tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16042345401602533792024-03-13T00:41:23.923-07:00It's So SparklyMusings, Memories and Random RantsRondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-49970033147311468472020-07-02T17:20:00.000-07:002020-07-02T17:20:34.947-07:00My brief and shocking cheer-leading past<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">You know how it is… You wake up from a terrible nightmare,
sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, clutching your blankets, hoping
that the axe-wielding murderer isn’t still chasing you or that your car didn’t crash
over the cliff after all. I had this experience a couple of weeks ago, and it
wasn’t a murderer or terrifying car crash that invaded my sleeping
subconscious. Nope. I was having a vivid, horrible nightmare that I was a
cheerleader.</span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">Clearly, I’m not currently a cheerleader, unless you’re counting
the kind that chauffeur their kid to a gazillion sporting events. I’m way too
old to be the tiny-skirt-wearing, pom-pom shaking type. I mean, I’ll go to a
hot yoga class half-naked (pre-pandemic, of course) and I’m 99% confident that
I could bust a move as well as the Phoenix Suns dancers that I saw at a game a
couple of years ago, but I can’t imagine a scenario where it would happen, in
public, on the sidelines of an athletic competition, at this point in my life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">Despite all reassurances of logic and reality, the terror of my
nightmare stuck with me throughout the day. I am most certainly not a
cheerleader now, and I would say the risk of me becoming a cheerleader any time
in the future is akin to being struck by lightening or winning the lottery, but
what about the past? Had I ever been a cheerleader? I didn’t think so, but I
had to admit, there was a niggling doubt. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">I delved into the depths of my history – or at least dug through
a bunch of old photos – and my shocking discovery took me on a trip down memory
lane into my brief cheer-leading past. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k87i84zObKg/Xv5bIGHmo5I/AAAAAAAAAlo/6CIaJ0MskdQMdwGGwwvxAWNvr9aZPwoPgCK4BGAsYHg/s1400/CheerleaderRonda.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="910" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k87i84zObKg/Xv5bIGHmo5I/AAAAAAAAAlo/6CIaJ0MskdQMdwGGwwvxAWNvr9aZPwoPgCK4BGAsYHg/s320/CheerleaderRonda.JPG" /></a></div><p style="background: white; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;"><font size="2">Two, four, six, eight,
who do we appreciate….</font></span></i></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">Well, here you have it, photographic evidence that I was indeed
a cheerleader. The weird arm pose is somewhere between reluctant cheerleader
and aspiring body builder, but I think we can all agree that the stick-thin
limbs, coupled with the itty-bitty skirt point toward the former. My memories
of this are fuzzy and elusive – much like a dream I’m trying too hard to
remember, but I think I spent one season cheering for a junior football league
of some sort when we lived in Arizona. My favorite part about this photo is
that I’m wearing my beloved red Snoopy watch. Bonus points for anyone who can
figure out what brand of sneakers I’m wearing. I can’t tell. Some long-defunct
‘70s label?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;"><br /></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PZd_KomN_xQ/Xv5bb80DDcI/AAAAAAAAAl8/j7SoG9HNNgI9wH2KPDNT4yqjzrzviTG9QCK4BGAsYHg/s967/CheerCamp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="832" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PZd_KomN_xQ/Xv5bb80DDcI/AAAAAAAAAl8/j7SoG9HNNgI9wH2KPDNT4yqjzrzviTG9QCK4BGAsYHg/s320/CheerCamp.JPG" /></a></div><p style="background: white; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;"><font size="2">Another chapter in my
apparently storied cheer-leading history. (I’m the one with the bright blond
pigtails.)</font></span></i></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">This gem was taken at “Mini Cheer Summer Camp” in 1980 (as the
t-shirts indicate), and while the memories the former photo sparked are murky
at best, these came rushing back, crystal clear. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">The highlight of cheer camp for me was the pom-poms. If I close
my eyes, I can still see, hear, and feel them. They seemed so enormous and
glamorous. They were black and gold (the high school colors) and they made such
a happy noise when shaken. I’m talking about big, round ‘70s pom-poms; not the
sad little nubby ones you see these days that barely poke out of the cheerleaders’
hands. These babies were a rare commodity and highly in-demand. I think
each camp participant got dumb little pretend pom-poms made of cheap crepe
paper, but the big, fluffy, crinkly, REAL ones . . . there were only seven or
eight pairs of those in existence and they belonged to the super cool,
sophisticated members of the high school cheer-leading team, who were also our
camp teachers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">At the end of each camp day, the cheerleaders gathered all the kids
in the gym and gave awards. Each cheerleader picked a camper who
had shown the most “spirit” (whatever that means) or who had learned a cheer particularly
well or who had perfected a dance routine, and that lucky little girl’s reward
was taking a set of pom-poms home for the WHOLE night! It was almost too
wonderful to be believed. I KILLED myself every day trying to win the pom-poms. Oh,
how I wanted to feel them in my hands, to hear that faint crinkly, swishing
noise when I shook them. Finally, several days into the camp, my dream came
true. And I didn’t get just anyone’s pom-poms – I got Shannon’s
pom-poms. She was my favorite. She seemed beautiful and cool and
impossibly glamorous, and I was blessed with possession of her pom-poms for a
whole 15+ hours! I was so happy, I couldn’t stop smiling. I didn’t
let go of the pom-poms all night. I shook them to my heart’s
content. I danced with them and cheered with them, and took them to bed
with me. I spent the whole evening creating choreography that was
specifically designed to make the most of the pom-poms.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">As if winning the pom-poms wasn’t fantastic enough, there was
also a bonus prize. When you won the pom-poms, you also got that cheerleader’s
“spirit stick.” I thought that maybe spirit sticks were unique to where I grew
up or were just a 70’s thing, but a quick Google search proved me wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">According to my internet research, the spirit stick tradition
was born at a National Cheerleaders Association camp sometime in the mid-20<sup>th</sup>
century. Over the course of the camp, one team stood out from the rest. They
couldn’t jump, or stunt, or tumble as well as the other teams, but their positive
attitude and spirit promoted enthusiasm and unity among all the camp
participants. Their scores wouldn't land them in the winner's circle, but Lawrence
"Herkie" Herkimer (cheer-leading innovator and pom-pom patent
holder!!!), wanted to acknowledge their efforts in a special way. With such
short notice, he didn't have many options, so he cut a branch off a tree,
painted it and allowed it to dry in his garage. He presented the stick to the
team as a "spirit stick" to honor the attitude and enthusiasm that
the team embodied.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">Wow. This guy really knew how to give a special award. “Hey, um,
you kind of suck, but because of your great attitude and everything, I cut this
stick off a tree and put some left-over paint on it. Enjoy.” Next time you’re
lecturing your kids about the lameness of participation awards, you can tell
them, “Look, when I was a kid, we didn’t get a trophy just for participating.
No, we got a gnarled, broken-ass stick.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">Despite the humble and, let’s face it, lame origins of the
spirit stick, the stick clearly stuck. Now there are many options for
purchasing commercially manufactured spirit sticks, or you can get crafty and
make your own to put old Herkie’s DIY job to shame. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RN6la3cEx_U/Xv5cL8JNPOI/AAAAAAAAAmU/MUt5SRjn1HsV8teVP7bt0rwf8ObBfbXvwCK4BGAsYHg/s678/spiritstick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="563" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RN6la3cEx_U/Xv5cL8JNPOI/AAAAAAAAAmU/MUt5SRjn1HsV8teVP7bt0rwf8ObBfbXvwCK4BGAsYHg/s320/spiritstick.jpg" /></a></div>
<p style="background: white; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;"><font size="2">A glitzy, modern version
of the spirit stick.</font><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">The spirit sticks at my Mini Cheer Camp were large pieces of
dowel that were about a foot long. They were painted gold with black
stripes on the end and they had the cheerleader’s name on them. Other than
serving as an award for effort and a perky cheerleader attitude, I’m not sure
what the spirit sticks were used for. I think we were supposed to yell and
scream and “show lots of spirit” when the cheerleaders held them in the air. I imagine
they used them in the same manner in their official cheerleader capacity at
games. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQJgaU8_N4Y/Xv5cW3EHH7I/AAAAAAAAAmk/O5fU_4s_IXwtydqmEzLXM7eRRNb7GRcZgCK4BGAsYHg/s960/SpiritSticks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQJgaU8_N4Y/Xv5cW3EHH7I/AAAAAAAAAmk/O5fU_4s_IXwtydqmEzLXM7eRRNb7GRcZgCK4BGAsYHg/s320/SpiritSticks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="background: white; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;"><font size="2">Does this gang of spirit
stick wielding cheerleaders inspire you to cheer for your team or run for your
life?</font><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">In my mind, the spirit sticks paled in comparison to the
pom-poms, but the cool thing about the spirit sticks was that, on the last day
of camp, each cheerleader picked one “overall best” girl who won that
cheerleader’s spirit stick and got to keep it FOREVER. They must have
made new ones for themselves each fall. Or maybe their pot-smoking
boyfriends made them in between designing and building new bongs in wood shop. It
was the end of the ‘70's after all. Anyway, the last day of camp rolled around
and I was a nervous wreck wondering if I would win a spirit stick. I knew I
would be in the running, since I was one of the daily pom-pom winners. The
awards process seemed to take forever. The suspense with each name they called
was excruciatingly painful. At long last, the ever-cool Shannon called my name!
I could hardly believe it! It was the best summer ever. I treasured
that spirit stick with the black block letters that spelled S-H-A-N-N-O-N for at
least the rest of the summer. I have no idea what ever happened to it, or
Shannon for that matter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif;">If only I had been able to keep the pom-poms instead, I truly
would have cherished them forever and the arc of reality could have been
altered. Like the Chaos Theory’s Butterfly Effect where a butterfly flapping
its wings on one side of the world causes a hurricane on another, small changes
in initial conditions can lead to drastic changes in results. Maybe I would
have leaned cheerleader instead of dancer? Maybe the Seattle Mariners would
have played in a World Series. Maybe they would have even won?! Maybe the
Russians wouldn’t have influenced the 2016 election? Who knows the power of pom-poms?
At the very least, I could be having very different nightmares. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br />Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-10747345106854906512020-06-15T17:53:00.003-07:002020-06-15T17:59:46.886-07:008th Grade Graduation – Then and Now<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">It’s graduation time.
Despite the very strange circumstances imposed by a global pandemic, I am
enjoying my own family’s celebrations, as well as seeing photos of other
graduates – from newly minted kindergarteners (the cutest!), to 8</span><sup style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">
grade, high school, and college grads.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Even without having to
graduate in quarantine, these important rites of passage are emotional affairs
– leaving behind beloved places, people, and phases of life to embark on new
adventures and bright futures. It’s all very bittersweet.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">While I’ve been feeling
sad for the young people who are missing out on typical, in-person traditions
associated with graduations, I’ve been moved and impressed with efforts to
celebrate our graduates despite the limitations of current reality. Parent
volunteers, dedicated administrators, unendingly fantastic teachers, and even
students themselves have gone above and beyond to celebrate graduation
accomplishments this year – from yard signs and gift bag deliveries, to
graduation parades and virtual commencement programs. It hasn’t been the same,
but it has been special, and it will certainly be remembered.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">All the graduation
fanfare got me thinking about my own graduations and how they measured up to
this year’s batch of commencements. Since my son Chester graduated from 8<sup>th</sup>
grade this year, I dug into my memory banks (and old photos) to conduct a
comparison of our 8<sup>th</sup> grade graduations, including all the important
elements: Ceremony, attire, and, of course, hair.</span></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">8<sup>th</sup> Grade Graduation of Chester Billerbeck: </span></b><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Present day (2020), </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Westside School,
Seattle, Washington</span></p><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Because of the corona virus pandemic, Chester’s graduation looked a lot different than it
would have under normal circumstances. His class should have gone on a camping
trip the week before graduation – a tradition all Westside kids hear about and
look forward to throughout their years at the school.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Instead of gathering
around a campfire and sharing insights and memories about each other, the
students wrote little notes that were delivered on graduation day. Another
important camping trip tradition involves students hiking into the woods and spending
solitary time reading letters secretly written in advance by their parents. In
lieu of this experience, Chester asked me for the letter on graduation day,
after his class met via Zoom. He proceeded to the backyard, where he valiantly
attempted to recreate the forest vibe by setting up a camp chair facing a
Japanese maple and some nearly-blooming peonies. I think he appreciated the
letter (as much as any 8<sup>th</sup> grade boy could), but reported that the
attempt to conjure a wilderness setting was, sadly, unsuccessful.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">A couple of hours after
Chester’s backyard “hike” experience, a wonderful graduation procession came by
our house, including the Westside bus and several carloads of teachers, administrators,
and even the Westside Wolf mascot. They came bearing colorful signs, flowers, Chester’s
8<sup>th</sup> grade diploma, and a bag of cards and goodies. There was so much
honking and happy chattering that our neighbor even came out with her own
“Congratulations Graduate!” sign (She is, and has always been, presciently
prepared for any festive occasion. It is inexplicable and lovely.)</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Finally, instead of a
ceremony in the school’s auditorium, we all tuned in for a pre-recorded
commencement ceremony on YouTube, followed by a Zoom reception. I had my doubts
about an online graduation, but the Westside staff pulled off a ceremony that
was thoughtful, meaningful, and moving. It truly honored each graduate as an
individual and celebrated their uniquely wonderful class.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ua9BOMCfBVU/Xuf6q1sUjcI/AAAAAAAAAkI/f4bKsfncO_8qBb236T7k6nIBi1kN4uzxACK4BGAsYHg/s3150/8thGradeGraduationChester.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2970" data-original-width="3150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ua9BOMCfBVU/Xuf6q1sUjcI/AAAAAAAAAkI/f4bKsfncO_8qBb236T7k6nIBi1kN4uzxACK4BGAsYHg/s320/8thGradeGraduationChester.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">This photo was taken
before the online ceremony. As you can see, we took the opportunity to don a
slight more dressed-up look than our typical quarantine-wear. Chester put on a
dress-shirt and some jeans that he clearly outgrew since the last time he put
them on, pre-pandemic. When his future friends make fun of his hair, he’ll have
the excuse that he had been in quarantine for three months and was left with a
partly grown-out haircut that his mom felt convinced she could handle after a
YouTube tutorial. I had no such excuse for my 8<sup>th</sup> grade graduation
hair, unless you count the fact that it was the 80’s.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">8<sup>th</sup> Grade Graduation of Ronda Billerbeck (née Simons): </span></b><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">1986, </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Azalea Middle School, Brookings,
Oregon</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I honestly don’t recall
if my class had a graduation ceremony for 8</span><sup style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> grade, but we must
have. The part of our festivities that really stands out in my memory is the
graduation dance. It was our first “semi-formal” dance before the barrage of
high school homecomings and proms, so I remember it feeling very special and
grown up.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">A vague memory of a
graduation ceremony is lurking in the recesses of my brain. I think it took
place in the gym, prior to the dance. I remember being bussed to and from a
pre-dance “banquet” which was basically a spaghetti-feed. (Who feeds spaghetti
to a group of 13 and 14-year-olds dressed up in semi-formal clothing?!)</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">The dance took place in
our school’s “wresting room,” which was a smaller gym connected to the main
gym. It was filled with wrestling mats and an assortment of athletic equipment
used daily by junior high boys. It didn’t set the tone for a fancy event for
many reasons, not the least of which was the smell.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Here I am, at the dance,
with my date, Adam. Let’s take a moment to admire my totally bitchin’ 80s
dress…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-umB3fd_xPWA/Xuf68z98nMI/AAAAAAAAAkc/82t_xDWvZAEpun-W0LwOJk78JHmwvFp4wCK4BGAsYHg/s2009/8thGradeGrad.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2009" data-original-width="1371" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-umB3fd_xPWA/Xuf68z98nMI/AAAAAAAAAkc/82t_xDWvZAEpun-W0LwOJk78JHmwvFp4wCK4BGAsYHg/s320/8thGradeGrad.JPG" /></a></div><p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><font size="2">I. Loved. This. Dress.</font></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I loved this dress, and
it involved quite a lot of drama. I saw it in some magazine (<i>Seventeen</i> probably) and fell completely
in love with it. Nothing else would do. I HAD to have this Jessica McClintock
number. Any girl who grew up in the 80s will remember that Jessica McClintock
dresses were THE dresses to have. (Jessica McClintock prom dresses were in the
80s what Vera Wang wedding gowns were in the 90s.)</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">So, I had identified the
desired dress; all I had to do was go out and purchase it, right? Wrong! A
dress this fabulous certainly wasn’t available anywhere in or near the rural
Oregon community where I grew up (this is pre-Al Gore’s internet, remember?),
so I begged my mom to enlist the</span><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"> </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">help of my aunt who, at
the time, lived in Seattle. She scoured the city and found the dress! In
my size! I was thrilled! Little did</span><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"> </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">I know, trouble was
brewing. Trouble of the most serious sort. </span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">A classmate returned from
a family spring break vacation to California with a</span><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"> </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">“totally cute” graduation dress. It was Jessica McClintock
and it had a ruffle</span><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"> </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">around the top; it was
tea-length, with a slight princess waist-line, and bows on the shoulders. This
dress was sounding awfully familiar and my worst fears were confirmed. This
bitch had the EXACT same dress (Oh the horror!) in light pink. Mine was clearly
more sophisticated in seafoam, but still.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Tears were shed.
Threats were made. Names were called. Mothers conferred via telephone. At long
last, the copycat bitch and I were convinced (sort of, but not really) that the
color difference made the whole situation</span><span style="color: #2a2a2a;"> </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">acceptable. I
compensated with a handmade choker, crafted of ribbon a few shades darker than
the dress, adorned with a real rose with petal-tips dyed the same color. Breathtaking. Please ignore my hideous hair. I look like a cross between a poodle
and Sammy Hagar.</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">After all that drama
over my dress, you can image how careful I was to avoid splattering red sauce
all over it at the spaghetti feed. I emerged unscathed from the banquet but someone spilled fruit punch all over the front of my dress about five
minutes after this photo was taken at the dance. </span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">So, in review, after worrying
about Chester not having a meaningful 8<sup>th</sup> grade graduation, I think
he ended up with a ceremony that was much more memorable than mine. He didn’t
have to endure a socially awkward formal dance in a stinky gym, and he
certainly came away with much less cringe-worthy photographic evidence. (We
both have mouths full of braces, so that’s a wash.)</span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Congratulations 2020
graduates! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br />Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-77449413288922399562020-06-03T11:54:00.000-07:002020-06-03T11:54:15.158-07:00Drive My Car?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’m not sure if I’m ever going to be able to do what I do
again; at least not in the same way. I’m an arts administrator and performing
arts presenter. My whole professional purpose is bringing people together to
see art, to be entertained, to build community, to witness beauty and to share
that experience with each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We’ve all read countless essays, articles, and stories about
how profoundly the arts and entertainment world has been impacted by the
COVID-19 pandemic. And, I know it’s not just the arts, or restaurants, or
retail, or … (insert one of many devastated sectors). Let’s face it, almost
every nook and cranny of our economy is feeling the pain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So far, I feel lucky. I run the arts program of a suburban
city, so my arts job is more stable than many. But now state and local
governments are falling into deeper and deeper deficits. Each day I hear about
another city in our region that has cut millions of dollars, laid off
employees, and decimated arts, music, and park programs. In this new reality, it
feels like stability is slipping away, like a car in an action movie teetering
on the edge of a cliff after a hairpin switch-back chase scene. Time stops as
the protagonist sits frozen in the driver’s seat, simultaneously thrilled that
she is still alive and terrified that she soon won’t be. The car lurches, then
stills before lurching several more inches toward the drop below. It’s silent
except for the sounds of slipping rocks and creaking metal. Should she try to
climb out? Should she lean one way or the other? Should she remain motionless until
someone comes to rescue her? Every minuscule decision, every tiny action seems
to matter immensely and not matter at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every day, when I get up and turn on my laptop to tackle
another day of working from home, I’m in that doomed car…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aLRb-M38uKs/XtfwHEz-3DI/AAAAAAAAAjE/FM-eCU-adg8w6O6tAVSFZ3jGm_Wif572gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Furiuos7CarOnCliff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="160" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aLRb-M38uKs/XtfwHEz-3DI/AAAAAAAAAjE/FM-eCU-adg8w6O6tAVSFZ3jGm_Wif572gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Furiuos7CarOnCliff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Bad-ass Paul Walker (R.I.P.) as Brian O'Conner in Furious 7 (Universal Pictures) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some days I’m all adrenaline and focused confidence. I’m
leaning. I’m shifting my weight. I’m wriggling slowly toward the shattered
window. I’m going to climb onto the hood and leap to the safety of solid ground
as the car gives way and sails through the air before crashing in a spectacular
explosion on the rocks below. “Well that car is destroyed,” I think, “but we’ll
create a brand-new car!” If there is anyone who can do it, it’s artists and
people who work in the arts and culture sector. I’ve spent my entire career in
this field and have always counted myself lucky to work with smart, creative, hard-working
and committed people. We can do it. We’ll build a new car. So many of my
colleagues – those I don’t know and those I do – across the country and world
are showing inspiring creativity in coming up with ways to keep making and
sharing art. Live streaming performances with audience interaction, murals on
the boarded-up windows of neighborhood businesses, online platforms for sharing
art, virtual museum tours, socially distanced events of all different kinds.
