rain is sure coming down hard, isn't it?" Yeah, the rain is very interesting, especially when you're trying to saw my face in half.
I think dentists take it personally when you haven't been for your checkup in a while. They're like a disgruntled date who is steamed that you didn't call soon enough, only in this situation the date has unlimited power to maximize your pain-- and then you actually pay for it!!! They always give you that look like "Oh ... you haven't been back promptly at 6 months ... well, I hate to see you suffer, but I have a contract with Satan and must do as he bids ..."
It must be a very dissatisfying experience to know that your entire career is disliked by the general public- quite like auto mechanics, telemarketers, and Richard Simmons. But dentists are consoled by the mantra they say to themselves every morning-- "Because of plaque, they'll always come back".
And so we do, and so we shall, until modern medicine actually becomes modern. Until then, I fear that these closeted S&M fetish-ers will have free reign over our cake holes and continue to manipulate the population with their scrapers, water pics, and saliva-slurping vacuums that always seem excessively loud ...
Perhaps that noise is there to drown out the wails of despair from another schmuck down the hall who is suffering an all too familiar fate at the hands of a monster we affectionately call the dentist.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Polk County - a news magnet
"The National Face of Polk County"
http://www.theledger.com/article/20080420/COLUMNISTS0301/804200330
A recent article in the Lakeland Ledger, Polk County's finest news source (their coverage of the 1987 Lake Morton mysterious swan disappearance is legendary, almost got the Pulitzer), came about in response to the the surge of negative press surrounding the P.C. in recent months.
Lakeland, my home town, has gained national attention due to a YouTube video that shows some white-trash girls beating up a fellow cheerleader, smacking her around a good few times, and having a jolly laugh about the whole thing. Slapping, shoving, and punching are Polk County's preferred methods of conflict resolution, and can often be observed in vivo at home during domestic disputes and then reproduced for the general public via networking sites.
The author's biggest complaint in her article was the shocking "cheap shots" other newspaper giants and news sources around the country have taken when describing Polk County, namely-- "rural Florida" and "Lakeland, a lower-middle-class town".
Well guess what? Polk County IS rural, the opposite of urban (New York, LA, Chicago), and it IS a lower-middle-class town (and the last thing those cheerleaders had was class!).
But why get caught up in labels for a county that has violent cheerleaders, cop killings (which resulted in the suspect's untimely death by a disturbing 110 shots fired by authorities ... apparently 100 bullets aren't enough to kill someone?), and bloody parent-butcherings. Hey, what can you expect from an urban upper-class town like Lakeland???
A general search for Polk County on CNN.com reveals its impact on a national level:
April 10 - YouTube video cheerleaders could get life in prison
Feb 16 - The North Illinois University shooter's father lives in Lakeland, FL
Oct 6 - Registered sex-offender in Polk County arrested for allegedly luring a 15-year-old girl through MySpace
Sept 29 - "Florida police kill suspect in deputy's slaying" ... (referenced above) I'd like to call attention to the word "suspect", I'm just saying ...
Sept 13 - "Judge warns victims' mother not to cry on stand" ... oh yeah SURE she's only telling about how she came upon the bloodied bodies of her children, how inappropriate to tear up over that ...
There are more, but I got bored ...
How can one small county gain such infamy? Perhaps the Ledger article should be re-named "The National Egg-on-Face of Polk County" ...
http://www.theledger.com/article/20080420/COLUMNISTS0301/804200330
A recent article in the Lakeland Ledger, Polk County's finest news source (their coverage of the 1987 Lake Morton mysterious swan disappearance is legendary, almost got the Pulitzer), came about in response to the the surge of negative press surrounding the P.C. in recent months.
Lakeland, my home town, has gained national attention due to a YouTube video that shows some white-trash girls beating up a fellow cheerleader, smacking her around a good few times, and having a jolly laugh about the whole thing. Slapping, shoving, and punching are Polk County's preferred methods of conflict resolution, and can often be observed in vivo at home during domestic disputes and then reproduced for the general public via networking sites.
The author's biggest complaint in her article was the shocking "cheap shots" other newspaper giants and news sources around the country have taken when describing Polk County, namely-- "rural Florida" and "Lakeland, a lower-middle-class town".
Well guess what? Polk County IS rural, the opposite of urban (New York, LA, Chicago), and it IS a lower-middle-class town (and the last thing those cheerleaders had was class!).