This is a brand-new car, a completely different car. Maybe even an exciting car!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Other days, I’m lost and hopeless. I’m frozen behind the
wheel and I feel like it doesn’t matter what I do. I can hold my breath. I can
shimmy and crawl. It doesn’t matter because I’m either going down with that beat-up
car or hanging onto the edge of the cliff by my fingertips. Maybe I’ll muster
the strength and get a foothold. Maybe I’ll drag myself to the top and limp to
a new car. But it feels like this new car isn’t nearly as fun as the old car.
I’m not racing around corners with the windows down, my hair blowing in the
breeze and the sun on my face. It’s a driving simulator – it looks like a car,
it offers all the key components of driving a car, but none of the essence,
none of life, none of that magic that happens when you’re speeding down a real
road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’m spending my days working on Plan B’s, and Plan C’s, and
even Plan D’s. Sometimes it’s exciting to flex my creative muscles a little
more than usual, to feel like maybe this whole thing has jostled me out of a
“this is how we’ve always done things” rut. But there’s always a niggling
doubt… Are people even going to want to watch a live-streamed version of this
show? One where they can’t hear the reactions and applause of the people
sitting next to them. Are people going to go out of their way to take a virtual
tour of a museum or gallery? Is seeing Starry Night on video that much
different than seeing it in the book sitting on the coffee table? Aren’t we missing
the essence of the thing if we can’t share it? If we can’t see our own wonder
and emotion reflected on the faces of those around us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here’s the thing… I
don’t want to have those kinds of arts experiences. No matter how clever and
how many technological bells and whistles, they seem a little empty. I
immediately appreciate the ingenuity, but that wears off and then… it’s a
driving simulator and not a Ferrari. So, if I don’t want them, why am I
knocking myself out to plan them for others? Does anyone want them? Is all my
leaning and wiggling and trying to pull myself and my work up from that cliff
worth it? Can I deliver a car that anyone wants to drive? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-71914841612915369272019-05-15T14:29:00.000-07:002019-05-15T14:29:25.859-07:00Dream Weaver<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">You know that part in the
movie Wayne’s World where Wayne sees Cassandra on stage for the first time, is
transfixed, and Gary Wright’s Dream Weaver starts playing in his head? Well, I
had my very own Dream Weaver moment recently. Mine went down quite a bit
differently, but it was equally memorable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It was a rainy Saturday and I
promised my 12-year-old son that I would take him and his friend T. to the mall
to search for Funko Pop figures. (For those of you who have been living under a
rock, or at least not in close proximity to pre-teen boys, Funko is a company
that sells licensed pop culture collectibles, particularly vinyl figurines and
bobbleheads. If you’re into Marvel Comics, you can collect all the characters
from the new Avengers End Game movie. If you’re into rock and roll, you can
collect various rock stars. If you’re a big fan of Disney/Pixar movies, Funko
has got you covered. Heck, if you’re a horror movie buff, you can even have
your very own Jack Torrance or Pennywise bobblehead.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">So, rainy afternoon, mall,
two boys. All was going as planned. They were shopping for collectibles and I
was enjoying lunch on my own, marveling at how nice it is that they are old
enough to explore the mall by themselves and how much fun it is to see them
enjoying that new freedom. They met me at the appointed time and place with
full bags and empty pockets. Success! We all dashed through the rain to the car
and, as they excitedly told me about their shopping adventures, I tried to
start the car. No go. Literally. I tried again and again, and the ignition
would chug-chug, turnover, and then die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I called AAA and sent the
boys back into the mall for another round of snacking and shopping. The AAA guy
showed up within 45 minutes, which I didn’t think was too bad, but it wasn’t a
flat tire or a dead battery, so he couldn’t fix it. Phase Two was calling a tow
truck, which was supposed to come within an hour and a half. It didn’t. And, as
it turns out, even a mall full of Funko Pop figures can only entertain a couple
of pre-teen boys for so long. I called T.’s mom and she swooped in to save the
boys while I continued waiting for the tow truck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">After two hours and two more queries
to AAA, I received a call from the tow company dispatcher who told me she had
switched my cell phone number with someone else’s. The driver had been driving
around to various mall entrances trying unsuccessfully to connect with me.
Fantastic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At long last, I saw the tow truck pull up
across from the mall entrance where I was waiting. I waved with one arm.
Nothing. I waved with two arms. Still nothing. I flailed both arms over my head
and jumped up and down in the pouring rain like a crazy person. Nope. Finally,
I darted across two lanes of traffic and approached the driver’s side of the
truck. The driver was looking down at his phone. “Hello! I’m Ronda!” I shouted
through the crack in his window. He seemed truly surprised that someone was
looking for him, but figured out to follow me to where my lifeless car was
parked in the crowded mall parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Just as he sidled his truck
up to my car and got out to assess the situation, the air suddenly filled with
the unmistakable smell of marijuana smoke. I looked at him like, “Are you
kidding me?” and when he looked back at me the same way, we both turned to see
smoke rolling out of the car next to mine. It was like we had stumbled out of
Spicoli’s van in Fast Times at Ridgemont High or into a Snoop Dog video,
depending on your preferred era. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Before he got to work, Mr.
Tow Truck driver made a big point of returning to his truck to open all the
doors and crank the radio. You know, how you do when you’re working in the
middle of a crowded public space. And that’s when it happened. Blasting from
the tow truck stereo… “Ooooh, dreeeam weeeeeavah… I believe you can get me
through the niii-hiiiight…” I froze, just like Wayne in Wayne’s world, but
instead of being in awe of a Schwing-worthy babe, I was mortified. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vHucIVFcfBI/XNyD2SmLNfI/AAAAAAAAAcI/X7vfn4qRtIE-njUjuCLgB0uUSJBMSwzsgCLcBGAs/s1600/dreamweavergif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="135" data-original-width="245" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vHucIVFcfBI/XNyD2SmLNfI/AAAAAAAAAcI/X7vfn4qRtIE-njUjuCLgB0uUSJBMSwzsgCLcBGAs/s1600/dreamweavergif.gif" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I tried my best to ignore to
the smoke-fest next door, and the impassioned vocals about astral planes and
highways of fantasy to focus on the task at hand, which was to stand there
looking and smelling like the world’s most soggy, stoner, blast-from-the-past
mom. “Help me to forget today’s pain,” indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Fortunately Dream Weaver, as
I’ll now call him and forever know him, worked quickly and I felt a major sense
of relief when he signaled that it was time for me to hop in (or climb aboard
the dream weaver train as a long as I’m playing with the lyrics). Sadly, there
was no relief to be had. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The first words out of Dream
Weaver’s mouth were “So, how old are you?” I flatly informed him that I am 46
years old and he said, with a sleazy smile, “No way! I thought you were, like,
my age. I’m 33.” Right, dude. He was unfazed by my advanced years and chatted
incessantly, taking numerous wrong turns as I tried to shout directions to the
car dealership over the top of his running commentary. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Apparently Dream Weaver did a
very exciting stint in the U.S. Army, during which he participated in top
secret and very dangerous training exercises near a sarin gas storage facility.
I think he sensed that I wasn’t impressed with his military history, so he
switched to a harrowing story about when his tow truck got stolen and he had to
recover it himself using his personal car, a Mercedes. He chased the stolen
truck down a freeway in his own car, which was a Mercedes. Did I mention that
he mentioned that his personal car is a Mercedes? Oh yes, I see that I did. Were
you impressed? Me neither.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Somewhere in the middle of
all this, he became annoyed by a rattling sound in the cab of the truck and set
about trying to figure out where it was coming from, with absolutely no luck.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it, reached over, and put a finger on the empty Rock
Star energy drink can that was sitting in his cup holder. Of course, the
rattling stopped immediately. He looked over at me with the most incredulous
expression, winked, and said, “Heeeeeey, are YOU a mechanic?!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">At that moment, we were
pulling up to the service entrance of the car dealership, so I was spared from
explaining to him that I’m obviously not a mechanic or I wouldn’t be riding in
a tow truck with him. I didn’t want to share that I’m just amazingly gifted at
figuring out random car rattles, lest I increase my irresistible appeal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The service department guy
approached to tell us where to leave my car, which I quickly jumped on as the
perfect opportunity to get off the Dream Weaver train. I thought about turning
around and waving goodbye, but I didn’t. Instead, I imagined a film tableau set
to magical, synthesized music, a shot of me walking away from the tow truck… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Though the dawn may be coming soon, there
still may be some time. Fly me away to the bright side of the moon, and meet me
on the other side. Oooooh, dream weaver, I believe you can get me through the
night. Ooooooh, dream weaver, I believe we can reach the morning light.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-54712360104956685432016-11-11T11:54:00.003-08:002016-11-11T11:54:33.424-08:00Reaping the Authentic Results<div class="MsoNormal">
On this third day after the election, I’m tired of hearing
that racism, misogyny, and xenophobia had nothing to do with Donald Trump’s
election. This boggles my mind. The guy
openly ran on a platform of racism, misogyny, and xenophobia. That is some
ugly, ugly stuff, so I can see why we’d all (whether we voted for him or not)
like to conveniently and quickly dismiss it by sweeping it under the rug of
jobs and authenticity and desire for change. But in the few days since the
election, it’s fairly clear we’re not going to be able to do that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Trump’s victory had nothing to do with racism, misogyny,
and xenophobia, how do we explain the bold, public display of those hateful
behaviors across the nation in the past couple of days? Threatening notes left
on the homes and cars of gay families, shouts of “go back where you came from”
as people of color simply try to go to class or commute to work, swastikas
painted on dugouts where our children play baseball, Muslim women physically
assaulted, “black lives don’t matter and neither do your votes” scrawled across
public spaces, school children openly chanting “build that wall, build that
wall!” while their Latino classmates cry – the uptick (and I think that might
be too gentle a word) in hate speech and crimes is crystal clear. Trump openly
encouraged this behavior throughout his campaign and at his rallies; now we’re
reaping the results.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not assume the people committing these vile acts represent
everyone who cast a ballot for Trump. In fact, I’m positive that isn’t true.
People I know voted for Trump. People I like very much voted for Trump. I’m
fairly certain people I dearly love voted for Trump. My sadness and anger at
the outcome of this election will not cause me to turn my back on these people.
I certainly won’t stop loving friends and family who voted for Trump and I
don’t intend to “unfriend” anyone who voted for Trump – unless, of course, they
make it clear to me through hateful words and behaviors that they are of the
ilk who find it acceptable to belittle and terrorize, and to bring that
despicable behavior into the public spaces of my community. Sadly, there have
already been a few of those.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like many people who are vehemently opposed to Trump, I’m
experiencing quite a bit of dissonance, trying to reconcile Trump’s hateful
messages with the good people who voted for him. My coping mechanism has been reading
everything I can get my hands on – I’m wading through information and opinion
pieces from a wide range of sources and ideologies, hoping to gain insight.
Much of what I find leads me on tangents of further questions and confusion as I
read words like “authenticity” and sentiments like “he tells it like it is.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My good friend Merriam-Webster defines “authentic” as real
or genuine, not copied or false, true and accurate. While the dictionary
definition doesn’t suggest a value judgment – it doesn’t say authenticity is
inherently good or bad – we generally apply the term to “good” things:
Authentic New York-style pizza – yum! Authentic
Rolex watch or Louis Vuitton bag – no knock-offs here! She is such an authentic
person – no pretense! But can’t authentic things also be bad? Do we always want
people to say exactly what they’re thinking? Sometimes I see someone wearing
what I consider to be an unattractive outfit. I may have a snarky thought like,
“What was that person thinking when they got dressed!?” But I would never
openly mock; I would be horrified if the person could somehow hear my unkind
thought. I keep it where it should be – to myself. Does that make me
inauthentic or does it just make me a kind human being, participating in the
maintenance of a civil society?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe Donald Trump truly believes all the horrible things he
has said about women, people of color, and differing religions; it certainly
seems like he does, based on his documented behavior. In that case, I suppose
he fits the dictionary definition of “authentic,” but we shouldn’t be
celebrating that as a good thing. Is it acceptable to be an awful human being
as long as you’re open, even boastful, about it? Some things are better kept
quiet. Didn’t all of our parents teach us, “If you don’t have something nice to
say, don’t say anything at all?” That old adage is arguably simplistic but it
gets at the root of an important societal truth – there must be parameters and
norms around words and behaviors if we expect to maintain a functioning
society. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve also considered that perhaps Donald Trump doesn’t
really believe all the hate he spews, and I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.
It would certainly tarnish the “authenticity” that many voters seem to value in
him if he was just spinning a storyline to whip the truly racist, misogynistic,
and xenophobic into an activated frenzy. In my more optimistic moments, I hope
it would mean perhaps he’ll change his tune now that he’s been elected. Maybe
he’ll dial it back a bit. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s so easy to close the
lid of the awful Pandora’s Box he’s opened, authentically or not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While many of Trump’s voters don’t support or participate in
racist, misogynistic, or xenophobic behavior, they do own the inevitable
results of Trump’s election, and I hope with all my heart they will not sweep
it under a rug, that they will acknowledge it and stand up with me to fight
against it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-48493740195131038742016-11-09T11:41:00.001-08:002016-11-09T12:00:40.344-08:00This Post-Election Morning<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning, as I walked the block and a half from my car
to my office, a man leaned out of his car window, whistled and said “Nice!” as
he drove by. This happens fairly frequently, but today felt different. Leering
catcalls are always annoying and disconcerting, but this morning, the day after
my country elected a truly vile human being who regularly demeans and degrades
women, and brags about violence against female bodies, it felt downright
terrifying. It didn’t feel like one asshole in a truck; it felt like the whole
country making me nothing more than an object, staring me right in the face and
letting me know full well that my success, happiness, and safety depend completely
on whether or not the guys in the trucks decide to keep on driving today or to stop
and do whatever they feel like doing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a little girl, I was told I could grow up to do
and be anything. I was raised to believe that I was lucky to be growing up in such
a time. Unfortunately, that optimistic sentiment didn’t line up with the
reality I faced. I wanted to play drums in the school band… Nope, the choices
for girls were flute or clarinet. I wanted to grow up to be a fighter pilot… Oh
no, girls can’t ever do that! When I was 8 or 9 years old, a friend’s mother
overheard us talking about what we wanted to study when we went to college. She
told us we were being ridiculous, that we should focus on finding good husbands instead, and that if we weren’t
married by the time we were 18 all the “good men” would be gone. When I came
back to work after three months of maternity leave, a male superior who I
admired and respected asked me how I was enjoying motherhood. I told him it was
wonderful, interpreting his nodding head and smiling face as signs that he was
fondly recalling the early months with his own children; but I watched his
smile turn to a confusing smirk as he said, “One of my mentors always told me ‘Never
hire a woman of child-bearing age.’” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like most women, I could write a book filled with sexist
anecdotes ranging from the sort that would be funny if they weren’t so annoying
to those that are outright scary and appalling. So forgive me if I’m having
trouble embracing the sentiment that this is politics-as-usual. I don’t think
there’s anything “usual” about electing a man who proudly displays a clear and
vehement distain for women as anything other than sex objects. How have we
elected a man who is absolutely unqualified to hold the highest leadership
position in our nation? A man who incites violence against those who don’t
agree with him? A man who belittles and attacks anyone who isn’t just like him?
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How in the world could any woman have voted for the King of
Catcalling Assholes in Trucks? Former Secretary of State Madeleine K. Albright
has said “There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other
women." I think there might be an even deeper, more “special” place for
women who voted for Donald Trump.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m tired of hearing that it’s because voters in more rural
areas feel disenfranchised – that their way of life is being left behind. I
grew up in very rural America – small towns in Arizona and Oregon – so I
understand the issues. What I don’t understand is how hate, bigotry, and
ignorance clearly prevailed over the kindness that I knew in those
communities. Many are arguing that the disenfranchisement
and frustration with Washington D.C. was felt so keenly that voters were
willing to put aside or ignore all the hate Donald Trump spewed like a broken
fire hydrant. I don’t buy it. You don’t get to put that aside. You can’t support
Donald Trump without supporting his misogynistic, racist platform. I, like many
others today, feel like I woke up in a country I didn’t know existed. I believed
that goodness would outweigh frustration. I refused to believe people would be
willing to burn everything good to the ground. Silly me. All I can say is, good
job cutting off your nose to spite your face, America.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t understand the “political outsider” appeal of Donald
Trump. Being a “political outsider” means he has exactly zero qualifications to
perform an extremely difficult, complex job. I’ve spent my entire career in
municipal government and I find this argument baffling. I simply cannot understand
why large groups of citizens (the majority even!) think it’s a great idea to
have people who have no experience or understanding of what they’re doing, take
on important jobs that impact the very fabric and operation of our society. If
you were hiring a person to handle your company’s accounting, would you look at
the resume of a biologist (brilliant as he or she may be) and exclaim, “Yes!
This is the one! This candidate has no concept of standard accounting practices
and procedures! She’ll bring a great fresh perspective to this job!” No, you
would not. If you needed heart surgery, would you select the person who has a long
and esteemed career as an artist? I mean, why not bring some new thinking to
the surgery, right? Who wants a tired, old, experienced doctor who has performed
thousands of successful heart surgeries! Boring!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, as I was harassed this morning, like on so many other
mornings, my heart broke a little more than usual – for myself, for all women,
for racial and religious minorities, for LGBTQ people, and mostly for our
children. There seems to be an outpouring from distraught parents today as we
struggle with how to talk with our children about the horrifying outcome of
this election. An article titled “What Do We Tell the Children?” by Ali
Michael, Ph.D. (<a href="http://huff.to/2fYVG4p">http://huff.to/2fYVG4p</a> )
has been circulating like crazy this morning on the Facebook feeds of fellow
parents and people who care about children in general. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Children are genuinely frightened. I’ve lost track of how
many posts I’ve seen from parents who are attempting to comfort crying
children, daughters who are fearful that they are no longer safe from physical
harm, and sons who worry that bad things will happen to them or their loved
ones. Beautiful little boys and girls now see that this country has picked a
terrifying bully as its leader. We as adults haven’t told them that – they’ve
seen and heard Donald Trump mocking disabled people, degrading women, calling
people of color rapists and criminals. As the parent of a ten year old boy, as
a woman, as a decent human being, I can’t begin to put to words how furious and
profoundly sad this makes me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course we will teach our children to keep on loving each
other, to stay kind, and that we will continue to protect them. (What choice do
we have?) We’ll tell them that “one bad man” can’t do that much harm all by
himself; that we have a big democratic system with checks and balances. But
kids are smart; they see through all kinds of bullshit. They’ve seen the “bad
man” and they’ve heard him say terrible things with their own ears. They’ve
seen and heard about the violence and vitriol at his rallies. They’ve been
watching and they’ve been listening and now they are, understandably, scared.
So much for the days when children were inspired by presidents!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The commentators kept saying this would be an historic
election result no matter what – we’d either have the first female president or
the first president to have never previously run for public office or served in
the military. Well, I think we have another historic first… We have the first
president our children are terrified of. This should tell us something, America
– something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-67734458891320171952016-09-16T17:25:00.000-07:002016-09-16T17:25:52.178-07:00All I really need to know about patriotism I learned from my junior high essay contest<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lately I’ve been increasingly alarmed by “patriotism” or at
least what is passing as patriotism. Instead of a unifying love of and
commitment to country, today’s patriotism seems terrifyingly zealous,
unquestioning, and shallow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In mainstream media, on social media, and as part of
everyday interactions, people are exhibiting appallingly aggressive and
divisive behavior in the name of patriotism. Over-the-top name calling,
ridiculous personal insults, and even death threats are the responses to acts
as simple as not standing for the National Anthem or supporting someone who
makes that choice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As pretty much the entire world knows at this point, San
Francisco 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick chose to remain seated during the
National Anthem at a pre-season game. "I am not going to stand up to show
pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of
color," Kaepernick said, via NFL.com. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here’s the deal: I don’t care about football. In fact, there
isn’t much I care less about than football. Admitting indifference toward
football in Seattle these days is akin to blasphemy. With Seahawks fever
raging, I’ve gotten used to the sideways glances I get on “Blue Friday” when
I’m conspicuously not wearing any Seahawks gear – no blue and green hair
ribbons, no face decals, no tiny little “12s” painted on my fingernails. I do
own one Seahawks t-shirt that I break out of deep storage for special occasions
(i.e. when my ten year old son insists.) Despite my long-standing disinterest
in the sport, I will confess that having my hometown team win the Super Bowl was
pretty fun. It was enjoyable to watch the games with my son and to see the
community participate in all the hoopla. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thanks to the Seahawks, I have a very cursory understanding
of what the football fuss is all about. But now there is a whole new category
of fuss over football; my Facebook feed has switched from general excitement
about the season beginning and trash-talking between fans of rival teams to a
political uproar over players refusing to stand for the National Anthem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Kaepernick chose to remain seated to bring attention to a
cause he cares about, and, since then, a number of other NFL players have
either joined him in sitting/kneeling, or engaged in other shows of solidarity
like linking arms or raising fists. (Kaepernick apparently switched from
sitting to kneeling in an effort to communicate his message while still showing
respect for the military, police, and country.) Still, many people perceive Kaepernick’s
actions as unpatriotic (“perceive” being the key word.) These people have
gotten very angry. My own social media-sphere has examples of threatening and
hateful comments directed toward these NFL players and anyone who dares to
agree with them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This conversation (and conversation is a stretch given that
it’s more like a screaming match) is missing an important distinction between
‘method’ and ‘meaning.’ I don’t necessarily agree (or for that matter, disagree)
with Colin Kaepernick’s <i>method</i> of
making the statement he’s making. I do believe that the issue he’s highlighting
is <i>meaningful</i> to our society and
requires civil attention and dialogue. What’s more, I definitely agree that he
has the right to express himself and to try to affect change. And I don’t think
doing so makes him unpatriotic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines patriotism as “love
for or devotion to one's country.” It doesn’t say anything about standing for
the National Anthem – that’s a <i>symbol</i>
of devotion to country. Symbols are important ways for us to understand and
express abstract ideas and concepts, but it becomes problematic when the symbol
takes precedence over what it represents. Couldn’t choosing to kneel during the
National Anthem as a method of calling attention to an important national issue
be interpreted as love for and devotion to one’s country? I don’t know whether it’s
the “right” method and it certainly can’t be the only method, but ultimately
these football players are trying to create positive change for our country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s a complicated issue to be sure, one that deserves
respectful acknowledgement and conversation, not racial slurs and threats. Now,
I’m sure some would argue that the NFL players don’t really care about anything
more than calling attention to themselves for personal gain and satisfaction.
Believe me, I’m the first to roll my eyes at the over-inflated egos and
paychecks of professional athletes. I’m just using this example to talk about
the bigger issue of American patriotism being alarmingly warped and out of
control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometime during junior high, I won an essay contest that was
sponsored by a local service organization. My memory of the ‘when’ and ‘who’
details is a bit fuzzy, but I remember the ‘what’ clearly. We were to explore
and take a stand on whether or not burning the American flag should be a crime.
My pre-teen brain, confused though it undoubtedly was, immediately recognized
this question as a complicated and sticky one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is important to note that my K-12 schools, while beloved
in my memories, were not bastions of educational rigor. There were some
stand-out moments, as well as teachers I appreciate to this day, but I had more
than one high school class that consisted almost entirely of completing
word-finds and crossword puzzles. The teacher of another class literally read
the answers the day before the test; all you had to do was memorize “1. A, 2.
C, 3. E…” etc. It was essentially possible to ace the class without having any
knowledge of the subject matter. My best friend and I resorted to creating a
race on test day – our aim was to see who could fill in the pre-memorized
multiple choice answers fastest and leap to the front of the room to be the
first to turn in the test.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My point is that maybe I have such a vivid memory of the
essay contest because it was one of the few serious papers I was ever required
to write in my pre-college education. But even more than that, I remember being
struck by the instructions… They not only offered an invitation, but a
directive, to think for myself – to think carefully about a weighty topic. So I
did. I thought and wrote, and thought and wrote, and thought and wrote. I
struggled through quite a few days and drafts figuring out what I really
believed and wanted to say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I still have the essay in a box that has been packed away; I
wish I had access to it now so I could include some actual quotes, but I
remember the gist. I basically said the same thing I’m saying here, 30 years
later… That despite not liking the idea or sight of people burning the American
flag, I don’t think it should be a crime or grounds for threatening retaliatory
behavior. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At first I considered the flag “just a piece of fabric,” but
as I kept thinking and writing, I realized that wasn’t quite true. The American
flag is more than a piece of fabric; it’s a symbol, just like the National
Anthem is more than just a song. These symbols are important pieces of our
collective culture. Over generations we’ve imbued them with layers of meaning
that help us understand and represent ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My essay suggested that the flag burning issue was a classic
case of symbol vs. what the symbol stands for. The symbol stands for liberty
and freedom. It stands for a country that is great because it allows us to both
revere and burn our flag. I argued, in my young way, that true patriotism
wasn’t simply waving a flag, but standing up for the principals the flag
represents. I thought that if someone was angry enough or dissatisfied enough
to burn a symbol of our country and freedom, they must have something
meaningful to say and that we should listen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I submitted my essay somewhat cautiously, knowing that my
thoughts might not be popular with everyone. I figured what the judges probably
wanted to hear was how terrible it is to burn the flag and that it should
definitely be considered a crime. I didn’t think there was even a remote
possibility that I would win, but I did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I attended an awards ceremony where I received a certificate
and a little sparkly American flag lapel pin. I kept the pin in my jewelry box
over the years. I never wore it, but it made me smile. Every time I saw it, I remembered
how hard I worked on the essay and that the best award was what I learned
through my own thought process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, many years later, I finally had an occasion
to wear my flag pin. It was with deep sadness, fear, and yes, patriotism, that
I removed it from its place in my jewelry box and affixed it to my jacket after
September 11, 2001. I wore it for weeks, maybe even months, before tucking it
safely back into my jewelry box. I love the pin. Not because it’s particularly
pretty or valuable, but because it’s an important symbol to me on both
patriotic and personal levels. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Patriotism isn’t about shouting “God bless America” the
loudest or waving a flag the hardest – those things are easy to do. True patriotism
is hard; it not only invites us, but <i>requires</i>
us to think critically, and to truly honor our symbols by seeing beyond them to
the values and principles they represent and to behave accordingly, even if
that means the symbols themselves get a little banged up in the process.
They’ll always be there, waiting to do their symbolic work, just like the
little flag pin in my jewelry box. But if we forget or ignore our
responsibility to the underlying values and principles, there won’t be any reason
left for their existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-60540094580398388502016-02-29T18:02:00.000-08:002016-02-29T18:43:10.983-08:00Kerfuffle over open letter to Yelp CEO misses the larger point<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is anyone else annoyed by the kerfuffle over the fired Yelp
employee’s open letter to CEO Jeremy Stoppelman? In case you missed it, 25 year
old Talia Jane, a former Yelp employee posted, a clearly frustrated letter
detailing her experiences living on minimum wage in Silicon Valley. Within
hours of posting the letter, she was fired from the company. She says she was
told her letter violated Yelp’s code of conduct, but Stoppelman has since
stated, via Tweet, that her firing had nothing to do with the letter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Talia Jane’s critique of her employer was harsh…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So here I am, 25-years old,
balancing all sorts of debt and trying to pave a life for myself that doesn’t
involve crying in the bathtub every week. One of (my coworkers) started a
GoFundMe because she couldn’t pay her rent… (Another guy) brought a big bag
with him and stocked up on all those snacks you make sure are on every floor…
If you starve a pack of wolves and toss them a single steak, will they rip each
other to shreds fighting over it? Definitely.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her letter was also a bit whiny and the tone, unfortunately,
came across as more “Entitled Millennial” than “Let’s Have a Discussion about
This Very Real Issue.” Talia Jane has been raked over the internet coals by
many, but the response that seems to have gotten the most attention is one from
Stefanie Williams, a 29-year-old (SO grown up!) college graduate who responded
with her own open letter harshly criticizing Talia Jane for her whiny entitlement
and lack of work ethic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The main thrust of Williams’ letter is comparing Talia Jane’s
situation to her own, far superior of course, handling of a similar situation
WAY back when she was over-educated and under-employed in her early twenties and
struggling to find a job in her field. Unlike
Talia Jane, who wrote and posted a letter complaining about her situation,
Williams swallowed her pride and got a job as a hostess in a restaurant. She then
worked her way up to server and bartender, making enough money and sacrifices
to finally establish a writing career more in line with her educational level
and initial aspirations. Good for Stefanie Williams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Williams lectures Talia Jane that “Work ethic is not
something that develops from entitlement.” She’s not wrong about that, but is
Talia Jane really Little Miss Entitlement or is she just frustrated and venting
about a real issue. Without knowing Talia Jane, it’s impossible to know for
sure, and Williams makes quite a few sweeping assumptions in her criticism… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 2.4pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“… you are a
young, white, English speaking woman with a degree and a family who I would
assume is helping you out at the moment, and you are asking for handouts from
strangers while you sit on your ass looking for cushy jobs you are not entitled
to while you complain about the establishment, probably from a nice laptop. To
you, that is more acceptable than taking a job in a restaurant, or a coffee
shop, or a fast food place. And that’s the trouble with not just your outlook,
but the outlook of so many people your age.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whoa there, Stefanie Williams, that’s a lot to assume just
because someone posted a photo of them self drinking expensive bourbon. And
since when does a 29 year old get to refer to a 25 year old with the line “so
many people your age?” (Newsflash: 25 and 29 are pretty much the same age.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Williams makes some good points. I too cringed at the end of
Talia Jane’s letter when she asked readers for donations to help her during her
job search. Um, no. But, then again, I don’t understand the Go Fund Me culture
that seems to be running rampant. Williams is right, entitlement won’t get you
to success. There are no guarantees for success, but a killer work ethic will
give you a better shot. If Williams really wanted to make that point by engaging
with Talia Jane, it would have been much more constructive to acknowledge that
there are good reasons to feel frustrated. According to an article that
appeared on Vox:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“College-educated students are
increasingly coming out of school with higher levels of debt — affecting
middle-class minorities the hardest — and entry-level incomes in certain fields
have barely moved in decades. According to a 2014 Pew Research study, real
hourly wages in the US have been flat or declining since they peaked in 1973.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the cities where labor markets
are booming — San Francisco, but also New York, Washington, DC, Boston, and
Seattle, among others — also have skyrocketing costs of living, in part because
of their restrictions on building new housing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In light of statistics like those, I say go ahead and knock
yourself out with a raging pity party, Talia Jane. Then, when it’s over, clean
up the mess and realistically consider your options. And who’s to say Talia
Jane isn’t planning on doing just that? Certainly not Stefanie Williams, who
admits to crying in the restaurant’s private party room when she was humiliated
to have to wait on former classmates. Was that not whiny? Is it OK to show
emotion by crying in the party room but not by posting a rant about the bigger
issue?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I saw that Stefanie Williams had the nerve to respond to an
email from writer Sara Morrison who asked about Williams’ use of a crowdfunding
campaign herself by saying “I love nothing more than taking time out for people
like yourself who think they are so smart and snarky.” Well, well, if that
isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. Self-righteousness is just as bad as
entitlement in my book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Williams has a lot to be proud of. She obviously faced
challenges and made it through them. That’s great and it’s the kind of story
that could be very helpful to someone currently in Talia Jane’s shoes. Tell her
what you had to do, Stefanie Williams. Tell her how hard it was swallowing your
pride. Tell her it was difficult to realign your expectations for your career
and living arrangements. Explain to her how you sacrificed, but made it pay off
in the end. Make it constructive criticism instead of a snippy lecture that’s
really more about painting a picture of how superior you are than it is about
the plight of Talia Jane and those like her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is where Stefanie Williams, and the majority of the
discussion around Talia Jane’s letter, completely misses the larger picture. The
real problem here is not the difference between whiny entitled millennials and
pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps millennials. The real problem is a
significant shortage of opportunities for the middle class (and particularly
younger people just starting out), with more and more power and resources
concentrated at the very top of the upper class – the 1% as we’ve come to refer
to them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Older generations spent decades gathering up a great deal of
the power and influence in our society – they still predominantly hold the reins
in public and corporate America – and they aren’t looking to let it go any time
soon. The fact that Stefanie Williams has, at 29, become a shill for that
generation’s vitriol for millennials is ironic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The baby boom generation is fond of reminding us how they banded
together; they had something to say as a collective. Why Stefanie Williams and
Talia Jane aren’t following suit by uniting to discuss the much bigger societal
problem for their generation is the question here – the real missed point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And Talia Jane and Stefanie Williams don’t just have a
generational problem to deal with; they also face the double-whammy of being
women. I struggled mightily right out of college, just like Stefanie Williams
and Talia Jane. I couldn’t make my rent and took a lowly retail job to make
ends meet. I was also lucky enough to have parents who were able to help me, even
though I found it humiliating to require that help. By 25, I had my foot in the
door of a career I was excited about. By 29, I had worked my way up to mid-management
level in my organization and was solidly established in my field. I felt like I
was well on my way to a significant, senior-level position in my field. Now
I’ve passed 40 and, like many women my age, I am acutely feeling the limitations
of a society that still doesn’t take well to women in positions of authority
and power. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stefanie Williams and Talia Jane seem to be opinionated and
articulate young women. They have a tough row to hoe with the operative words
being both “young” and “women.” They would do a great service to themselves and
others to work together toward affecting constructive change.</span></div>
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Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-83475340627500790552016-01-30T18:16:00.001-08:002016-01-30T18:16:12.485-08:00Trouble in Paradise<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
It’s January in Seattle and I’m dreaming of a tropical getaway. Maybe
it’s the freezing temperatures. Maybe it’s the dark days after the Christmas
lights come down and before the days start to get noticeably longer. Maybe it’s
that I’m buried under a mountain of work that I can’t seem to budge. Whatever
the reason, I’m fondly recalling last summer’s trip to Maui. I’m seeing beaches
and palm trees. I’m riding waves and dipping in turquoise pools. I’m tasting
fresh pineapple juice, feeling tropical breezes and smelling plumeria in my
mind. Ah, Hawaii. As my succinct nine-year-old son Chester put it, Best.
Vacation. Ever. The fact that it almost didn’t happen because of a balloon made
it that much more sweet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<b>~ Part I: Beware Balloons ~</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Yes, it’s true – a balloon nearly ruined my Hawaiian vacation. Balloons
don’t really have a sinister reputation. You’re more likely to see them
bringing a festive atmosphere to a birthday party than lurking threateningly in
a dark alley. But I’m here to tell you, they’re dangerous – insidiously,
treacherously dangerous. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Allow me to set the scene… It was the last day of school, a beautiful,
sunny, early June day, only five days from departing on a long-anticipated trip
to Maui. It had been a busy spring and we were in the home stretch toward some
much-needed tropical relaxation. I dropped Chester off at school and took a
photo of him smiling broadly in the sunshine, proudly displaying his
interpretation of “Wacky Hair Day.” He was all set to attend a pool party
afterschool and then baseball practice later in the evening. Matt was in China so
I had a crazy “It takes a Village” plan pieced together, as I often do. A baseball
teammate’s dad would pick three of them up from school and they would be
allowed to crash an older sibling’s middle school pool party (so cool!) until I
picked them up for transport to the Pee Wee fields after I got off work. What
could go wrong?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OGGY4YUr9W8/Vq1qv_y7r_I/AAAAAAAAAS4/a9mFkYAynn0/s1600/ChesterWackyHair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OGGY4YUr9W8/Vq1qv_y7r_I/AAAAAAAAAS4/a9mFkYAynn0/s320/ChesterWackyHair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Chester on the last day of 3rd grade - Wacky Hair Day</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
A balloon, that’s what. The assistant teacher in Chester’s 3<sup>rd</sup>
grade class gave each of the kids a balloon as a fun little end-of-the-year
treat. Why not, right? They’re balloons! They’re fun! They’re colorful! Yay,
balloons! Chester and his buddies piled into the back of his friend Nate’s car
and started playing with their balloons. Chester’s was apparently defective and
exploded with quite a bit of force even though it wasn’t inflated very full. It
was so fast and so bizarre that no one knows exactly what happened, other than the
balloon exploded, the boys screamed, and Chester started crying uncontrollably.
By the time Nate’s dad got them calmed down enough to take a look, the pupil of
Chester’s eye was bright red.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Nate’s dad is a smart guy and immediately assessed the situation as
being out of his “It takes a village” pay grade, which is exactly zero pay, and
rushed Chester back into the school office where the sight of his eye was
alarming enough to get the Head of School involved. I was in a meeting and
missed her calls for about 30 minutes. (Of course.) By the time I got back to
her, Chester had stopped crying, the pupil had turned from bright red to dark red,
and Nate’s dad had decided to proceed with the original plan with an impromptu
stop for milkshakes because everyone knows, when in doubt… milkshakes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I raced to the pool party to find Chester swimming and Nate’s poor dad,
chasing him around trying to keep an eye on him; periodically holding up
fingers and asking “How many?” We all agreed much later that high doses of
chlorine were probably not the smartest post-eye injury idea, but it’s nearly
impossible to keep little boys out of a pool, especially one their friends are
in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I loaded the three baseball boys up and made a quick stop at the fields
to drop off the two uninjured players before proceeding to Seattle Children’s
Hospital through rush hour traffic. I debated taking Chester to a closer urgent
care facility, but our pediatrician’s words echoed in my mind… “If he EVER
needs after-hours, emergency care, go to Children’s!” And this was not my first
emergency care rodeo with Mr. Chester. We’ve always gone to Children’s and
we’ve always had great experiences. I mean, as great as you can have when your
child is projectile vomiting every ten minutes or screaming in pain. So, I
fought through traffic for an hour and a half, all the while peeking in the
rearview mirror, trying to assess what was going on with Chester’s rapidly
changing eye. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Fast forward several hours to Children’s Hospital where Chester is
sobbing and not seeing out of his right eye. (There are so many things that are
terrifying to a parent. If anyone out there is keeping a master list, please
add hearing the following: “It’s all just white, Mom. I don’t see anything but
white.”) Finally, after various dye-drop and light-assisted examinations and
vision tests, a young doctor diagnosed Chester with a corneal abrasion and
prescribed an antibiotic ointment to be squished into his eye several times
each day. This didn’t seem right to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
We got our prescription and headed home. It still didn’t seem right. I
started the arduous ointment routine and it didn’t feel any more right. I told
myself I was being crazy and paranoid, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling
that something was wrong. I woke up in the morning and crept into Chester’s
room. I sat on the edge of his bed and waited for his eyes to flutter open.