But why get caught up in labels for a county that has violent cheerleaders, cop killings (which resulted in the suspect's untimely death by a disturbing 110 shots fired by authorities ... apparently 100 bullets aren't enough to kill someone?), and bloody parent-butcherings. Hey, what can you expect from an urban upper-class town like Lakeland???
A general search for Polk County on CNN.com reveals its impact on a national level:
April 10 - YouTube video cheerleaders could get life in prison
Feb 16 - The North Illinois University shooter's father lives in Lakeland, FL
Oct 6 - Registered sex-offender in Polk County arrested for allegedly luring a 15-year-old girl through MySpace
Sept 29 - "Florida police kill suspect in deputy's slaying" ... (referenced above) I'd like to call attention to the word "suspect", I'm just saying ...
Sept 13 - "Judge warns victims' mother not to cry on stand" ... oh yeah SURE she's only telling about how she came upon the bloodied bodies of her children, how inappropriate to tear up over that ...
There are more, but I got bored ...
How can one small county gain such infamy? Perhaps the Ledger article should be re-named "The National Egg-on-Face of Polk County" ...
Monday, April 7, 2008
Life & Death
Nothing brings people together quite like a death in the family. Funerals do not discriminate- young and old, relative or otherwise, interested or required--- a funeral is like a social black hole. You can either swim against the rip-tide, and wear yourself out, or roll with it and enjoy the plunge out to sea (so much for being led beside still waters).
And so my family survived a 3-day weekend without much drama or shocking family secrets revealed (Jerry Springer audience sighs and dejectedly sits down); nevertheless, there was enough activity to keep me on my toes and attentive despite my sleep-deprived state:
-Cousins: I have 5 cousins on my mom's side. Three are about my age, and the other two are youngins (aged six and nine). This was our first chance to meet (well ... meet as speaking and conversation-holding people, not while changing diapers and smelling poo). We played, ran, laughed, and sang songs from Enchanted (I challenge any of you to find another 27-year-old cousin who is cool enough to know all the words).
-Mischief managed: I forget that the ideas I come up with are not always appropriate for children, including: trying to fly a kite inside the house using wind generated from a standing fan, catching bubbles on your tongue (which are carcinogenic, I was later informed), sneaking cookies 10 minutes before dinner, doing line dances in the middle of the grocery store aisle, and claiming that Lufthansa airlines is the best because they serve free alcohol.
-The art of Haiku: In honor of our late grandfather, an avid haiku poet, the following were constructed:
Drinking with cousins
And watching Lord of the Rings
What is malt made of?
Granddaddy is dead
We come here now to mourn him
His neighbor's a queer
-Gay gay gay: In reference to the previous haiku, my gaydar spiked to unprecedented levels after the memorial service while munching on "Thanksgiving-stuffed-between-two-buns" type sandwiches provided by a local church. My grandfather's neighbor, who pinged on my boy-barometer way before the stereotypes began to kick in (lover of music, noticed I had lost weight compared to my photo 6 years prior, and a 1st grade teacher), indicated that his wife had gone with him to some flower show a few weekends before-- which promptly caused me to choke on my food and cough hysterically (gag reflex, you'd think I'd have had that fixed by now).
-Gay gay gay (part deux): My six-year-old cousin turns and asks politely, "Do you have a girlfriend?" Used to this question from kids, I didn't bat an eyelash and honestly replied, "No, I do not have a girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?" ... "No, I'm a girl!" ... "Well girls can have girlfriends, too." ... "Yeah ... when I asked you that question something weird happened. I don't know what, but something weird happened". Damn perceptive six-year-olds!!!
-Somberness: Funerals are not always such a sad affair. My sister and I were jamming to the Lion King's "Circle of Life" on the way to the service (appropriate), as well as Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" (somewhat less appropriate). The Starbucks barista, amused by our glimmer and giggle as we eagerly dived into our morning mochas, suggested we try on our somber hats before we arrive at the grave site.
-Albums and photos: The time-honored tradition of pouring over the pictures and moving pictures of years past. It's embarrassing, like that feeling you get when someone walks in on you in the bathroom-- you haven't done anything wrong, but you feel awkward nonetheless. Moreover, in the home-made movies, you re-experience the idiotic and extremely flamboyant things you said as a child that should have clued your parents in to your sexuality about 15 years prior.