This has always been a favorite moment for me, from the very first time tiny
Chester was placed in my arms and his big blue eyes popped open and looked
right into mine. I waited for that moment and there it was… one beautiful,
familiar, blue eye. But the other was a ghastly, horror-show pool of blood. It
looked like a half-empty glass of blood. (Or half-full depending on how you
look at things, but I can assure you, in this case, it was definitely
half-empty.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JmrniPbBpRM/Vq1rGVNhpII/AAAAAAAAATA/k6Bpq4r_cGc/s1600/Hyphema.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JmrniPbBpRM/Vq1rGVNhpII/AAAAAAAAATA/k6Bpq4r_cGc/s320/Hyphema.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This is not Chester's eye, but this is exactly how his eye looked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The plan for the day was changed, a sick-day was called in, and an
appointment with the doctor was made. Our pediatrician is an exceedingly funny,
jokey guy. He talks fast and his incredibly smart and expert medical dialogue
is peppered with equal parts liberal-leaning political jokes and goofy,
good-natured flirting. We adore him – partly because of his endearing banter,
but mostly because he’s very, very good at what he does. And when the situation
is serious, he gets serious fast. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Chester’s doctor came into the exam room, took one look at the eye and
got serious. No jokes, no corny pick-up lines, all business. Within minutes, he
was on his cell phone to a top pediatric ophthalmologist, personally arranging
an emergency appointment that same day. Several hours and lots of tests later,
Chester was diagnosed with a hyphema, which is a pooling of blood inside the
anterior chamber of the eye (between the cornea and iris) that covers part or
all of the iris and pupil, and blocks vision. It’s a serious injury and the absolute WORST
thing we could do was touch his eye with anything. (Good thing I’d been jamming
ointment into it for almost 24 hours!) <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I mentioned to the doctor, toward the end of the appointment, that
we were scheduled to get on a plane to Hawaii in four days, he looked at me for
a few painfully quiet seconds and then began a barely perceptible shake of his
head. “We’ll see how it goes,” he said, “but I’d feel a lot better if it was at
least a week out.” Chester and I made our way out to the lobby, quietly
scheduled our appointments for daily check-ups, and got to the elevator before
Chester burst into tears “I’m so sorry, mommy! I ruined Hawaii!” he sobbed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
We tried to focus on the positive. The prognosis for a full recovery
was good, as long as the injury didn’t re-bleed. If a hyphema re-bleeds, vision
loss is likely. So, a plastic shield was taped over Chester’s eye and we were
sent home with an array of eye drops and strict orders for ZERO physical
activity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EB9W36rJUwg/Vq1rake6e-I/AAAAAAAAATI/4JeqUO1-pxs/s1600/ChesterEyeShield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EB9W36rJUwg/Vq1rake6e-I/AAAAAAAAATI/4JeqUO1-pxs/s320/ChesterEyeShield.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This sucks.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, anyone who knows 9 year old boys knows how difficult this is, and
anyone who knows MY 9 year old boy, knows that it is regular-difficult times
ten. Fortunately he was able to watch TV
- albeit out of only one normally functioning eye. I think the only thing that kept
him down and submitting to all the eye drops was the fear of not being able to
go to Hawaii if he didn’t heal quickly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Fortunately, the hyphema shrank each day and Chester’s vision improved.
And, because of Matt’s super-fancy-diamond-platinum traveler status, we were
able to push flights and hotels out a few days to give Chester some extra
healing time. A week after the dreaded balloon incident, the doctors gave us
clearance to proceed with our vacation. It was noon and our flight was at 6:00,
so we frantically finished packing and called a cab to take us to the airport.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Alas, the cab did not show up. First it was just a little late, then it
was significantly late, and then it was really, really, ridiculously late. At
that point, we made a last minute decision to jump into our car and race to the
airport. It felt like the scene from “Home Alone” where the entire McCallister
family is running through O’Hare Airport to catch their holiday flight to Paris.
Except this was June, there were only three of us, and we were heading from
Seattle to Maui. Just imagine “Tiny Bubbles” playing in the background instead of
“Run, Run Rudolph” and add some extra pathetic points for the plastic eye
shield still taped over Chester’s eye. Just like the McCallisters, we made it
onto our flight. (Unlike the McAllisters, we remembered our young son.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<b>~ Part II: Blue Skies Ahead ~</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The next morning, we woke up in Hawaii to a beautiful, ocean-front
view. Things were definitely looking up. We just had to get through one more doctor-ordered
day of keeping Chester low key before he could go crazy swimming and snorkeling
and doing whatever his heart desired. So, we explored the property, walked on
the beach, and rented snorkel gear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We woke up on day two to find what you almost always find in Hawaii –
sunny skies, warm breezes, and beautiful, blue-green waves. Chester could not
get down to the beach to start snorkeling fast enough, which made the sunscreen
application process akin to some kind of rodeo event involving wiggly baby
livestock, half-hitched hooeys, and one very worn-out cowgirl (that’s me). With
coffee consumed, sunscreen hurriedly applied, and gear gathered, we made our
way down to the beach. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Chester approached snorkeling the way he approaches pretty much
everything – wholeheartedly and with zero trepidation. We swam around for about
45 minutes, exploring the rocks, looking at neon colored fish, and feeling like
we were in the world’s most beautiful aquarium. We got out for a break, and were
just starting to feel like we really were on vacation. Matt and I were sitting on
the sand. Chester was splashing in the surf. The sun was shining. The palm
trees were swaying. It was the first exhale… That moment when we felt ourselves
begin to release all the stress and tension of Chester’s injury and the
uncertainty of whether our vacation would happen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And then, two people came stumbling out of the water, dragging another
person in between them, and screaming for help. The beach was busy and nearly
everyone leapt to their feet. A few people managed to pull the woman onto the
beach right in front of us. She was lifeless and blue. It was horrifying and
not something I wanted Chester to see ever, much less on his first real day in
Hawaii. I kept him at a distance while several people performed CPR. I have
been through CPR training multiple times and I’ve certainly seen fake CPR on
TV, but I think this was the first time I’d actually seen it performed in
person and it was far more violent and upsetting than I realized it would be.
Over and over, the chest compressions and breaths caused the woman’s limp body to
lurch on the sand. It seemed like it took an hour for the paramedics to arrive.
She was still a sickening shade of blue and not moving when they loaded her
into the ambulance. I don’t know if she ended up surviving. After that, we
couldn’t bring ourselves to get back into the water that day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
As anyone who has children knows, seeing your kids sick or injured leaves
you feeling utterly helpless and out of control. As we sat there on the beach,
watching Chester play, I realized how overpowering that feeling had been over
the past week and how good it felt to begin to let it go. Unfortunately, seeing
someone drown brought it rushing back very quickly. I felt as though danger was
lurking on every sunny beach and waiting to pounce from behind every palm tree.
It took me another day or two to let the worrying go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<b>~Part III: Just when you think it’s safe to go back in the water… ~ </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After the rough start, the rest of our vacation truly was paradise.
Mostly. There was the episode where Matt, in search of a black sand beach, led
us into a mosquito-infested swamp where I nearly lost my favorite flip-flops in
knee deep mud and twisted my ankle in a valiant effort to save them. But that was
only a minor set-back. The rest was fantastic… Except the unfortunate stand-up
paddle boarding incident where I nearly knocked my teeth out, suffered a giant
fat lip and cut my nose open. That also kind of sucked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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With Matt on a conference call, (Whatever happened to not working on
vacation?) I took Chester out paddle boarding with me and, as we waded into
the surf, I made the grave error of taking my eyes off the waves to keep my
eyes on my child. For the record, I grew up on the coast and I totally know
better, but apparently the maternal instinct is no match for life lessons
learned, and trumps every other bit of knowledge ever gained. So, I turned my
back on a wave and it did what waves do, which is pick my puny body up and slam
it into the sand. And to add insult (and more injury) to injury, it also picked
up the paddle board and slammed that down onto my face. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I felt like I was going to black out, but somehow forced myself to
remain conscious. I scrambled to my feet and turned to find Chester looking
terrified. “HURRY UP! GET ON!” I yelled at him. He scrambled over to me,
climbed onto the board, and I managed to paddle us out to calm water. As I sat,
straddling the board, very gingerly touching my face to assess the damage, Chester
cautiously looked over his shoulder and said, “Uh, mom, we don’t have to go
ahead with the paddle boarding.” “Oh yes, we do,” I barked, “We ARE paddle
boarding!” He was quiet for a few moments and then turned around a little further
and said, “But mommy, you’re bleeding. Bad.” I asked him where it was coming
from and it took us both a while to figure out that most of it was coming from
the cut on the bridge of my nose and not as much from the inside of my nose and
my mouth. “It’s just a little blood, no big deal,” I assured him as I
repeatedly washed the blood off into the water. (I know, I know, cue the
sharks. Luckily, the waters seemed to be shark-free that day.) We bounced back
and enjoyed an hour of paddle boarding with Chester periodically glancing back
at my face and saying reassuring things like, “Oooooh, mommy, you don’t look
good,” and “Um, yeah, your mouth. It’s all messed up, mom.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nSPg_fUEBhk/Vq1rzCRU1nI/AAAAAAAAATQ/sw6UAV5Wh3o/s1600/RondaFizzAce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nSPg_fUEBhk/Vq1rzCRU1nI/AAAAAAAAATQ/sw6UAV5Wh3o/s320/RondaFizzAce.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Who needs Botox when you can just slam a paddle board into your face?!</span></div>
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But seriously besides THAT, we did have a wonderful vacation and it
really was paradise. We swam, we snorkeled with giant turtles, we hiked, we
surfed, we boogie boarded, we paddle boarded, we ate lots of delicious meals
and drank many Mai Tais. I really wish I was there right now, doing it all
again; minus the dangerous balloons and drowning people and scary swamps and
paddle board accidents, of course. But even with all that stuff, it was pretty
great. Chester’s eye is completely healed, as is my face. The mosquito bites
are gone and my favorite flip flops are still with me. I’ll take a little
trouble mixed in with my paradise. I certainly wouldn’t want things to get
boring.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Rfunf78gzI/Vq1sKGmQfZI/AAAAAAAAATY/r_ja40x492w/s1600/ChesterBeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Rfunf78gzI/Vq1sKGmQfZI/AAAAAAAAATY/r_ja40x492w/s320/ChesterBeach.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-29340825515625994822015-11-04T21:19:00.001-08:002015-11-04T21:19:38.294-08:00Stop the "YOU GO GIRL!"<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There are many things to both love and hate about social media. I love
that I can stay in touch with old friends, keep up with colleagues who are
scattered far and wide, read and share informative articles about topics I’m
interested in, and even see my childhood friends’ kids growing up. That stuff
is pretty cool. On the downside, because of social media, I know way more than
I ever cared to know about some of my friends’ political leanings. I’m
subjected to photos of food, and I’m bombarded by acronyms. So many acronyms.
The LOLs, and the IMHOs. The ICYMIs and the FOMOs. Honestly, I can’t keep up.
And don’t even get me started on paragraph long lists of hashtags.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My most recent social media pet peeve is an over-the-top “You go girl!”
thing I’m seeing more and more often. Woman #1, we’ll call her Sue, posts an utterly
mundane status on Facebook. Like she built a spreadsheet at work, or planted a
rose bush in her backyard, or made a cute Halloween decoration. OK, great. Good
for her. It’s not so much the initial status that bugs me. Social media is full
of stuff I don’t necessarily get excited about, like the previously mentioned
photos of food. I have searched the depths of my social media soul, and cannot,
for the life of me, figure out why people insist on sharing photos of food. It
always looks gross and I generally feel like most people don’t care what other
people are eating. But hey, that’s me. There are obviously a lot of foodies out
there who love sharing the food photos. So be it. Likewise, if Sue wants to
show-off her latest work accomplishment or her pretty new rosebush or that
totally adorable, friendly-ghost door decoration, that’s fine. It’s not as if every
single thing everyone posts has to be exciting. We all go through our days
eating and working. We hit the gym, we get pissed off in the long line at
Starbucks, and we enjoy our hobbies, whatever they may be. Of course we’re
going to talk about our day-to-day stuff. The responses are where the craziness
comes in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sue’s initial status is followed by comments from at least a half dozen
of Sue’s girl-friends and occasionally some guy (who I can only guess is trying
desperately to get laid), and it goes something like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Sally: You rock, Sue!!!! (thumbs up emoji)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Michelle: OMG, you are amazing. You inspire me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Crystal: Go get ‘em! Go, Sue, Go!!!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Amanda: I am SO ridiculously proud of you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Jennifer: You are AWESOME!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Bill: Where’s the triple-like button? This is so cool!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Fiona: XOXOXO!!!!! (twelve heart emojis in rainbow colors)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Gretchen: Love it! Love YOU!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The whole thing is dripping in saccharin and always includes more
exclamation points than anyone should use in a LIFETIME, much less a single
Facebook comment. And then Sue dutifully “likes” and replies to each comment.
There’s always the sappy “I love you!!!” person…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I LOVE YOU, SUE!!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I love you too, lady!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I Love you MORE, sister!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ugh. It’s embarrassing. It’s not like I’m anti-love. I have girl-friends
that I love. I mean, I really love them. Not in a toss-it-around-on-Facebook-and-Instagram
way. I deeply admire their accomplishments (the real ones, not that they made a
nice grilled cheese sandwich for dinner) and who they are as people; they mean
the world to me. Do I tell them that enough? Probably not, but I think they
know it. And when I do say it, it sure as hell isn’t on Facebook, embedded in a
rainbow of heart emojis and followed by a string of exclamation points longer
than my arm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">What IS this? Why are people doing this? (Besides Bill, who I think we
can all agree is just trying to get a date.) But honestly, does Sue REALLY
“rock” because she built a spreadsheet. Does the ghost she made out of a sock truly
inspire you? Are you seriously “ridiculously proud” because she planted a
shrub? I’m all for women supporting women, and I have truly wonderful women in
my life. Here’s the thing though: They’re all smart enough and amazing enough
that they don’t need people blowing random sunshine up their asses over stuff
that doesn’t warrant it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So can we please stop with the disingenuous, out-of-proportion praise?
It waters down the real stuff. It’s the adult equivalent of the participation
trophy.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-12807350431466033322015-02-19T21:43:00.000-08:002015-02-19T21:43:22.509-08:00The Swimsuit Issue<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
It’s February. Valentine’s Day… Whatever. President’s Day… Great,
another week I have to worry about childcare less than a month and a half after
the kids were off for the holidays. Super Bowl… I think the current weather in
New England is evidence of how the Higher Power feels about the outcome of
that. My dad’s birthday… Always an exercise in finding an appropriate card for
a man who doesn’t golf, fish, or grill, but rides a bad-ass Harley and loves
cats. Most of all February is the month I associate with the days finally
starting to get longer… Sometimes I actually leave the office when there is
still light in the sky! Until this year, I had all but forgotten about another
February occurrence… The annual Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sports Illustrated started publishing the Swimsuit Issue in 1964 to
drive magazine sales during the typically slow time between sports seasons. Apparently
it worked because, more than half a century later, the issue is still flying
off newsstands. I saw somewhere on the internet (so it must be true, right?)
that the 2013 issue sold more than 800,000 copies. Whether or not that figure
is accurate, the thing clearly must be making money – both in sales and
advertising – or they wouldn’t still be publishing it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is going to sound obtuse, but I don’t really understand why the
swimsuit issue is so popular. I mean, I guess I do, on a really obvious level –
it’s the old ‘sex sells’ axiom. But these days? Isn’t there this thing called
Google, where, if one wanted to look at pictures of nearly naked (or even
completely naked!) women, one could simply type in “naked women,” press “enter,”
and magically have access to an abundance of the desired images. For free. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Why is this magazine still selling? Maybe partly because Sports
Illustrated always seems to make sure there is some controversy that gets
whipped up and talked about ad nauseum. They put Barbie on the cover
(objectifying!). They’ve shot the photos in exotic locales and used people
native to those places as kitschy props (racist!). (Apparently nothing says
sexy like a bikini-clad model on a giant sand dune with a spear-toting,
loin-cloth-wearing African in the background.) And of course, there’s always
the controversy around how revealing the swimsuits are. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My introduction to this cultural phenomenon was in 1989 – the summer
between my junior and senior years of high school. Instead of being at the
beach wearing a bikini for most of that summer, I was hanging out around the
house, taking care of the tiny Siberian husky puppy I begged my parents for.
She was too little to be left alone for long periods of time, so I parked
myself at home and watched a whole bunch of bad TV. One of the things I saw was
an HBO special called “The Making of the Sports Illustrated 25<sup>th</sup>
Anniversary Swimsuit Issue” featuring Carol Alt, Rachel Hunter, Kathy Ireland,
and Elle Macpherson to name a few of the lovely ladies of the era. It was on a
lot, and I watched it a lot. I was confused and oddly transfixed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t understand what girls in bikinis had to do with sports, other
than that boys liked both. I liked boys, so I felt compelled to watch and to
attempt to understand. Plus, the swimsuits were cute and the locations seemed
dreamy. Frolicking on a warm, tropical beach in a super fashionable bikini, and
getting paid to do it was a nice fantasy compared to my reality of braving the
freezing cold water of the Oregon coast in whatever swimsuit the local store
carried that year, and then having to race to my minimum wage job at the movie
theater. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Despite the repeated viewings and perceived glamour, something about
the SI Swimsuit Issue still bugged me. I remember a very specific scene where
one of the models – I don’t recall which – joked about how her years of ballet
training paid off because she could manage wardrobe changes by balancing on one
leg, in a make-shift changing tent, on the sand. I remember thinking it was sad.
Sad that her years of hard work – mental, physical, creative – didn’t amount to
anything more than standing on a beach and being photographed for a sports
magazine that didn’t have anything to do with sports. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Time moved on and so did I; that was the last summer I spent watching
TV and, while the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue clearly carried on as well,
it was the last time I expended any amount of time caring about or even
noticing it. I never could get the phenomenon to make sense into something that
seemed right to me, but I don’t need to add my voice (at least in this
particular blog post) to the on-going debate about whether the SI Swimsuit Issue
(and countless other publications, movies, and advertisements just like it) are
objectifying, and therefore hurting, women or celebrating their sexuality. It’s
an old debate and one that we don’t appear to be any closer to settling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I can’t really even remember the last time I noticed the release of the
Swimsuit Issue, or any of the fanfare accompanying it. But this year, a new
angle caught my attention. I was at the gym working out on the cardio machines
located under a bank of TVs. CNN was running a story about this year’s Swimsuit
Issue including an ad featuring plus-size (gasp!) model Ashley Graham. This is
hardly news – even 30 seconds of it isn’t news. But it went on and on and on.
They interviewed Ms. Graham, showed numerous images, and covered it for a good
ten minutes. Thankfully, my hands were firmly planted on the heart-rate monitor
sensors, because otherwise I probably would have gouged my eyes out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The tag-line graphic across the bottom of the screen said “Era of the
curvy girl” and Ashley Graham actually said, “This is the curvy girl era. This
is what we need to be talking about right now.” Really, Ashley Graham? Is it
really what we NEED to be talking about right now? Are there not bigger
problems facing our world than plus-size models being included in the Sports
Illustrated Swimsuit Issue? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for body-positivity. Physical beauty is
subjective and comes in all shapes and sizes. For one thing, I Googled Ashley
Graham’s SI ad (See, I didn’t have to buy the issue!) and I think you’d have
trouble finding anyone who would classify her as fat. But what bothers me about
these women – larger than typical models – who feel they are outspoken
advocates for women and positive body images, is that they are participating in
the same body-objectifying activity they claim to be against. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Isn’t touting the “era of the curvy woman” setting waifish women up to
feel bad about themselves? Why is it always a zero-sum game on this issue? Let’s
just stop talking incessantly about women’s bodies. We don’t talk about men
this way. I don’t see CNN running a news story on “the era of the short, round
man.” It isn’t suddenly “the year of the receding hairline.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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And it isn’t just a focus on women’s bodies as a whole – curvy or
skinny, small or large – our bodies tend to get picked apart into mere pieces.
This year’s SI Swimsuit Issue cover girl Hannah Davis told Matt Lauer “it’s the
year of the torso.” First of all Hannah, that isn’t your torso. (Bitch,
please.) And second, don’t tell Kim Kardashian because I’m pretty sure she’s
still working the age of the butt. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know the Ashley Grahams of the industry are well-intentioned, but
continuing to talk about women’s bodies in the same misguided way isn’t doing
anyone any good. We need to STOP TALKING about it like this. Can’t women just
be women without it being about fat or skinny, or butts or breasts, or a certain
era of one or the other? If we really have to “an era” of a single body part,
I’d like to nominate the brain. I think it’s time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-26390685900554223472014-11-02T19:47:00.001-08:002014-11-02T19:47:52.593-08:00A Dark and Stormy Night<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was a dark and stormy night… (No really, it actually
was.) Chester and I had been cooped up in the house most of the afternoon, so
we decided to go out for dinner. By the time we finished dinner and stopped for
some frozen yogurt on the way home, it was, as weather reports predicted,
getting very windy. We dodged a number of tree branches that had already fallen
in the streets. As we rounded the corner toward our house we were rocking out
(appropriately) to “Rock You Like a Hurricane” by the Scorpions. I was telling
Chester that my dance team did our competition routine to the song when I was a
freshman in high school. He was hanging on every word as I told him how cool we
were for performing to the Scorpions while all the other teams selected upbeat,
squeaky-clean, pop songs and oldies. (Actually I don’t think he was listening
to me at all and, if he was, he probably didn’t believe the part about how cool
we were. He did like the song though, so that was encouraging.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We started to make the turn into our driveway and
immediately something did not compute. “Here I am, rock you like a hurr . . .
what the heck . . . ?!” There was a giant piece of plant life where there had
not been one before. Was it an enormous, spontaneous hedge? A spur-of-the-moment
shrubbery? No, neither of those options made sense. Pretty quickly my brain
turned off the Scorps and got down to the serious business of figuring out what
was going on in my yard. It was our tree – or at least a huge piece of it – fallen
across our front yard and into neighbor Carol’s driveway. I told Chester to
stay put, jumped out of the car, and rushed toward Carol’s house to make sure
her car was not squished under the tree. En route, I clothes-lined myself on
some sort of cable – one end was still attached to the corner of our roof; the
other end was pinned under the tree. (The good news is that Carol’s car was not.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I froze. My parents instilled in me a very healthy respect
for electricity. By the time I was a toddler, I was pretty sure electrical
sockets were portals to all the evils of hell. Despite my fear of electricity,
I seem to always find myself tangling with it. Like the time our basement
flooded and I realized, as I was standing knee deep in sloshing water, watching
the freezer begin to float by, that it was still plugged in. My immediate reaction
was to jump aboard the floating freezer to get out of the water and reach for
the power cord to yank it out of the wall. I have no idea if this was the best
course of action, but it turned out alright. (The basement flooding was not
alright, but I did not end up getting electrocuted, so I’m counting it as an
ultimate win.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This time I backed slowly away from the cord and noticed,
out of the corner of my eye, that another loose end was dangling in the street,
whipping in the wind. By this time Chester had gotten out of the car and
retreated to porch, where a large gust of wind lifted our scary, life-sized
Halloween skeleton out of the chair he was lounging on and sent him flying
through the air, boney arms outstretched toward Chester. “MOM!” Chester screamed.