We sat around and swapped stories, as families tend to do: the one with granddaddy fighting with the bakery delivery woman for bringing stale cinnamon buns, the one where a 3-year-old David puked all over granddaddy's table after tasting bad Chinese (and thus instilling a fear of Chinese food until the age of 19), or the one where granddaddy tolerated the fancy of his adolescent grandchildren and wore a bicycle helmet while assuming his role as the Good Wizard in an amateur production of insanity.
The entire weekend reminded me that the memories we leave behind continue long past our brief mortality. So ... what will my legacy be???
And so my family survived a 3-day weekend without much drama or shocking family secrets revealed (Jerry Springer audience sighs and dejectedly sits down); nevertheless, there was enough activity to keep me on my toes and attentive despite my sleep-deprived state:
-Cousins: I have 5 cousins on my mom's side. Three are about my age, and the other two are youngins (aged six and nine). This was our first chance to meet (well ... meet as speaking and conversation-holding people, not while changing diapers and smelling poo). We played, ran, laughed, and sang songs from Enchanted (I challenge any of you to find another 27-year-old cousin who is cool enough to know all the words).
-Mischief managed: I forget that the ideas I come up with are not always appropriate for children, including: trying to fly a kite inside the house using wind generated from a standing fan, catching bubbles on your tongue (which are carcinogenic, I was later informed), sneaking cookies 10 minutes before dinner, doing line dances in the middle of the grocery store aisle, and claiming that Lufthansa airlines is the best because they serve free alcohol.
-The art of Haiku: In honor of our late grandfather, an avid haiku poet, the following were constructed:
Drinking with cousins
And watching Lord of the Rings
What is malt made of?
Granddaddy is dead
We come here now to mourn him
His neighbor's a queer
-Gay gay gay: In reference to the previous haiku, my gaydar spiked to unprecedented levels after the memorial service while munching on "Thanksgiving-stuffed-between-two-buns" type sandwiches provided by a local church. My grandfather's neighbor, who pinged on my boy-barometer way before the stereotypes began to kick in (lover of music, noticed I had lost weight compared to my photo 6 years prior, and a 1st grade teacher), indicated that his wife had gone with him to some flower show a few weekends before-- which promptly caused me to choke on my food and cough hysterically (gag reflex, you'd think I'd have had that fixed by now).
-Gay gay gay (part deux): My six-year-old cousin turns and asks politely, "Do you have a girlfriend?" Used to this question from kids, I didn't bat an eyelash and honestly replied, "No, I do not have a girlfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?" ... "No, I'm a girl!" ... "Well girls can have girlfriends, too." ... "Yeah ... when I asked you that question something weird happened. I don't know what, but something weird happened". Damn perceptive six-year-olds!!!
-Somberness: Funerals are not always such a sad affair. My sister and I were jamming to the Lion King's "Circle of Life" on the way to the service (appropriate), as well as Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" (somewhat less appropriate). The Starbucks barista, amused by our glimmer and giggle as we eagerly dived into our morning mochas, suggested we try on our somber hats before we arrive at the grave site.
-Albums and photos: The time-honored tradition of pouring over the pictures and moving pictures of years past. It's embarrassing, like that feeling you get when someone walks in on you in the bathroom-- you haven't done anything wrong, but you feel awkward nonetheless. Moreover, in the home-made movies, you re-experience the idiotic and extremely flamboyant things you said as a child that should have clued your parents in to your sexuality about 15 years prior.
We sat around and swapped stories, as families tend to do: the one with granddaddy fighting with the bakery delivery woman for bringing stale cinnamon buns, the one where a 3-year-old David puked all over granddaddy's table after tasting bad Chinese (and thus instilling a fear of Chinese food until the age of 19), or the one where granddaddy tolerated the fancy of his adolescent grandchildren and wore a bicycle helmet while assuming his role as the Good Wizard in an amateur production of insanity.
The entire weekend reminded me that the memories we leave behind continue long past our brief mortality. So ... what will my legacy be???
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The Tooth Fairy
What is the appropriate compensation an imaginative hoax should leave a child in exchange for an ejected piece of the human body? According to a recent CNN report, parents across the country are worried about the proper amount the faux-fairy should repay something that requires no effort at all and is a normal biological function. Am I paid every time I pee? Do I get a lump of gold for a lump of poo?
Inflation aside, children are demanding more of their fanciful fairy than in years past. The gold standard has generally been a quarter, but in an age where Christmas gifts have gone from Parcheesi to Playstation the financial fairy is suffering from a drastic increase in customer demand. Customer satisfaction, too, is threatened by the petty playground banter in which children compare their dental achievements (which can go as high as $20 a tooth, although the average is around $2.50).
What is a parent to do amidst a recession and the woes of fessing up to their fraudulent fairy practices? Should children know the truth? Should we continue giving them unearned money that reinforces a declining work ethic? Should they be taught to invest their earnings in stocks and mutual funds? Should children be taught the critical thinking skills necessary to discern that the idea of a winged tooth-collecting creature with a non-depleting source of capital is only an elaborate prank?!?
Some people argue that lying to children is actually good for them- the Tooth Fairy encourages imagination and later helps children make a distinction between reality and make-believe. Well, I don't think that children are at all suffering from a lack of imagination. And who the hell knows fact from fiction, anyways? Teenagers lie 98% of the time to their parents- perhaps this is in retaliation for the 98% of parents who tell their children about the Tooth Fairy.
But what would the world be like if we grew up and still held on to our childhood fantasies? Imagine a world where Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were a part of every day discussion ("Oh my god then there was this Fairy in my bed ... oh wait, that was me"), and the mystically intangible splendor of magic keeps us locked in a circling spell of wonder-- and hope?-- and provides an escape from the harsh realities of the grown-up world.
Inflation aside, children are demanding more of their fanciful fairy than in years past. The gold standard has generally been a quarter, but in an age where Christmas gifts have gone from Parcheesi to Playstation the financial fairy is suffering from a drastic increase in customer demand. Customer satisfaction, too, is threatened by the petty playground banter in which children compare their dental achievements (which can go as high as $20 a tooth, although the average is around $2.50).
What is a parent to do amidst a recession and the woes of fessing up to their fraudulent fairy practices? Should children know the truth? Should we continue giving them unearned money that reinforces a declining work ethic? Should they be taught to invest their earnings in stocks and mutual funds? Should children be taught the critical thinking skills necessary to discern that the idea of a winged tooth-collecting creature with a non-depleting source of capital is only an elaborate prank?!?
Some people argue that lying to children is actually good for them- the Tooth Fairy encourages imagination and later helps children make a distinction between reality and make-believe. Well, I don't think that children are at all suffering from a lack of imagination. And who the hell knows fact from fiction, anyways? Teenagers lie 98% of the time to their parents- perhaps this is in retaliation for the 98% of parents who tell their children about the Tooth Fairy.
But what would the world be like if we grew up and still held on to our childhood fantasies? Imagine a world where Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were a part of every day discussion ("Oh my god then there was this Fairy in my bed ... oh wait, that was me"), and the mystically intangible splendor of magic keeps us locked in a circling spell of wonder-- and hope?-- and provides an escape from the harsh realities of the grown-up world.
I suppose that believing in the Tooth Fairy isn't all so terrible- children continue to stare patiently into the fog of the impossible, and earn a little cash on the side while they're at it.
FYI- if you search the Internet, you can always find people who will pay for your urine.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Roller coaster weekend
Drama: it is a word that has truly come to embody my entire existence over the past few years. Drama is synonymous with several key aspects of my life-- Gallaudet, relationships, housemate situations, employment -- everything coming with a significant second-helping of heaping portion-proportions, all wedged and packed tightly into an emotional architecture that is buckling under the strain.
So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.
Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.
Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....
Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.
Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...
BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.
Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.
Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...
Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)
Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.
*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*
Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.
So on this, a most dizzying weekend of ups and downs, we can see just how high that roller coaster climbs- only to watch it move steeply down from time to time while I cling to the bar and squeal.
Friday:
My grandfather died. And, as with any death, the immediate family ties are put to the test in a delicate tug-of-war battle (How hard should I pull? When do I finally let go? How can I see the line to cross in all of this damned mud!). He and I weren't very close, so the situation is a bit awkward for me. I haven't talked about it much with others because most people expect a grandfather's death to be horrifically devastating- I think the fact that it isn't traumatic makes me even sadder.
Friday night:
Deaf Professional Happy Hour. As with any DPHH event, there is a swirling social cacophony(wink) of spinning hands and fantastic fingers. Old friends, catching up, sharing news, quick hellos and hugs, spilling drinks, feeling connected- the more times you say hello, the more you feel a sense of community and warmth. Ahhhh ....