A creepy black-feathered wreath flew off the door and a piece of fake bloodied
fabric sailed away to who knows where. Grave stones and gargoyles were
clattering down all over the place. A stick hit me in the face. Or maybe it was
a bone from our front yard graveyard. It was like Night of the Living Dead, Twister,
and Deadliest Catch all at the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From the relative safety of the house (I say relative
because we all know zombies and tornados will not be stopped by a 1925
craftsman), I decided my first order of business was… Wait. First of all, does
anyone care to venture a guess, at this point in the story whether Matt was
home for this apocalyptic evening or in some distant land? (Spoiler alert…. Not
home.) So… my first order of business was to call him in China or Dubai or
wherever the hell he was. I honestly don’t know. The relevant fact was that he
was not here and, I’m starting to suspect, doing this on purpose. It is common
knowledge that the list of domestic disasters for which Matt has conveniently
been halfway around the world is too long to detail here. In case you’re just
tuning in – broken hot water heater/flooded basement, broken furnace/coldest
week of the year, kaput sewer line/flooded bathroom, innumerable flat tires,
violent Chester puke-fests, mysterious Chester rashes, Chester head injuries
followed by all night visits to ER. You get the idea. In fact, it’s gotten so
bad that the day after Big Blow-pocalypse, our neighbor Randy decided we need a
block watch warning for whenever Matt is traveling. Some sort of alarm that
sounds and sends each resident a text message that includes a little “danger”
emoticon and says, “Batten down the hatches everyone! Matt is out of the
country!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So anyway, I called Matt. (I like the way he can tell now,
just by the way I say his name when he answers the phone, that something is
wrong.) Between my describing the scene to him, neighbor Carol’s son coming
home and giving the cable a few ill-advised yanks to hold it up to his face in
the dark, and Chester realizing that his iPad didn’t have a connection, we determined
that it was not a live power line, but the cable line. So that was good. (Unless
you’re Chester. He feels that being deprived of an internet connection is akin
to a heinous form of torture.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so, since there was nothing more to do until morning, I
began the saga of calling Comcast to report the snapped cable line and ensuing
outage. The nice customer service man kept me on hold for 45 minutes “running
diagnostics.” Now I’m no cable genius, but I’m pretty sure I had accurately
diagnosed the problem. I kept trying to explain … “No, wait… I don’t need
diagnostics… I know what’s wrong! No… wait… there’s a giant tree down in my front
yard. Yes, a tree... It’s on top of the cable. The other end is dangling in the
street.” Just about the time I was sure I was getting through to him, he’d ask questions
about my equipment, whether or not things were turned on, and then kindly say,
“Ma’am I’m just finishing up some additional diagnostics, please hold.” Finally
they were able to “diagnose” that I needed a service guy to come to the house. Brilliant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the wind, and tree drama, and flying skeletons (not to
mention, worst of all, a night with no Netflix), Chester was scared to death and
insisted on sleeping with me. Between his version of sleeping, which feels more
like a mixed martial arts brawl than it does sleeping, worrying about what else
was going to come down in the continued howling wind, and trying to figure out
what to do about the tree in the morning, I didn’t sleep much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sunday morning dawned, still somewhat drizzly, but no more
wind. After filling up on coffee, feeding Chester breakfast, and setting him up
with an old school DVD (Oh the horror!), I bundled up and headed outside, convinced
that my Southern Oregon roots would serve me well. After all, I spent my entire
childhood playing in forests while my dad cut firewood, and traipsing around
our wooded property while he cleared and burned brush. “I can do this!” I told
myself. Granted, I’m somewhat scarred given that these childhood scenarios
nearly always ended with vast quantities of blood and trips to the ER. My dad
was either chain-sawing his knee-cap, or nearly setting himself on fire, or
impaling his leg on a pitchfork. No matter; I wasn’t going to be using a
chainsaw or a pitchfork – I was safe! (In fact, I don’t own a chainsaw, but I
will admit that when I went to the hardware store to obtain more yard waste
bags, I ventured down the chainsaw aisle and gazed longingly like it was a wall
of Louboutins.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I rummaged around in the garage, came up with a handsaw and
some heavy duty clippers, and set to work lumberjacking the hell out of that
tree! I sawed; I clipped; I ripped; I pulled; I stuffed bags and bags and bags
of yard waste. I felt like Paul Bunyan, minus Babe the Blue Ox. About seven
hours after I started, with nothing more than my handsaw and clippers, the tree
was gone, except for a seven or eight foot section of trunk. My neighbor and
his friend came over with a little electric chainsaw (it didn’t look nearly as
dangerous as my dad’s giant ones, but I still stayed clear) and reduced what
was left to a pile of firewood-sized logs. I filled our big yard waste
container, our neighbor’s yard waste container, two additional standard garbage
barrels, and something like 17 or 18 yard waste bags.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the end of the day, I could barely move. Everything hurt
– my back, my legs, my arms, and especially my hands and wrists. I have a split
in my thumb and my hands are still too sore to grip anything very tightly, but
I didn’t clip any fingers off or saw into any portion of my body. And given
that likelihood is definitely in my genes, I’m counting this as another win.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The yard waste guys came Monday morning and hauled
everything but the chopped up logs away. They said they can take those next
week if I tie them together in small bundles. I’m hoping if I put a “Free
firewood” sign on the pile, someone will take them off my hands before then. In
the meantime, I’m listening to the cable guy working away on the porch, nursing
my aching body, and dreaming of chainsaws and designer heels, in that order amazingly.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-88511022080956179592014-10-29T09:45:00.000-07:002014-10-29T09:45:10.073-07:00The Boogie Man<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m tired. Not
just a little tired, but really tired. I know this is not unique. Pretty much
everyone I know is some degree of tired these days; it seems like most of us
are burning the candle at both ends – juggling too many things and just trying
to retain sanity and stay awake until bed time. Normally the fatigue level of a
typically busy life is manageable, but sometimes it crosses over into something
else. After a month of conferences, and late work nights, and school starting,
and soccer practices, and single parenting, and just WAY too little sleep, I’m
there. I’m bone-weary, muddle-brained, zombie-eyed tired. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is
always one dead-give-away sign that I’ve crossed over into this overly-tired
territory – well, one sign besides the weary bones, non-functioning brain, and
zombie eyes. When I’m really, ridiculously tired, I become oddly paranoid. I
start attributing weird explanations to things I actually see and hear, as well
as to things I only think I see and hear. In my mind there is some sort of
Boogie Man lurking in every situation – murderous Boogie Men, thieving Boogie
Men, dangerous wild animal Boogie Men!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once, I
became convinced that a pack of wild, rabid coyotes had gotten into our
basement, upending boxes and furniture. As it turned out, the hot water heater
had broken and flooded the basement. The boxes weren’t so much upended as they
were floating. In this case, I would have preferred the wild, blood-thirsty
animals.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there
was the time that, while rocking Chester to sleep, I kept hearing a ringing
phone. It rang and rang and then stopped, and then rang and rang and then stopped.
No one ever answered. After putting Chester to bed, I spent a good half-hour
tip-toeing around the house, stopping in various spots, listening intently. I
was absolutely certain the ringing was coming from our basement. Clearly a
serial killer that would come to be known far and wide as The Cell Phone Psycho
was in my house, waiting to strike. This was the only logical explanation. Surprisingly,
that was not the case. It was my musician neighbor, having returned home from a
holiday gig dressed as an elf, attempting to find her lost cell phone. I got
roped into helping her look for it and found it, in the snow, under the front
driver’s side tire of her car. Now honestly, isn’t the Cell Phone Psyhco
explanation more plausible than an elf’s lost phone?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This
morning, as I was washing my breakfast dishes, I saw, in my peripheral vision,
a large, dark figure move across the window in the back door. I froze and
slowly turned my head to look more closely. Whatever it was had moved out of
sight. It could have been a bird or maybe a cat walking on the deck railing,
but those are the likely explanations, and when I’m tired, my mind does not
default to likely explanations. What is far more plausible to my exhausted
brain is that a crazed, violent criminal is in my backyard. I mean, it’s a
lovely, sunny Friday morning. I’ve just returned from yoga, and I’m washing a
glass. It only makes sense that it’s a psycho murderer, right? Right. So I end
up creeping around my house, peeking out windows, around edges of blinds,
trying to be as quiet as I can, because if I’m super-quiet then maybe the crazy
man in my backyard won’t break in and kill me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally I
decided I was being ridiculous and that it really WAS probably a bird or a cat.
I must have had a moment of real, clear, non-ridiculous thinking because I even
got in the shower, and everybody knows you wouldn’t DARE get in the shower with
a crazed killer roaming around, casting shadows in your backyard. So I took my
shower and everything was fine – no Norman Bates, no creepy Bernard Herrmann
score. I was even to the point of chuckling at myself, until I turned off the
water, pulled back the shower curtain, and reached for my towel. There it was… writing
in the steam on the bathroom mirror! I froze mid-reach, my heart pounded, my
mind raced, I squinted at the writing. What did it say?! “Redrum?!” Oh my God,
did it say “Redrum?!” I couldn’t quite make it out. The only explanation was
that the post-breakfast shadow actually was a murderer who snuck across my
deck, waited for me to get in the shower, broke into the house and then quietly
crept into the bathroom to write a creepy message in the steam on the bathroom
mirror. And now, at any moment he would spring out and get me. Never mind that
I have an 8 year old son who consistently insists on putting his sticky little
hands on and in everything. In fact, just last night I caught him swirling his
finger around in a side of ketchup in a manner I reserve only for attempting to
retrieve chunks of delicious pineapple from Mai Tais in Hawaii. It couldn’t
have possibly been him writing on the mirror! No way. That’s simply crazy,
outlandish thinking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My all time
favorite was actually not me, but my very tired husband, being paranoid. I like
to call it the Great Toilet Paper Heist and I’ll probably get into trouble for
writing about it because, to this day, my very tired husband does not find the
story nearly as amusing as I do. The Great Toilet Paper Heist occurred when
Chester was toddler-aged. He still wasn’t sleeping through the night or any
later than about 5:00 a.m. and we were deliriously tired. It was a Saturday or
Sunday afternoon and we had returned from Target with a bunch of typical Target
stuff – paper towels, toilet paper, cleaning products, diapers, etc. and were
in the process of putting it all away. I was bustling around and Matt stopped
me to ask where I’d put the toilet paper he had left at the foot of the stairs.
I told him I hadn’t done anything with the toilet paper and attempted to
continue along my way. He asked me if I was sure. I assured him I was. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You probably
already took it upstairs,” I said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, I
didn’t!” he whispered, his eyes darting back and forth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tried to
speak in a normal voice, but was immediately shushed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Why are we
whispering?” I asked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Because
someone is in the house,” he hissed. “Someone has got to be in the house, I DID
NOT move the toilet paper from the stairs!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So you
think someone broke into the house and stole the toilet paper?” I attempted to
clarify . . . “While we were here?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“YES!!! Or
moved it!”<br />
“Moved it?” I quietly and incredulously inquired.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Turns out, there
was no emboldened toilet paper thief, which is really kind of disappointing
when you think about it, because that’s some good stuff. The kind of stuff you
can’t possibly make up; unless of course you’re really, really, ridiculously tired. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The good
news is, I managed to escape and get to work this morning, but I’m pretty sure
the killer is still hiding in my house, lurking, waiting to write on the mirror
again, to leave a closet door open, to stop the washing machine after I’ve
started it, or to hide something important. That’s what Boogie Men do. </span></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-3557054690871123992014-05-22T22:20:00.000-07:002014-05-22T22:20:00.294-07:00It’s not a fire . . . b#@ch! (Or, “How a very hot shower turned me into Jesse Pinkman”)<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, I had kind of a bad morning. Nothing terrible happened;
definitely first world problems, but still not good. I live in a “charming” old
house. In addition to its old house charm, it has old house issues, which I’m
pretty sure I’ve covered in past blog posts – sliver-prone wood floors, bizarre
and malfunctioning fixtures, ugly kitchen cabinets, peeling plaster, and
plumbing issues that have created permanent psychological trauma, just to name
a few. (I didn’t even write about the recent basement flooding as it was simply
too painful to rehash.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another issue is lack of ventilation in the upstairs
bathroom. Unless you count the nearly century old windows that you can pretty
much feel the wind whistling right through at any given moment. Unfortunately
that doesn’t provide enough ventilation to keep the whole second floor of the
house from steaming up when someone takes a particularly hot shower. That
“someone” is always me. I can’t help it; I love hot showers. Anything short of
nearly scalding is too cold for me. And, while our house is desperately in need
of updates in almost every possible area, the one exception is safety. The
architect in the house is nothing if not life-safety-oriented. We have
top-notch smoke and carbon monoxide detectors in nearly every room, hallway,
nook, and cranny. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for safety. But the combination
of zero bathroom ventilation and my penchant for super hot showers makes the
upstairs hallway “smoke detector” actually a “steam detector” disguised as a
smoke detector. On an ideal day I remember to take the thing down before I get
into the shower. On a good day, I don’t bother taking it down, but firmly close
the bathroom door, which generally (but not always) prevents the steam detector
from going off. On a not-so-good day I forget taking it down AND closing the
door, and it begins going off once I’m out of the shower and mostly dried off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today was not an ideal day. It was not a good day, nor was
it a not-so-good day. Today was a bad day. Today I neglected to take the steam
detector down and I forgot to firmly close the bathroom door. As a result (and
because the steam detector hates me), it started going off about halfway into
my shower when I was all soapy and covered with shampoo and home alone. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a new-fangled “smoke” detector that not only emits
eardrum-bursting, head-splitting alarms, but alternates the evil sounds from
hell with an obnoxious female voice that periodically declares, “Fire. Fire.
Fire.” Despite being subjected to the most irritating, panic-inducing sounds in
the world while in a vulnerable situation, I stayed calm. I rinsed off as
quickly as I could and then gingerly stepped out of the charming old claw-foot
tub – that desperately needs refinishing – so as to avoid injury. (Did you know
that the most common place in the home for serious injuries and even deaths is
the bathroom? That’s right; safety first, people!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once I felt confidently not-so-much-dry-as-non-slippery, I
raced through the deafening cavern of sound that was my hallway into Chester’s
room to retrieve a kiddo-sized chair on which to stand to reach and remove the
blaring device. Typically once removal is achieved, I wrap the wretched thing
securely in a t-shirt, a jacket, a pair of jeans – any clothing item that is
definitely not mine and toss and/or stuff it angrily into a closet that is also
not mine. I hate its small electronic guts and I will have it nowhere near me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Typically removal is quick and easy – one small twist and
down the steam detector comes. Today was not typical. I twisted . . . nothing.
I turned . . . nothing. I pulled . . . nope. I twisted, turned, and pulled in
all manner of twisting, turning, pulling combination, but it would not budge.
At all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spent a good 15 minutes standing naked, wet (but not
slippery) and progressively angrier on a tiny toddler chair attempting endless
variations of twisting, turning, and pulling before a strange thing happened .
. . I inexplicably turned into Jesse Pinkman from Breaking Bad. I think maybe
it was the annoying female voice saying “Fire, Fire, Fire” every few seconds
that especially pissed me off, but I started yelling at the smoke detector like
I was in a life or death argument with Walter White about who lost the keys to
the RV meth lab . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“Stop. Stop, stop,
stop . . .” </i>I begged.<i> “Stop it . . .<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. . . <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>. . . Bitch!”</i> (It
felt surprisingly good to throw that in, so I really went for it.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“STOP!!!! . . .
.Bitch!”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Come down . . .Bitch!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It is NOT a fire . .
. Bitch!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s a shower . . . Bitch!
A SHOWER!!!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“NOT A FIRE . . . <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> . . . BITCH!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And suddenly . . . silence. It worked! My steam detector
speaks Jesse Pinkman! I was bewildered and thrilled and also now deaf, but who
cares because it finally stopped. Sweet Jesus, Vince Gilligan, and Aaron Paul,
it stopped! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t wait to try speaking Jesse Pinkman to other malfunctioning
household items. Sink clogged? “Unclog, bitch!” Bam, unclogged. Toilet
overflowing? “Stop overflowing, bitch!” Done. Furnace not working? “I need
heat, bitch!” Ask and you shall receive. Based on this morning’s experience,
I’m almost certain this will work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I suppose it’s possible that my horrible smoke detector
finally stopped blaring for some other reason. Like maybe the steam finally
cleared up enough for it to stop detecting it? Or perhaps it screeched itself
out and just quit from sheer exhaustion? Possibly, but I think it’s far more
likely that my smoke detector is a big Breaking Bad fan . . .bitch.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-13859733780440189042013-11-05T22:28:00.001-08:002013-11-05T22:28:16.370-08:00Mint Julep<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sometimes it feels like I’m in a sitcom. Or on a Candid
Camera joke-type show. I find myself in a moment so ridiculous that I think,
“Surely this cannot be real.” I expect to hear the laugh-track. I look around
for the cameras. One of these moments happened over the weekend, on the porch
of my house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The house is a lovely 1925 Craftsman. What it lacks in
modern amenities like up-to-date electrical, sliver-free floors and
non-cracking plaster, it makes up for in charm. For the most part, the house is
in great shape – it just needs some modernizing, attending to the finishes, and
fixing of bizarre decisions made by previous residents. One such decision
resides on our porch – I would say it “darkens” our porch, but since it is the light
fixture that wouldn’t really be accurate. Our full-width porch is truly a
feature of the house – it gives the home that beautiful, quintessential,
Craftsman street presence that I love. It is warm and welcoming – offering a
friendly transition from the outside world to the inside space. Unfortunately,
someone, at some point, saw fit to install a ceiling fan as the light fixture.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">You read right, we have a ceiling fan as our front porch
light. A ceiling fan. Take just a moment to really let that sink in… A ceiling
fan. Outside. On a porch. In Seattle. We do not live in the Deep South. We do
not have 90-degree days with humidity so thick the air feels like you could
sculpt with it. No, this is Seattle. Summer temperatures are in the 70s and
there is almost always cool air coming off the Puget Sound. The chances of
needing to relax on a shaded, fan-cooled front porch with a mint julep in hand
are slim to none. Outdoor heaters, blankets, and hot toddies are more
appropriate Seattle porch accessories. And yet, each time I emerge onto my
porch or arrive home, the ridiculous ceiling fan suggests that I should ask
somebody to fetch me my evening cocktail so I can cool off while surveying the
plantation until dusk when the fireflies come out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that we
didn’t just move into this house; we’ve lived in it for almost 12 years. One
could easily argue that we’ve had plenty of time to make some changes – if not
a full remodel, certainly such small problems as taking care of a particularly hideous
lighting fixture. One would be right, but one should also recall that I am
married to an architect and we have always had big plans for doing a major
overhaul on the house. Why nickel and dime ourselves on small fixes that will
just get swept away when the larger remodel finally happens?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why not wait and do it all in one fell swoop?