Saturday:
EggSpectations is a cute restaurant in downtown Silver Spring which plays on words that begin with an "egg" sound, and thus is perfect for a dork like me who thinks he's clever every time he tells his waitress his omelet is "egg-cellent" ... *cough*. The door handles for the main entrance and the bathroom are egg beaters (for the bathroom??? Hmm, my right hand IS tired from all this repetitive whipping action). There was consumption of delicious eats and comforting times with friends.
Saturday afternoon:
BAKING !!! 5 hours in the kitchen, singing along to showtunes with a dear friend. Nothing is better! But wait, there's more!!! I got the call that I'd been accepted to do peer counseling for the Whitman Walker Clinic- OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday evening:
Gay prom. Yes, you heard me right- GAY PROM. Dolled up with my lady date (yes, a lady- there are still some things I can't get straight ... oh wait ...) and ready to shake it uninhibited with the boys ... life was rocketing skyward past Cloud 7, Cloud 8, Cloud 8-and-a-half ...
BOOM ... shards of rocket shatter and give in to gravity, falling uncontrollably to the ground. I had reached my 3-drink limit, and had progressed on to my fourth. After 3 drinks, any emotion is magnified 100-fold, and that filter which controls, suppresses, and obscures the external masquerade of emotions suddenly becomes void, and there are no flood gates to hold back the unforgiving surge that follows.
Sunday morning:
Hosting a nasty hangover (with all that water, you'd think I wouldn't be dehydrated the following morning!), and cursing daylight savings time with a mad passion (4 hours sleep is NOT enough), I dragged myself to church at 9:00 to prepare for the 11:00 service. By the time 12:30 had rolled around, I had interpreted an inspirational sermon about affordable housing in the District, and I had shaken hands with Mayor Fenty and interpreted his 10-minute speech about the government's current efforts to improve the lives of DC citizens.
Sunday afternoon:
In a somewhat drowsy daze, I proceeded to Mt. Pleasant with 2 friends to eat at a charming and cheap El Salvadorian restaurant and chat the afternoon away. After a Sticky Fingers Bakery run, I returned home to the inviting cushioning of 2 pillows and a mattress that seemed to envelope me like a spoon being pushed into a bowl of thick pudding. 4 hours of disconnected bliss ...
Sunday night:
Swing dancing at a straight bar. wha Wha WHAT? The gays took to the floor and showed the breeders how to really swing their hips and sweep the floor at McGinty's in Silver Spring. Laughter, pictures galore, some tasty french fries, and testing the societal rules of a straight locale- lovely :-)
Monday morning:
Sleeping through the alarm, late for work, mad and panicked dash to get to my desk before 9:00a.m., with only seconds to spare and with somewhat frazzled hair. And so, the work week begins all over again.
*steps off roller coaster, slightly giddy, slightly nauseous*
Drama, indeed. Perhaps I shouldn't wait in line for the ride.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
No Cussing??? What the #&%#?!?!?
The pursuit for an adequate definition of "cuss":
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Return to Gallaudet, revisited
Debbie Downer is on hiatus, proceed without caution ...
My second trip to Gallaudet in 2 weeks proved to be just as entertaining and hectic as the first. I had an important appointment that lasted longer than any human being should have to endure, followed by a quick buzz around campus and finally a visit to my department.
The quick buzz was great - old friends, busy schedules, homework this and that, job this and that, relationships, romance, and scurrying off to the next segment of an exhausting to-do list. Our 5 minute vignettes of complicated lives and stories that are due more attention- all in a flurry of fingers and hands that are complete gibberish to the people living just outside the gates.
I had been apprehensive about returning to my department, but after such an intense day I could have seen T.J. Holmes and reacted without much hype (ok ... that is a boldfaced lie). I did not know how I would be received.
Weird. It was like a homecoming; except it was for a place that had never felt like home. It was oddly warm and welcoming. What had changed? Me? The faculty? Both? Or perhaps even neither- maybe all that had changed was our perceptions of each other.
Which is not to say that this negates everything that happened, or how it was handled (on both ends). After all, even if you bury the hatchet, the hatchet is still there. But around and through it can sprout fresh spring flowers, opening their faces sun-ward once more to the winds of change and chance. Awww flowers are the cute ....