This is our reasoning. But there is never enough money and never enough time
and so, 12 years later, we still have a decrepit, old, white ceiling fan on our
front porch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I’ve never stopped hating the ceiling fan. Occasionally I
notice it and it makes me simultaneously giggle and cringe when I consider how
ridiculously out of place it is. Most of the time, though,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just ignore it, as you do those things
you’ve lived with so long that you’ve trained your brain to simply not see anymore.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sunday night I had occasion to notice. For one thing,
daylight savings time kicked in. Or off. Or whichever it is. I wish somebody
would just pick a time and stick with it, but that’s another topic for another
time. So Chester and I were coming home from running errands in the dark. We
hauled our packages onto the porch and, as I dug around in my purse for the
house keys (which are always, always, always at the bottom, no matter what –
yet another topic), I noticed a strange, strong breeze. It had been windy the
day before and for just a moment, I thought the wind must be picking back up
for another round of gusts, but that wasn’t right. The trees and plants weren’t
moving; the neighbor’s wind chimes weren’t clanging. It was only windy on the
porch – a strange, swirling kind of windy. Then I looked up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The porch fan was going! I had never, not in 12 years, seen
the fan actually going. For more than a decade, it sat still and geographically
incongruent, white paint peeling sadly off the blades that did nothing more than
frame a light bulb. Now it was going with a vengeance, as if making up for lost
time or attempting to launch itself to a more appropriate locale. It was
spinning so fast, the whole thing was wobbling precariously. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">At first I was afraid. What could have caused the ancient
fan to start spinning if not some sort of angry fan spirit? Then I remembered I
had taken down Halloween decorations the day before, including replacing the
black-light with a regular light-bulb. All I did was un-screw one bulb and
replace it with another, but I must have confused or otherwise angered the fan.
(Never mind the logical explanation that an electrical short occurred. Matt
pointed this out later and it is much too boring an explanation.) Finally I
climbed on a rickety old IKEA porch chair to get a closer look at the whirling,
wobbling fan. (Hey, why invest in nice, teak, well-crafted, outdoor furniture
when you’re just going to remodel in 20 years, right?) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Upon taking a closer look, I could see three little
pull-chains hanging down from the fan. I reached up cautiously, while ducking
to avoid having my head taken off, and pulled the first. It simply turned the
light off. I pulled the second; nothing happened as it was rusted in place. I
pulled the third and the fan began to slow down. Hallelujah! I thought it was
stopping, but no such luck – it continued to spin, just at a slower pace. I
pulled the string again – no change. At this point I climbed down from the
chair, both because I wasn’t sure what else to do and because Chester was pestering
me for some goldfish crackers. (Apparently, standing on a chair, in the dark,
cursing at and struggling with a possessed ceiling fan, does not indicate to a
hungry seven-year-old that you are busy.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">With Chester all settled in with a video and some crackers,
and the fan still spinning away, albeit somewhat more lazily, I decided to call
Matt who, naturally, is in China for this and pretty much every other domestic
debacle I’ve ever dealt with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Hey, how’s it going?” I began. “Uh, OK, what’s going on there?” Matt
asked, sounding concerned and skeptical of my casual tone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Well, you know the porch fan?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Yeah…” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“It’s going.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Going.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Yes, going. Spinning. Operating. Circulating the frigid air.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“That’s weird,” Matt accurately summarized. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Did you try pulling the chains?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">In this manner, we walked through the pull-chain options and
results: One pull (slower), two pulls (no change) and three pulls (back to
jet-propulsion fast). Matt decided it must be an electrical short and that I,
therefore, needed to turn the whole thing off and keep it off. While I
certainly don’t want to burn the house down, the thought of no porch light for
almost a week of these new, dark, daylight-savings days didn’t thrill me. “Let
me just pull it one more time,” I said, teetering half-balanced on the chair. I
reached up and gave it a final yank and the whole chain came off in my hand. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Picture the scene: I’m standing on a chair, in the dark, on
my porch in Seattle, under a seriously malfunctioning ceiling fan, with a
cordless phone between my shoulder and ear and a broken-off chain in my hand, trying
to get help from a person in China. It was at this point that I listened closely
for the laugh-track… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I scanned the perimeter
for a hidden camera… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Are you there?” Matt said. “It broke off,” I replied. “The
whole chain broke off.” There was a moment of silence before I said the only thing
I could think to say… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Can you bring me
a mint julep?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-25481788743099448052013-09-19T18:03:00.001-07:002013-09-20T15:53:52.219-07:00Nothing says fall like a raccoon penis<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Fall is here. All the telltale signs confirm it – leaves are turning, a slight chill is in the air, the days are getting shorter, Starbucks is pushing pumpkin spice lattes (a little too early if you ask me) and, probably most definitively, the kids are back to school. At my house, that meant jumping, with full enthusiasm, into 2<sup>nd</sup> grade. The first couple of weeks were all about who is in whose class and who has which teacher and all the cool new backpacks. Now we are into week 3, otherwise known as: The Week That Homework Begins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Chester’s teacher sends homework in weekly packets on Mondays, which is great because I can plan our week around the inevitable soccer practices, music lessons, evening work commitments, and the nights I really just need to sit, semi-catatonic, drinking wine and watching my child “practice ninja skills” – which entails spreading Lego pieces across my bed and bouncing on it vigorously while simultaneously attempting to kick and light-saber the bouncing Lego bits into some other dimension.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">This week’s homework packet included several math worksheets, a list of spelling words to learn, and, the most exciting part, an assignment to choose and research a nocturnal animal for an on-going project. Chester started strong with the math portion, completing it on Monday night. He was excited to move straight into nocturnal creature research, but, seeing as we are not nocturnal, we didn’t have time. I promised him we would be ALL OVER IT on Tuesday. Excitement was high. We talked at length about which creature he would choose. He was leaning towards the gliding gecko. I was lobbying hard for the raccoon. Why raccoon? I’m a sucker for several reasons: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">1)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">They are adorable. (Yes, I realize they are a pain in the ass, and can be mean, and are essentially like big, huge rats, but those little black masks! And the ringed, bushy tails!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">2)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">They are fierce. (I love a critter that you just don’t mess with.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">3)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">They are smart. (They can get into pretty much anything.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">4)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">When my dad was a kid, he had a pet raccoon named Chucky. Chucky was orphaned and my dad bottled fed him and raised him to adulthood. My whole life, I heard stories about the bond between Chucky and my dad; the raccoon followed him around like a dog and even slept with him. It all ended tragically when my dad’s step-father decided Chucky had to be killed after biting a friend of my grandmother’s severely on the leg. (It should be noted that she stepped on him while he was sleeping on the front steps of the house. If you ask me, she had it coming.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">So there’s the family lore thing, but mostly it’s the adorable/fierce combo that draws me to raccoons. They are bad-asses and they look fantastic. Who doesn’t love that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j--e_YKBJ_E/UjuefCQElDI/AAAAAAAAANo/nPuYbzHOX8k/s1600/Raccoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j--e_YKBJ_E/UjuefCQElDI/AAAAAAAAANo/nPuYbzHOX8k/s320/Raccoon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>"I'm adorable and you don't want to mess with me."</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">We rushed home on Tuesday evening, quickly ate dinner, finished all our chores and got down to business. The first task was choosing the critter. This was harder than expected, as there are simply so many from which to choose. I thought Chester was pretty locked in on the gliding gecko of Southeast Asia, but by the time we got down to it, he felt he had already learned quite a bit about that creature and wanted to pick something different because “I like to learn new things, Mommy.” I couldn’t argue with that, so we pulled up a list. He was not interested in bats or cats of any type. After considering the aye-aye, bush rat, great gray slug, binturong, dwarf crocodile, Eastern woolly lemur, Panamian night monkey, and many others, we settled on . . . RACCOON! I did a silent, internal, happy-dance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">We learned a lot about raccoons as we searched for answers to the prompt questions posed by Chester’s teacher . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>Where do raccoons live? </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">They are, as we expected, very adaptable and live pretty much everywhere. Forests are their original habitat, but now they also live in mountains, coastal marshes and urban areas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>How do they make their homes?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Turns out raccoons don’t so much make their own homes, as they simply commandeer existing places to hunker down, sleep, and have babies. They use places like tree hollows, rock crevices, and pre-owned burrows. (Raccoons are not only cute and tough, they are also efficient.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>What do they eat?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Raccoons aren’t picky eaters; they dine on pretty much everything. In fact, they are considered one of the most omnivorous animals in the world. Their diet consists of fruits, nuts, fish, eggs, insects, worms, and, as Chester accurately noted, “stuff they find when they knock over the trash.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>How do they protect themselves?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Raccoons are excellent runners and climbers, but, when worse comes to worse, they protect themselves with super sharp claws and teeth. (Remember, bad-asses.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>What are three interesting facts about your animal?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">It was tough to choose, but these were Chester’s top picks:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">1)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">They have black fur around their eyes that looks like a robber’s mask. In Chester's words, "Don't ever take a raccoon to a bank. Ever." Probably good advice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">2)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Their best sense is touch - they have very sensitive paws. (Adorable, tough, AND sensitive! They just keep getting better.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">3)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">They are extremely smart and able to understand abstract concepts. For example, in studies, they have been able to figure out not only how to undo a variety of locks and latches, but how to undo them quickly again, even after those locks and latches were reversed or flipped. (I’ve met PEOPLE who are unable to do this.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">And the most AWESOME fact of all in Chester’s opinion . . . Raccoons have an approximately 4 inch penis bone that is “strongly bent at the front end.” Anyone who has a boy, is a boy, or has spent any amount of time around boys, can attest to how fascinating, hilarious and utterly glee-inducing this fact is. A penis bone! That’s curved! It’s 4 inches! Good stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> Chester desperately wanted to use the 4-inch, strongly-curved penis bone as one of his three interesting facts. I oscillated wildly about what to do . . . On one hand, I figured, “Hey, it’s a scientific fact and it’s interesting to him, so what the heck?” On the other hand, I imagined Chester presenting his research and the entire class melting down in chaos – boys in laughing fits blurting “penis, penis, penis!” over and over again, girls shrieking “Eeeew, gross!” I imagined Teacher Richard not appreciating this scene (even though, since he is a boy, he’d probably be laughing hysterically inside.) I ultimately decided it was probably better to keep the baculum (that’s fancy science talk for penis bone) off the actual written research. I assured Chester he could tell his friends about it though – perhaps on the playground. (Note to parents of Chester’s friends: You’re welcome.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YpcIIfsB_Qg/UjuexMU7iGI/AAAAAAAAANw/GUbaW1trwhU/s1600/Raccoonpenisbone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YpcIIfsB_Qg/UjuexMU7iGI/AAAAAAAAANw/GUbaW1trwhU/s320/Raccoonpenisbone.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>Baculum or “penis bone” – It is hilarious.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">So, the first week of homework was a success, for the most part. Chester was proud to turn his assignments in early on Wednesday, which was a good thing because it made up for the crying meltdown over spelling words on the drive to school. Now I know that when my second grader is trying to learn how to spell “knight” and “night,” and remember which is which, homework veers less toward interesting and hilarious, and more toward stress-inducing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I’m just glad we’ll always have the raccoon penis bone to lighten the mood and cheer us up during times of homework stress. The baculum is now officially on my list of seasonal delights – fiery-colored leaves, cozy sweater weather, new clothes and shoes, and the raccoon penis. Don’t you just love fall?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-46683738265509792022012-12-20T22:43:00.000-08:002012-12-20T22:43:27.537-08:00Art Girl versus Money Girl<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A couple of weeks ago, I was scrolling through my Facebook
news feed and saw a link to a video. The title caught my eye . . . “What if
money was no object?” I was intrigued because, let’s face it, money is, in
fact, almost always an object. I decided to watch. The video was a series of
images set to a portion of a lecture by the late British philosopher Alan
Watts. It was aesthetically pleasing, interesting, and enjoyable to watch. It
was thought-provoking, as you would expect words of wisdom from a greatly
respected philosopher to be. But beyond all that, it got under my skin.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The video keeps playing in my head because it stirred a pot
that is always bubbling and brewing in my mind. It provoked another battle in a
war I've long been waging with myself. The adversaries in this conflict are Art
Girl and Money Girl. They’re both nice gals; it’s just that they’re almost
always at odds with each other. Art Girl loves to dance and write. Money Girl
likes to go on vacations and have a house that isn't falling down around her.
She likes to shop for pretty things and send her kid to a good school. Money
Girl isn't ridiculously materialistic. She's not talking about month-long
vacations on an estate in the South of France or a private Caribbean island (not
that that wouldn't be lovely). She just likes a few relaxing days with her
family once or twice a year – preferably somewhere warm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The “What if money was no object” video is one perspective
on how to handle the conflict between Art Girl and Money Girl – a struggle I’m
guessing is common for many of us. For some people maybe it’s Outdoor Guy or
Sports Girl or Craft Guy who is battling Money Guy, but the essence of the
struggle is the same. Alan Watts’ advice on the issue is this: Figure out how
you would really enjoy spending your life and do that. Forget about the money. Chasing
money will cause you to live a life you don’t like and that is stupid. Watts
suggests that if you do what you truly desire, you will become a master at it
and the money will follow. Watts definitely sides with Art Girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I like Watts’ advice; I really do. It’s beautiful and
idealistic, and I’d like to believe he’s right. Unfortunately, I’m not sure he
is. Maybe money can’t buy you happiness, but it certainly can help! What if you
like the things money buys? What if you live in (and love) an expensive city? What
if vacations and fast cars and fine dining make you happy, but you love doing
something that holds very little promise for significant or even reasonable
compensation?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some fields, no matter how successful you become, just don’t
pay a lot. Sure, a preschool teacher could rise through the education ranks
into a more lucrative administrative position or become such an expert in some
aspect of early childhood education that he or she could write a book and go
out on the lecture circuit. But then the teacher isn’t teaching anymore, are
they? Teaching was what the teacher really loved.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Watts suggests that our society doesn't teach people to do
what they love, but I’m also not sure I agree with that. My parents, teachers,
and career counselors doled out quite a lot of “do what makes you happy”
guidance. In fact, my friend Marla and I have spent a great deal of time
discussing how frequently we heard that advice as we were growing up. We always
come to the conclusion that young people really ought to also hear the other
side of the simple and clichéd “do what you love” and “happiness is all that
matters” refrain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Human beings are multifaceted creatures; there are a variety
of things that bring us satisfaction and make us happy. Some of these things
are, quite possibly, at odds. Given that, it feels simplistic and confusing to
say “just do what you love doing.” I suppose this is where prioritization comes
in – of course there are lots of things that make my life fulfilling and genuinely
happy. If I had to pick just one, it would be my family. Sadly, spending time
with my family does not pay well. In fact, having a family REQUIRES money. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a friend who recently shared a story about his adult
son, who always wanted to be an artist. He pursued that dream, often barely
making ends meet and living on next to nothing. He was okay with that because
he was doing what he really wanted to do. Well, time went by and he got a little
older, as we all tend to do. He met a nice girl, got married, and started a
family. He still loves making art – that’s what he wants to do and he’s good at
it, but you can probably guess that he also loves his family and being a
“starving artist” isn't really working out now, no matter how much he enjoys
it. He was whining excessively about the unfairness of it all and his dad’s
response was: “If you really wanted to be an artist, you shouldn't have gotten
married and had a kid.” Harsh? Definitely. True? I’m not sure. Maybe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What I've tried to do – in my battle between Art Girl and
Money Girl – is combine the two. I've been fairly successful at it; I work in
the arts, but not as an artist. I’m an arts administrator, which is a pretty
good attempt at making both Art Girl and Money Girl happy. Sometimes it feels
like a good compromise, but a lot of times it feels like the result of trying
to appease both is that neither one ends up happy. Trying to feed Art Girl and
Money Girl ultimately leaves them both hungry. Doing something meaningful is
great; I really appreciate that about my job. I believe in it. But, at the end
of the day (actually many, many days), it’s still a job. When I explain to
people what I do, they often say, “Your job sounds so fun!” Yes, parts of it
are fun, but the vast majority of the time, it’s deadlines and budgets and
stress and crazy customers just like everybody else’s job. It often has me
working long hours away from other parts of my life that make me very happy. I
don’t make as much money doing it as I likely could in another field, and I
don’t have the opportunity to fully exercise the creativity I feel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don’t get me wrong, I believe that happiness really is the
most important thing, but it’s more complicated than that. Don’t we need to
honestly consider WHAT makes us happy? It’s great if someone loves teaching
preschool, but what if the same person also loves going on luxury vacations and
wearing couture fashion? He or she is never going to be able to do that on a
preschool teacher’s salary. Some people are totally inspired by doing social
work and helping members of society who need special assistance. That’s
fantastic, unless they have an expensive hobby that brings them great joy. They’re
probably not going to be able to fund horseback riding or yacht racing with a social
worker paycheck. We need to consider these things before we make major life
decisions. Maybe we end up deciding it’s more important to do something we
truly love and we can stand letting yachting or Chanel bags or whatever it is
go. Maybe we don’t. The point is, either way it should be a conscious decision,
made with obvious consequences taken fully into consideration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What do you think? Who is more powerful, important, and/or reasonable
– Art Girl or Money Girl? How do you reconcile the two in your life?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-37147886380779595632012-10-25T21:57:00.000-07:002012-10-26T10:58:02.101-07:00For the LOVE of PINK pants!<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Can we talk about the sweat pants that have the word “LOVE” or
“PINK” (or both) emblazoned across the butt? Every time I leave the house, I
see at least half a dozen women displaying some spangled, sequined, glittered
version of “LOVE PINK” on their asses. (Why never “GRACE GREEN” or “JUSTICE
PUCE” or “LIBERTY CHARTREUSE”?) I can’t make a trip to the ATM or grocery store
or coffee shop without being nearly blinded by butt-bling. I don’t understand
this phenomenon. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I should start out by admitting that I’m extremely logo
averse – I don’t like Louis Vuitton bags or the Coach purses with big Cs all
over them. I think the last time I wore something with a giant logo on it was
in sixth grade when I had a multi-colored sweater that prominently featured a
giant Jordache horse, or maybe in junior high when I most definitely had some
Esprit and Vaurnet France t-shirts. Sometime during high school, I got
uncomfortable with the idea of being a human advertisement. I do not see myself
as a walking billboard – my ass included. Are some people so brand loyal that
they willingly and happily turn their butts into billboards (some larger than
others)?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ybFrD9AABo/UIoWvAtq57I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/UsnNGnKxmoE/s1600/YourAdHere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ybFrD9AABo/UIoWvAtq57I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/UsnNGnKxmoE/s320/YourAdHere.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em> No, thank you.</em></span></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">And maybe I’m weird, but I have this crazy notion that
words, and their placement in the world, mean something. I don’t understand the
point of “LOVE” or “PINK” or “LOVE PINK” across the butt. Are these women suggesting
that others should love their butts? Are they proudly communicating that they
love their own butts? Do they love butts in general? Do they love pink? Are
they making sure, in case we’re color blind, that we know their sweat pants
are, in fact, pink? (What about when the pants aren’t pink?!) See how confusing
this is? Is their enthusiasm for the pants so great that they need to announce
it to the world? Are they trying to accentuate their butts? (This last
possibility seems like a bad idea seeing as the vast majority of the wearers
really should not be calling any extra attention to their asses.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Maybe if you’re a twelve-year-old girl, having a sweet word
like “love” or “pink” displayed across your posterior seems cute and crazy, and
especially irresistible when it’s rendered in pink sequins and makes you think
you’re an “Angel” a la Gisele. My recollection is that girls of that age are
just discovering that their asses are of interest to others and therefore
useful for more than sitting on. Beyond the early teens though, I can’t think
of any reasonable excuse. There are more sophisticated ways of calling
attention to your feminine assets than affixing a sparkly sign to your ass. </span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H-Wpvgi36zk/UIoXCXd4TyI/AAAAAAAAAMY/4Skp7aErZLQ/s1600/PinkPants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H-Wpvgi36zk/UIoXCXd4TyI/AAAAAAAAAMY/4Skp7aErZLQ/s320/PinkPants.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em>No Subtlety</em></span><em style="font-family: Verdana;"> here.</em></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-89051487073434890162012-08-01T21:12:00.000-07:002012-08-01T21:12:14.748-07:00Gone Away<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">My mom always told me, “You will be able to count the true
friends you have in your life on one hand.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I’ve thought about this a lot over the years and I’m still
not sure exactly how to interpret it. Is it a depressing commentary on how few
people will genuinely be your friends? Or, is it a beautiful statement about
the meaning of friendship and the depth of emotion, loyalty, and attachment
that comes along with it? Either way, I’ve found it (along with most things my
mom ever told me) to be pretty true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I say you can count your true friends on both hands instead
of one (I’m more of an idealistic dreamer than my practical, realist
mom), but the basic theory is the same. Acquaintances come and go, and some
“friends” are really something more like buddies – people who hang out with you
for a certain period and then fade away. The point is, the true friends, the
people you really love and that love you back, the ones who are there for you
through thick and thin, those people with whom you just keep getting closer no
matter the time or distance, are few and far between.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I have a handful (maybe two handfuls) of those friends and I
am extremely thankful for them. Unfortunately, none of them live where I live,
which doesn’t mean much except that I miss them and don’t get to see them as
often as I’d like. I’m jealous of people who have close friends in close
proximity. One of the great things about true friends is how you can go weeks,
months, even years without seeing them and, then, when you do, you start right back
in like you haven’t missed a beat. Still, it would be nice to be able to
spontaneously meet after work for a drink or get together for lunch or have
them just a hop, skip, and a jump away if you needed emergency dressing room
advice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I wasn’t always true-friendless in Seattle. In fact, some of
my closest friends lived here before moving away. The impending departure of good
friends has gotten me thinking about my string of former Seattleite friends and
the trend of them leaving and me staying. Interestingly, these friends seem to
correspond to each distinct period of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">At this point, I’ve been living in Seattle for almost half
my life. It is my home. It’s where I became the adult person I am today. When
that journey began nearly twenty years ago, my best childhood friend, Marla was
living in Seattle as well. (Marla and I met on the bus to a volleyball
away-game in 7<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade. I was still pretty new in town, having just
moved in 6<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> grade, and was settled into a seat all by myself. Marla
came along, scanning the rows for a place to sit. She looked at the empty spot
beside me a bit cautiously and asked, “Can I sit there?” “Sure,” I shrugged,
and by the end of that trip, we were best friends. Once we started talking, we
never really stopped.) </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-27lUX2VSsrY/UBn7M-d-48I/AAAAAAAAALk/_0EOj9q265o/s1600/MarlaRondaDanceFresh.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-27lUX2VSsrY/UBn7M-d-48I/AAAAAAAAALk/_0EOj9q265o/s320/MarlaRondaDanceFresh.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me and Marla - 1989</span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(You can tell we're good friends because we're happy here despite the dreadful blue, shiny unitards that were our freshman year dance team uniforms</span></em>.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">After graduating from Oregon State University, we both
moved to Seattle, and while we lived in different neighborhoods and were doing
different things – me working and Marla attending graduate school – we saw each
other quite a bit. Marla was the lone person who knew me, in a brand new, big
huge sea of people. I always felt like a big city girl trapped in a small town
growing up, so I was more than ready to immerse myself in urban life, but it
was nice having somebody from my hometown just beyond the ship canal bridge.
Marla helped me look for my first apartment – and understood how hilarious it
was when the apartment manager tried to romanticize a tiny first floor unit by
suggesting the tree outside the window made it “just like living in the country.”
It makes me laugh now to think of what small town girls we were – bumbling
along in the city, meeting new people and trying to figure out the oddities of
urban life. We found a new pizza place (nothing could replace our hometown
Pizza Deli of course, but we did our best) and discussed strange people like
the guy with the implanted vampire fangs, who routinely stared at Marla on the
bus. One evening, at what was probably the height of our small town girl
naiveté, we stopped by the Safeway on Broadway to pick up some drinks to
accompany our take-out Thai food. We were standing in the check-out line,
chatting away, completely oblivious to the fact that a pair of police officers
were pepper-spraying some hoodlum into submission on the floor not ten feet
away from us. We both starting coughing – subtly at first, and then a little
harder. We looked at each other in confusion as our eyes began watering and we
noticed people clearing out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Hmmm . . . why are we
the only ones still standing at the register?”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Oh look, the police
have that man down on the floor! He’s struggling . . . Huh. Weird.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">We finally figured it out – but I think it took the checker
yelling something very obvious like “PEPPER SPRAY!” at the top of his lungs at
us. Ah, city life! Well, Marla finished graduate school in no time and moved to
the Portland area for a great job in her field and to be closer to her then-fiancé,
soon-to-be husband Steve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">(Marla and I recently took a trip together to celebrate a
big birthday year. (Yes, we’re both 30! It’s hard to believe, isn’t it!?) We
spent eight glorious days exploring Boston and Cape Cod – doing whatever we
wanted and talking the entire time. It was the most time we had spent together
since high school and it felt exactly the same – no beats missed.)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YT4BAPoZFL0/UBn8P71d5JI/AAAAAAAAALs/CiMLale9EZs/s1600/MarlaRondaNantucket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YT4BAPoZFL0/UBn8P71d5JI/AAAAAAAAALs/CiMLale9EZs/s320/MarlaRondaNantucket.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me and Marla in Nantucket - May 2012</span></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(We're happy here both because we're really good friends and because we're having a fabulous time in Nantucket</span></em>.)</span></div>
</o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">So suddenly, Marla was gone. Fortunately for me, by the time
Marla moved away, Amy (who I met when we were both summer interns) finished
college and moved to Seattle. Amy is hands-down one of the most fun people I’ve
ever met. She’s smart, and hilarious, and refreshingly blunt, and rolls with
the punches with such grace and efficiency, it never ceases to astonish me. Being
with her is a guaranteed great time. It doesn’t matter if we’re sitting in our
sweats watching TV, or having martinis for lunch, or getting lost in the middle
of the night in the Eastern Washington desert, or carrying a pitch-covered
Christmas tree twelve blocks from a tree lot to a tiny apartment. And so, with
Amy by my side, my fun, and crazy, and sometimes painful, but never lonely, 20s
ensued. For a brief period, she moved to California where her then-boyfriend,
eventually-to-be husband Larry was still finishing college. It wasn’t too long
before they both returned to Seattle and Amy moved into an apartment right
around the corner from mine. Most Monday nights, we had dinner and watched TV
at Amy’s apartment, and, once a week, we did our laundry over beers at the now
defunct Sit & Spin. Much analysis of our budding careers and love (or
lack-thereof) lives occurred over those laundry nights. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Amy and I had as much fun as a couple of 20-somethings
should – going out and having fun, and staying in and bemoaning that our lives
were not yet what we hoped they would be. It was perfect . . . until Larry got
into medical school in Chicago and suddenly, Amy was gone. Amy and Larry are
settled in Yakima now, which is certainly closer to Seattle than Chicago, but
with kids and busy lives, we don’t see each other nearly enough.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">After Amy left Seattle, it took quite a while for my next
really good, true friend to come along. I was busy with work and graduate school
(both of which provided lots of distractions in the way of professional and
academic challenges, as well as a number of friends). At some point during all
of that, Wil and Grisell moved to Seattle from Miami and Wil began working with
my husband, Matt. The relationship began as a professional connection, but quickly
turned to friendship. Wil and Grisell made requisite work-related social events
much more fun and it wasn’t long before we were doing lots of things together
outside of the work realm. We rang in the New Year together, we camped and dug for
oysters together, we gathered for dinner parties and Super Bowl parties. We
even witnessed Janet Jackson’s famous wardrobe malfunction together! One of our
dinner parties devolved into what was most certainly the most drunken badminton
game of all time. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Our sons Chester and Roman were born 6 weeks apart during
the summer of 2006 and Grisell and I spent that summer and fall taking walks
with the babies, conducting research on whether strollers or front-carriers
made them cry the least, meeting for coffee with the babies, figuring out how
in the world to get them to sleep, and basically propping each other up during
those scary and difficult early parenting months. I’ll never forget the first
time we laid Roman and Chester down together on a blanket at Green Lake – they
turned their little heads toward each other and stared as if to say “Well hello
there, I guess we’re going to be friends!” (Miraculously, neither one of them
was crying at that moment.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me and Grisell - August 2006 - New Moms</span></em></span></div>
</o:p></span></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We’ve spent six wonderful years sharing parenting milestones– birthday parties, play-dates at parks, trick-or-treating, Easter egg hunting, and treks to the zoo. We’ve gone through Thomas the Train, Buzz Lightyear, Beyblades, and Batman together. Our dinner parties look quite a bit different now – instead of playing falling-down-drunk badminton, our bourbon comes in much more responsible quantities and we’re typically playing tag with the kids in between sips. Our idea of a fantastic evening is walking to the park after one of Wil’s delicious grilled dinners, watching Chester and Roman alternate between racing each other and sweetly holding hands – friends since birth.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Well, you know what they say . . . The only constant is
change, or something like that. (I’m not really sure who “they” are, but “they”
are infuriatingly right about these sorts of things.) Now Wil and Grisell and
Roman and baby brother, Lorenzo are going away too – moving back to Miami to be
closer to family. I know we’ll always be friends with them (and now we have a
great excuse to visit Florida) – just like I’ll always be friends with Marla
and Amy. This friends-going-away business has happened before and I know
distance doesn’t really mean much when it comes to true friends, but it does
feel like the end of an era – of another phase of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">So here I am, true-friendless in Seattle once again. Sometimes
I wonder why I always stay while everyone else goes. I wonder if maybe I’ll
ever be the one to leave. I’ve certainly had chances and have always chosen to
stay. I’ve cited financial or other practical reasons each time, to myself and
to others, but deep down I know it’s because I’m really connected to this
place. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I’m left wondering what and who the next phase will bring. Maybe
my mom is right – maybe I’ve already been blessed with as many true friends as
one can expect to have in life and my one handful is complete. Or maybe there
will be more – perhaps the mom of one of Chester’s elementary school classmates?
Maybe someone I meet through my own adventures? At any rate, I’m looking
forward to it, as well as to plenty of visits to and from Marla and Amy and Wil
and Grisell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-32032521402984991602012-07-16T17:23:00.000-07:002012-07-16T17:23:04.414-07:00Agreed?<br />
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Is there nothing we can all agree on? In this season of
ramping up for the big presidential election in the fall, polarized media coverage,
and heated debates on everything from insurance to immigration, I’m wondering
if there is anything we can all agree on anymore. There used to be the Golden
Rule – do unto others as you would have them do unto you – but even that seems
to have gone by the wayside, judging by out of control greed, rampant
individualism, and random acts of violence.</div>
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Well, call me a dreamer, but I’m holding out hope that there
must be SOMETHING. If not the serious issues like economics, politics, or
religion, perhaps the more mundane and trivial details that come up as we
navigate day-to-day existence. Here are just a few examples of things we should
all be able to agree on:</div>
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1) Katy Perry sucks. She does. Can we please agree that Katy
Perry’s fifteen minutes of fame should have been up a long, long time ago? Why
does she continue to assault us with her overly-produced, ridiculously rhyming,
formulaic “music” and her tits and ass, sexualized shtick? You can’t go to the
gym, grocery store, or gynecologist these days without hearing some form of
Katy Perry – either blasted over the sound system or “muzaked” into an elevator
or waiting room. I can’t take my child to the new Pixar movie without Katy
Perry popping up in preview form. Who could watch a full, feature-length
“documentary” about Katy Perry?! I could barely make it through the preview – Katy’s
pink hair, blue hair, no wait, its pink again hair; rotating peppermint candies
on Katy’s pointy bra; Katy astride a giant phallic gun shooting whipped cream
or some sort of foam onto a stadium full of preteen girls; Katy hunched over in
emotional agony as her divorce from Russell Brand is announced. The
mind-numbing, faux drama is bad. The twisted combination of preteen girl
fan-base and overtly sexual messaging is bad. It’s like Hustler magazine meets
Candyland the preschool game. </div>
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2) Hair should not be striped. Ladies, let’s agree that bad
highlights have got to go. What is it with the striped hair? It was trashy a
decade ago, now it’s just ridiculous. It actually makes me angry when I see it.
Why is it so prevalent? Who are the hair stylists who commit this atrocity? I
am declaring bad highlights, lowlights, and the “lights” you can’t even make
sense of a crime against humanity, and all that is good and beautiful in the
world. Subtle variations in color are one thing; they provide texture and
depth, but hair is not meant to be striped. Let’s all agree to say “NO!” to bad
highlights.</div>
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3) 99.9% of the time, despite what commercials would have
you believe, women do not have an orgasm when they put on moisturizer, apply
makeup, or shampoo their hair. Can we agree that this is true? I’ll admit I
have not checked this statistic or put it to any kind of scientific test (OK, I
just made it up; isn’t that what everyone does with statistics these days?),
but I’m going out on a limb based on personal experience as a moisturizer using,
makeup applying, hair shampooing female. These personal grooming activities
exist on a scale of “tedious chore” to “mildly enjoyable” simply because you’re
devoting some attention to yourself for two minutes. And let’s face it . . . even
if putting on moisturizer felt that good, the 20 seconds it takes to do it
certainly wouldn’t get you there. So, men of the world, stop wondering why your
girlfriend/wife doesn’t look like that when she puts on her makeup and women of
the world, stop wondering if something is wrong with your products because they
don’t seem to be working like they’re supposed to. </div>
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4) If a platypus could sing, it would sound like Adam
Levine. This is my own personal theory, but I’m pretty sure it’s right on the
money. Try this . . . when you hear a Maroon 5 song, close your eyes and
imagine a platypus. Go ahead, I’ll wait . . . it shouldn’t take long seeing as
a Maroon 5 song is on any given radio station pretty much every five minutes .
. . take your time . . . There! See! It works, doesn’t it? </div>
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So what if we can’t agree on immigration policy or childhood
immunization? Who cares if we can’t see eye to eye on religion or reproduction?
Let’s get on the same page with the simple, frivolous, day-to-day details.
Please? Can we pretty, pretty please at least agree Adam Levine sounds like a
platypus? If we can’t get on board with that, there’s no hope. </div>
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How about agree to disagree? I guess that’s something.</div>Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-71026801046781268802012-06-29T16:39:00.001-07:002012-06-29T16:39:25.242-07:00America the Ugly<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">While I was heartened by the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision
to uphold the Affordable Care Act yesterday, I was extremely disheartened by
the disgusting wave of anger, hatred and ignorance that swelled around the
issue. It’s ugly; just plain ugly. (I don’t think it’s any secret that I’m
left-leaning in my political ideology and I do believe everyone should have
access to health care, but my comments here are NOT about the pros or cons of
the Affordable Care Act; They are about the shameful reactions of so many that
make me depressed and embarrassed.)</span></div>
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Of course I don’t expect everyone to agree with President Obama’s
health care solution or to agree with the Supreme Court’s decision to uphold
it. We are a large, complicated nation of 313 million diverse people with
widely varying circumstances, ideologies and opinions. And the health care
issue is enormously complicated. I absolutely understand differences of opinion
and support each person’s right to have and express their own thoughts on the issue.
What I can’t accept is the vitriolic, hateful, selfish, and downright ignorant
manner in which it is being done – in the news, in social media, and in
conversations from the water cooler to radio talk shows.</div>
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The health care system is broken. Fixing it isn’t going to
be easy and with our widely diverse population it isn’t going to be perfect for
each and every individual right out of the gate, if ever. That’s not the way
big, societal change works. I’m not anywhere close to an expert on the health
care issue, nor am I a constitutional scholar, but understanding that large
scale societal change is incremental, difficult, and often painful seems like
simple common sense to me. </div>
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Perfection is the surest way to prevent progress. If what we’re
looking for is a perfect solution – perfect for every individual, perfect for every
circumstance – before we implement anything, it will never happen. Progress has
to start somewhere and that starting point is never perfection.</div>
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I’m not a Rah-Rah-Sis-Boom-Bah Obama fan. He wasn’t my first
choice for a candidate in 2008. I always felt his promises of cure-all hope and
sweeping change were unrealistic. But I am pleased that he has managed to begin
to affect change in an area of society that really needs it. We could do with
more elected officials who are willing to make unpopular decisions if it means
getting something done. Of course elected officials are suppose to represent
their constituents, but again, those constituents vary widely and elected
officials can’t expect or be expected to please everyone all the time. They
should see, and respond to, a bigger picture than each individual. I don’t
think they always do the best job, but that’s the idea. I want my elected
officials to make the best decisions for our society, not just for ME, ME, ME. </div>
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Obama certainly isn’t winning any popularity points for his
health care solution, so I can’t image he’s sticking with it for political
gain. That leads me to believe he’s committed to it because he truly believes
we need change and he’s doing his best to start the process of making that
painful, incremental change happen. Is it perfect? No. Does it need all sorts
of examination and changing and tweaking to make it better? I’m sure it does. So
let’s get on with it; at least the ball is rolling.</div>
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There are those who will, at this point, site statistics and stories about how terribly and unjustly certain individuals and
groups of people will be “punished” by the mandate. Perhaps there is some truth
to those claims, but there are just as many statistics and stories that
not only dispute those claims, but tell of countless people who will benefit.
So what if you’re not one of them? This democracy isn’t about individuals –
it’s about the good of the whole and sometimes individuals have to make
sacrifices for that. Why have we lost touch with that concept? </div>
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So many of the comments I’m hearing and seeing around this
issue have nothing to do with the real issue of fixing the health care problem.