And as life has its way of coincidentally placing certain events close to one another to really pack a punch, last weekend I had a run-in with an ex-- one that I had hurt a while ago. He had this amazingly mature attitude-- one that appreciated our time together, and didn't continuously resent it- and it really slapped me in the face. I'm always squinting to see the silver lining, but for him it was as radiant as a star despite the pain. Wow. Maybe I need new lenses.
*strokes chin in pondering pose*
Ok *gathering notes* so ... pain is crappy but normal, anger is there to protect our ego but can eventually damper our spirits, people make mistakes but they usually have good intentions ...
Why is it that these lessons are the hardest to remember? Damn ... I miss calculus.
My second trip to Gallaudet in 2 weeks proved to be just as entertaining and hectic as the first. I had an important appointment that lasted longer than any human being should have to endure, followed by a quick buzz around campus and finally a visit to my department.
The quick buzz was great - old friends, busy schedules, homework this and that, job this and that, relationships, romance, and scurrying off to the next segment of an exhausting to-do list. Our 5 minute vignettes of complicated lives and stories that are due more attention- all in a flurry of fingers and hands that are complete gibberish to the people living just outside the gates.
I had been apprehensive about returning to my department, but after such an intense day I could have seen T.J. Holmes and reacted without much hype (ok ... that is a boldfaced lie). I did not know how I would be received.
Weird. It was like a homecoming; except it was for a place that had never felt like home. It was oddly warm and welcoming. What had changed? Me? The faculty? Both? Or perhaps even neither- maybe all that had changed was our perceptions of each other.
Which is not to say that this negates everything that happened, or how it was handled (on both ends). After all, even if you bury the hatchet, the hatchet is still there. But around and through it can sprout fresh spring flowers, opening their faces sun-ward once more to the winds of change and chance. Awww flowers are the cute ....
And as life has its way of coincidentally placing certain events close to one another to really pack a punch, last weekend I had a run-in with an ex-- one that I had hurt a while ago. He had this amazingly mature attitude-- one that appreciated our time together, and didn't continuously resent it- and it really slapped me in the face. I'm always squinting to see the silver lining, but for him it was as radiant as a star despite the pain. Wow. Maybe I need new lenses.
*strokes chin in pondering pose*
Ok *gathering notes* so ... pain is crappy but normal, anger is there to protect our ego but can eventually damper our spirits, people make mistakes but they usually have good intentions ...
Why is it that these lessons are the hardest to remember? Damn ... I miss calculus.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Take me baby or leave me
10 points to anyone who started singing "Take me for what I am" from Rent upon reading the blog title ..... *golf claps*
Here's a random assortment of things that people generally LOVE or HATE:
-rain storms
-coconut
-Hillary Clinton
-filling out your 1040 or 1040EZ
-diet beverages
-rice pudding
-Seinfeld episodes
-dogs
-Rosie O'Donnell
-exercising
-Backstreet Boys
-gardening
-mathematics
-high-fiving
-people who say "Ciao"
-Starbucks
-whoopie cushions
-licking stamps
-lawyers
-sick days from work
-bubble-wrap
-results from the Clinic
-tequila
-spicy foods
-dropping down low and sweeping the floor with it
-children
-reading
-a persistant suitor
-British comedy
-Hooters the restaurant
-hooters the anatomy
-anchovies
-S&M
-silent letters like the "b" in "lamb"
-gossip
-root beer
-getting mail
-Tickle Me Elmo
-Taco Bell
-blogs with no real point
Here's a random assortment of things that people generally LOVE or HATE:
-rain storms
-coconut
-Hillary Clinton
-filling out your 1040 or 1040EZ
-diet beverages
-rice pudding
-Seinfeld episodes
-dogs
-Rosie O'Donnell
-exercising
-Backstreet Boys
-gardening
-mathematics
-high-fiving
-people who say "Ciao"
-Starbucks
-whoopie cushions
-licking stamps
-lawyers
-sick days from work
-bubble-wrap
-results from the Clinic
-tequila
-spicy foods
-dropping down low and sweeping the floor with it
-children
-reading
-a persistant suitor
-British comedy
-Hooters the restaurant
-hooters the anatomy
-anchovies
-S&M
-silent letters like the "b" in "lamb"
-gossip
-root beer
-getting mail
-Tickle Me Elmo
-Taco Bell
-blogs with no real point
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