It’s as though people are so self-centered and nasty these days, they seize
upon any opportunity to be as pissed-off and mean as possible. </div>
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I’ve got news for these people: calling the President “a
worthless piece of shit” isn’t doing anything to help solve any problem. It
doesn’t make you smart or powerful or remotely useful. It makes you negative
and ugly and part of a very sad problem. I’m sure I’ll get crucified for being
an “over-educated, liberal elite” for saying this, but if you can’t string a
few words together in your native language well enough for me to understand
what you’re talking about, I can hardly be expected to assume you have
credibility on anything, much less something as complicated as the national
health care issue.</div>
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I’ve seen a form of this one a few times over the past 24
hours: “I’ll quit my job before they get one cent of tax money from me to support
all the worthless people that choose not to work.” Well, if that isn’t an
example of cutting off your nose to spite your face, I don’t know what is; very
mature and productive. If you have the luxury of quitting your job so you don’t
have to pay taxes, great, go for it, but please don’t drive on the roads my tax
dollars pay for or send your kids to the socialist schools I support.</div>
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As for all the incredibly insightful “Fuck Obama” comments
and variations thereof (including but not limited to, “Go fuck yourself,
Obama,” “Fuck you, Obama,” and “Obama can fuck himself”), seriously, if that is
the most intelligent thing you can think of to say, you need to go back to
something far more remedial than the health care issue.</div>
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You don’t need to agree with the Affordable Care Act. You
don’t need to like Obama. You don’t need to support his policies or politics,
but what I do expect from my fellow Americans is to respect each other as human
beings. Didn’t we all learn that valuable lesson in preschool? I teach my son
not to call names – it doesn’t matter how much you disagree with someone or how
angry they make you, you don’t hit them or bite them or call them names. That’s
not a productive or acceptable way to exist in society. In fact, it’s mean and
counterproductive. So, for those who didn’t grasp that lesson at age four, here
it is one more time: You don’t call any other human being a “worthless piece of
shit.” I don’t want my country to be ugly like that, so stop it. </div>
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<br /></div>Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-75468632656105830742012-05-25T22:19:00.001-07:002012-05-25T22:19:47.679-07:00You can't please everyone<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">“You can’t please everyone” – it’s a well-known and
oft-repeated saying, probably because of its absolute truth. I imagine every
human being, no matter who they are, where they live, or what they do has
direct experience with the reality of “you can’t please everyone.” You really
can’t.</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Any field that requires working with “the public” promises
lots of experiences with the “You Can’t Please Everyone” – let’s call it YCPE
for short – phenomenon. I just wrapped up another season of performing arts
events – the 15<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> since I founded the series – and if being a
performing arts presenter has taught me anything, it’s the truth of YCPE. Even
though a decade and a half seems like it should be plenty of time to accept a
life-lesson, I still have trouble making peace with YCPE. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I’m a pleaser. I like getting the figurative gold star, the
pat on the head, the “Way to go,” the “Atta girl,” the “Thank you, I really
appreciate that.” I take my job seriously, and I very much want what I do to be
meaningful and to make people happy. I appreciate feedback when it is
constructive, but the vast majority of the time it isn’t. Even though I know
the wisdom of YCPE, I still take each catty complaint and nasty nitpick
personally. I’ve heard many crazy complaints over the years; these are some of
the best (and by that I mean the worst):</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Bad Jeans<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Occasionally I get negative comments about the wardrobe
choices my staff and I make on show days. This “fashion feedback” is one of the
most annoying examples of work-based YCPE. (If I lodged a formal complaint
every time I saw someone wearing something I didn’t think looked particularly
good or flattering or appropriate, I wouldn’t have time to feed myself.) </span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Typically, these complaints focus on how “tacky,”
“unprofessional,” and “offensive” it is that my assistant and I wear jeans to
our shows. Do we sometimes wear jeans? Yes, we do. Are they dirty, faded,
ripped, frayed, or even bedazzled? No, they are not. The jeans we wear are
always nice, dark-rinse, tailored styles (which, I might add, are probably
twice as expensive as the ill-fitting polyester pants the complainers are
likely wearing) and paired with nice blouses and professional blazers. It isn’t
like we’re throwing on a pair of ripped up Carhartts with a stained work-shirt
or Cabo-Wabo tank top. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The other thing I hate about these complaints is that they
are always anonymous. If you are upset enough to complain about something – you
better be willing to own it. I hate anonymous complaints because they don’t
give you an opportunity to respond and let the complainer know the perfectly
logical reasons behind what they are complaining about. But a nice, reasonable
explanation isn’t what they’re looking for is it? If they understood something,
they wouldn’t be able to complain about it anymore. Since I never have the
chance to explain why we often wear dressed-up jeans to the people who complain
about it, here is what I would tell them: “You may not see us until we’re
sitting down at the box office to issue your tickets or until I step onstage to
introduce the performers, but we’ve been working for many hours prior to that –
loading in equipment, setting up and taking down catering, running performers
back and forth, to and from airports, and venues, and hotels. We don’t have the
time or a place to do costume changes between each duty. It isn’t practical for
us to get gussied up. And honestly, is it really hurting or offending you that
I’m wearing nice jeans and a blazer?” Oh, the horror.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I say “subversive,”
they read “heart-warming”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I find it truly stunning how often people either do not read
the description of a show they are buying tickets for, or are somehow able to
read it and completely disregard everything it says. Several years ago, I
received a handful of complaints after presenting “Santaland Diaries” – a
theatrical adaptation of writer David Sedaris’ holiday stories. People
described it as “heartless and sarcastic.” Someone deemed it “gross” and “not
appropriate for the holidays.” Clearly these folks were not familiar with the work
of Mr. Sedaris, which is nothing if not sarcastic and dark, and never mind that
I consistently described the show as “subversive, anti-holiday, and for mature
audiences.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Dear God, It’s me,
Ronda<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Please, God, help people to stop being so uptight. Each year
we present an installment in the Late Nite Catechism series of shows. They are
interactive, comedic theater pieces, intended to be entertainment – NOT
religious events. These shows are among our most popular – typically selling
out. While the shows are set in a parochial school “classroom,” performed by a
“Sister” (who is really an actress in nun’s clothing), and respectfully poke
fun at some elements of Catholic faith and education, they do not promote or
even seriously cover any religion or religious teachings. Nevertheless, I can
count on complaints every time – always from people who didn’t bother to attend
the show. These complainers simply see the description in our season brochure,
or on our website or, who knows maybe God sends them a vision of it, and are
incensed. And this is an especially good example of YCPE because some of them
are angry because, by presenting the show, I am obviously making fun of God,
the Catholic Church, and everything that is good and holy. The other camp of
complainers is ready to sick the ACLU on me for using public money to “promote”
the Catholic faith. I really can’t win for losing with this one. Fortunately,
normal, non-complaining people of all ages and spiritual persuasions attend these
shows each year and always request return engagements. Thank you, God, for
creating some people who aren’t hard-wired to complain. Please make more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">While there have always been complainers – those people who
will, no matter what you do, come up with a reason to bitch about it – I am
convinced the complaints are becoming more frequent, more outlandish, and, most
disturbing of all, more angry. I had more people than ever complain about music
volume this year. In fact, I seriously thought one man was going to resort to
physical violence he was so upset about it. His face was red and about two
inches from mine as he yelled at me that I was single-handedly causing hearing
loss for every one of the audience members. (I believe he missed the irony of
complaining that something was too loud by yelling.) I calmly explained that
the artists tend to be particular about setting their own sound levels, but it
was no use, I was personally causing the instantaneous deafness of hundreds of
people. Had the angry, yelling man stayed past the first two songs, he would
have noticed a decrease in volume. It was an R&B vocalist; of course she’s
going to come out raising the rafters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">At a concert of Zydeco dance music, a woman sternly lectured
me about the volume: “It’s louder than an average hairdryer in there and
everyone knows hairdryers permanently damage your hearing!” I certainly value
my hearing and don’t want to purposely damage it. I have a dad who is, due to a
lifetime of loud work and accidents, nearly deaf, so I know how bad hearing
loss can be, but for goodness sake, when did the people at my shows become so
overly obsessed with hearing damage? I really want to follow these same people
over to the concession stand and smugly inform them the cookies and chips they
are so eagerly ingesting will cause heart disease and kill them. “Everybody
knows Pringles kill you,” I want to say.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I’ve had people storm into the lobby, greatly upset that the
lights are reflecting off the guitars into their eyes. They seem convinced that
there is a plot against them. People routinely request refunds because they got
lost and couldn’t find the venue, even though directions are clearly posted on
our web site and included on our phone recording. And you wouldn’t believe how
often I get chewed out because some woman drug her husband to a show, he didn’t
like it, and now it’s my fault she’ll never get him out of the house to do
anything fun in the future. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Whenever these instances occur, I take deep breaths and
silently tell myself over and over again, “you can’t please everyone, you can’t
please everyone, you can’t please everyone.” I remind myself to look around at
all the happy, smiling audience members who are on their feet in standing
ovations; the ones who thank and congratulate me on their way out. The fact is
they outnumber the negative people. But I think the negativity and
self-absorption has gotten worse and more frequent over the years. And it is
particularly stunning to me that the negative people don’t seem to notice how
happy everyone else is.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I believe we have a terrifyingly pervasive trend of
self-centeredness going on in our society. “If I don’t like it, it doesn’t
matter if a zillion other people do, I get to bitch and complain and stamp my
feet and throw a little tantrum because it’s obviously all about me.” Another
one that drives me nuts is: “If I didn’t like it, I shouldn’t have to pay for
it.” Really? There are plenty of horrible, miserable airline flights I’ve taken
and I’ve never gotten a refund because I didn’t enjoy myself. Who are these
people? I quite frequently find myself in situations where I’m less than
thrilled with a product or service or event – especially when it is something
new I’m trying. If I don’t like it, I typically shrug my shoulders, decide it
isn’t my “cup of tea,” congratulate myself on being adventurous and open to new
experiences, and move along. I don’t storm into the office of the event
producer and demand a refund, I don’t call a company and whine and complain
about how much I disliked their product. I don’t freak out when a portion of my
tax dollars are directed to a service I don’t personally use. I live in a big
society and I expect that it isn’t all about me. Don’t get me wrong, I
certainly have “Ronda as Fascist Ruler” fantasies about how fantastic the world
would be if I was calling every single shot (it would be), but I recognize
those for what they are – FANTASIES. Do you know how unbelievably unjust or
ridiculously awful something would have to be for me to lodge a complaint or
write a letter? I’ve written one complaint letter in my life if that tells you
something. It isn’t that I’m super easy-going and love everything either. It’s
just that I have a grasp on the very real fact that there are a lot of other
people in this world and they have wants and needs that are different from
mine. Why is that getting harder and harder for people to understand?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">After being hurt, and then angry, my
emotional-response-to-negative-person cycle usually ends with feeling a little
sorry for them. I want to ask, “Do you really expect to be perfectly,
completely happy with every single experience and situation you find yourself
in?” And, “If you do, how disappointed must you be all the time?” If someone
practically has an anger-management meltdown over a performance being too loud,
what do they do when something happens that really is worth getting angry
about? I fear we are seeing the answer to that question in examples of
bullying, senseless shootings, vicious name-calling, and violently polarized
politics.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">There is probably no clearer example of the YCPE phenomenon
than in our current political realm. I was browsing on Facebook the other day
and stumbled upon a group called Smart Girl Politics. (After reading a few
posts and the ensuing comments, I came to the conclusion that “smart” could
only be used to describe these gals if we were living in “opposite world”, but
that’s an aside.) Their Facebook page was a perfect reminder of the YCPE
principal. One person commented that she would not be able to agree with Debbie
Wasserman Schultz, U.S. Representative for Florida’s 20<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
congressional district and Chair of the Democratic National Committee, if she
said the sky was blue. Not being a member or fan of “Smart Girl Politics”, I
kept my mouth shut, but what I wanted to say was, “Really? You’re THAT
polarized and close-minded and full of being angry at everything that isn’t
exactly as you think it should be, you’re willing to cast aside logic,
scientific fact, intellect, reason, and any shred of open-mindedness, not to
mention kindness?” These are the “complainers” that make YCPE a reality, and
there is no pleasing them. Ever. God help you if you try.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">You can’t please everyone, it’s true, and it’s important to
keep in mind. It’s important to realize something else too – You can’t expect
to be pleased by everything and everyone all the time. This is my message to
the complainers of the world: It is not your unalienable birthright to be 100%
satisfied and content, 100% of the time. Accept it.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-74584640320129164912012-04-04T20:05:00.000-07:002012-04-04T20:05:53.199-07:00Hunger Games<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I have a confession to make, but first I need to offer an
apology. Participants at Emerald City Comicon, “the largest comic book and pop
culture convention in the Pacific Northwest,” I am sorry. I apologize for
calling you freaks and for publicly making fun of your really bad haircuts on
my Facebook page (although in all seriousness, not a single one of you had a
decent haircut) and for wanting to rip your ridiculous animated superhero costumes
off and strangle you with them. I truly am sorry. (That is not to say I don’t
still think of you as freaks. Adult human beings who spend time dressing up as
Superwoman and Pokémon characters, have way too much time on their hands and
need serious help, as well as our pity.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Okay, apology made, on to my sordid confession, but first, a
brief disclaimer: This blog post is not about the wildly popular, over-hyped
series of books with which it shares a title, nor is it about the recently
released “major motion picture.” In fact, I know nothing about the books or the
movie. Well, that’s not entirely true; I know a few things – the books are
“young adult” fiction featuring a main character named Catnip. (I know it’s actually
Katniss; you’d have to be dead to not hear Katniss-this and Katniss-that and “Go,
Katniss!” every two seconds. I like Catnip better though because it makes me
laugh, so that’s what I’m calling her.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Back to my confession: Sometimes I get hungry. Yes, that’s
right, I get very hungry. I suppose that, in and of itself, isn’t unusual.
Everyone has to eat so naturally, we all get hungry when our bodies need food. The
odd, and unsavory, thing is WHAT happens to me when I get hungry. It’s ugly. I
know a lot of people admit to getting cranky when they’re hungry, but when I
get overly hungry, it’s as if the fiery gates of Hell open and all the evil
held therein comes gushing out into the world . . . through me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s true. Just ask my husband. A high
percentage of our fights happen when/because I am hungry. With the exception of
the really epic ones, which everyone knows happen when you’re both drunk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">When I get really hungry and can’t get food immediately, I
become a volatile combination of a petulant toddler, a sullen teenager, and the
Wicked Witch of the West. I am Meryl Streep’s Miranda Priestly from The Devil
Wears Prada – cruel, ruthless, and sarcastic. I am one of the Heathers from the
1989 dark comedy of the same name, ruling all I survey with ridicule and
contempt. Hunger brings all of them together in an epic bomb of nastiness on a
hair-trigger. I’m aware of it and I try to mitigate it, but I can’t. It’s like
I’m possessed by particularly tenacious hunger demons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Compounding this unfortunate problem are two facts: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">1) I am somewhat picky about what I eat. OK, that’s an
understatement; I’m actually very picky about what I eat, which makes it
impossible to scoot into a fast food joint, select a less busy restaurant, or
purchase something out of a machine or convenience store to appease the hunger
demons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">2) I get hungry a lot. Unless I eat pretty much all day –
something at least every two hours – I cross over into really hungry territory.
Medical procedures that require fasting terrify me. I live in constant fear
that my doctor or dentist or hair stylist will require me to report to a midday
appointment with an empty stomach. (I’ve never heard of partial foils and a cut
requiring a fasting period, but I worry about it nevertheless.) With my 40<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
birthday quickly approaching, the specter of a colonoscopy looms over me like
an ominous storm cloud. It’s not the procedure itself that alarms me (although
it certainly doesn’t sound pleasant), but the necessary pre-procedure fasting.
The healthcare professionals who will be required to interact with me on that
fateful day before I am drugged will surely suffer my hunger-induced wrath
whether or not they have nice haircuts and the good sense not to dress like
Pikachu. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I don’t understand people who “forget” to eat or skip meals
entirely. “I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten all day,” they genteelly explain with a
blasé wave of their hand. This is stunning to me. Let me tell you, if I hadn’t
eaten all day, we wouldn’t be sitting in a restaurant, nonchalantly waiting for
a table over chit-chat about our day. Quite the contrary; everyone would be
diving for cover (if the place was still standing) and I would be zooming
around on my broom overhead, cackling and screeching, “I’ll get you, my
pretties, and your little dogs too!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I know I should carry emergency food with me like people
with allergies carry an EpiPen, but how inconvenient is that? I’m quite fond of
my handbags and I really don’t want a banana turning to mush in the bottom of
one or a forgotten apple rotting amongst my lipsticks and car keys. The last
time I checked, broccoli doesn’t slip into a wallet very easily. Nutrition bars
are the obvious solution – they don’t spoil quickly, are housed in handy and
cleanly wrappers, and can typically withstand some jostling about, but one can
only eat so many of them and, like I said, I run into these little hunger
episodes quite a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Saturday was a perfect example. My family ventured downtown
to complete some specific errands, which needed to be achieved in an efficient
and timely manner to maintain control, or at least the illusion of control,
over our busy weekend. In the interest of said efficiency, it seemed like a
no-brainer to obtain lunch at a downtown sushi restaurant that is typically
deserted on weekend afternoons. Sadly, it was not a typical weekend: It was
Comicon weekend. The gigantic Freak (oops, I mean Comic Book) Conference was
being held at the Seattle Convention Center, which just happens to be a block
from the sushi restaurant. The place was packed. Realizing that every other
nearby restaurant was going to be just as busy and being hungry, bordering on
very hungry, we decided to put our names on the list and wait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">At first I was fine – only mildly annoyed with the 16
year-old video game geeks trapped in out-of-shape 45 year-old men’s bodies who
were displaying their Comicon laminates like they were Rolling Stones backstage
passes or White House Press Corps credentials. But then it happened. I felt it
coming on; I got really hungry – ruthlessly, cruelly, sarcastically, evilly
hungry. While my five year old waited with the patience of a saint (“It’s OK
mommy, it won’t be that much longer, our name will be up soon.”), I glowered at
the man standing next to me in a crazy scientist outfit and imagined how
satisfying it would be to crack open the glow stick posing as a test tube full
of toxic potion in his lab coat pocket and pour the contents down his throat. I
hoped that the half-naked Wonder Woman’s cape would get caught in the door,
pulling her off her gold platform boots backwards by the neck. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I sent my husband to look for a less crowded restaurant,
which he happily set off to do because I’m sure it was much more pleasant than
being around me. I sneered at the three fifty-something women getting their
pictures taken with the guy dressed as a floppy-eared blue character. One of
them looked more ridiculous than him, having cinched her Sleepless in Seattle
sweatshirt with a neon-colored skinny belt. I formed a mean-girl-like alliance
with the gay bus boy. We snickered openly when some guy ordered Irish whiskey
and made catty comments when he was taken aback that they didn’t have it. “Wow,
a Japanese sushi restaurant that doesn’t have a specific brand of Irish
whiskey? That’s weird!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Finally, we got our table and, the instant I got some
edamame in me, I was a different person. As the evil drained from my body, I
rubbed my eyes, looked around and wondered, just like always, “what happened
just then?!” Suddenly the aging gaming geeks and the bad skinny belt ladies
seemed sort of sweet – still freaks, but sweet. Crazy Scientist and Wonder
Woman seemed like they were probably just regular people having a good time –
still freaks, but regular people freaks having a good time. And the floppy-eared
blue character seemed like an intelligent and creative professional engaging in
a worthwhile hobby. Oh, who am I kidding, there is simply no excuse for a grown
man dressing in a blue, fur, full-body suit with floppy ears. That’s just
fucked up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I said I wasn’t hungry anymore, not that I was
instantaneously transformed into a saint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-38757335988818798282012-03-12T21:25:00.000-07:002012-03-13T19:50:24.477-07:00The Happiest Place on Earth<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">When I was five, my parents took me to Disneyland. Some of my memories of the trip are vague, others are vivid, all of them are happy. I still recall the vacation as an idyllic time for my family. In fact, it was the first time I remember feeling thoroughly happy, confident and surrounded by love in a way I was conscious about – I not only felt that way, but had some realization of how wonderful it was to feel what I was feeling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">As I mentioned, many of the memories from my first time at Disneyland are fuzzy – the kind of memories that are like snapshots; you’re never sure if your memory is of the experience itself or of the photo. I think I remember having my picture taken with Winnie the Pooh, but the memory is all about visuals – my red and white outfit, my pigtails, and me laughing. I remember how I looked, not how I felt, so perhaps the memory was constructed from seeing the photo again and again in my family photo album over the subsequent years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">My favorite memory of the trip – and one of my favorite memories of my life for that matter – isn’t of a Disney character or a ride or anything about the park. It’s a memory of playing with my dad in our hotel room. It was probably the first time I stayed in a hotel as opposed to a motel and it seemed pretty luxurious. (We did quite a bit of road trip traveling when I was a kid, but my mom and dad were definitely more Motel 6 and Travel Lodge than Hilton or Four Seasons.) So there we were in our fancy accommodations, and my parents must have really been in the vacation spirit because they were uncharacteristically letting me bounce on the beds and even jump back and forth between the two. Five year old bliss! Not one to sit on the sidelines, my dad was participating in the rough-housing and, at one point, “stole my nose.” He had me somewhat convinced that his thumb poking out between his first two fingers was, in fact, my nose, disconnected from my face. I may have been only five, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to go through life without a nose, so I was frantically trying to get it back. I almost had it too . . . before he threw it out the window. This did not sit well with me and I made him go all the way out to the parking lot to retrieve it. I remember watching from our window and can still see him making his way out into the lot, pretending to pick up my nose and waving back up at me to signal that he had it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">On the way back to the room, my dad stopped at the gift shop and got some Nerf balls. We may have already had one and he thought we needed more to really play with them properly. I’m not sure about that, but I do know it led to the most joyful, epic Nerf ball, bed-bouncing battle ever. Unlike the memory of having my picture taken with Winnie the Pooh, this memory is almost entirely about how I felt. I remember a blue Nerf ball and an orange one, and I remember how my dad looked, which despite the fact that he is now 35 years older, is exactly how I still see him today. The real content of the memory is the sense of being completely happy and present right there in the exact moment I was in – the feeling of thoroughly loving and being thoroughly loved.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">With such good memories of my own childhood visit to Disneyland, I could hardly wait to take my son there. My husband, having grown up in Chicago, far away from any Disney land or world, had never been himself. While he certainly thought a trip to the Magic Kingdom sounded fun, he didn’t have the same childhood-memory-fueled drive to go that I did. As Chester’s fifth birthday came and went, I became increasingly adamant that we needed to make the trip while he was still at an age where it would be magical (although Disneyland has been magical to me at every age) and he would have an experience similar to mine, complete with dreamy memories. So, we finally did it. Budgets and logistics be damned, we headed to Disneyland over Chester’s mid-winter school break.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">We took an early morning flight to LAX and by 10 a.m., were in our rental car heading for Anaheim. Everybody was excited to be on vacation and going to Disneyland, but one of us was definitely the most excited. (Here’s a hint – it wasn’t Chester or Matt.) By the time we checked into our hotel room overlooking the park, I could barely contain myself. Only because we were all starving did I consent to obtain lunch before we headed into the park.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>The Happiest Mommy and Kiddo on Earth</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Since our hotel had a direct entrance to California Adventure – the amusement park directly <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">adjacent</span> to Disneyland, which didn’t exist when I was a kid – we went there first. With no plan in mind, we wandered toward the giant rollercoaster – California Screamin’. Matt and I love rollercoasters, the line was short and Chester was tall enough to ride so we figured “why not?” The closer we got to the front of the line, the more we noticed there weren’t very many kids Chester’s age waiting to ride. By the time they secured us into our cars, I was a little nervous. Chester had been on little kid rollercoasters and loved those, but it occurred to me, as we shot out of the boarding station, that this was going to be more than a few steps up from kiddie coaster. I held Chester’s hand tightly and made lots of “yay, this is fun!” comments and noises as we sped through plunging drops, hairpin turns and a 360-degree loop. His little face was frozen in an expression halfway between terror and delight. As the ride ended, I hoped as hard as I could that we hadn’t traumatized him for the rest of the trip or even worse, for life. I kept the constant stream of “That was awesome! That was SO fun!” declarations coming as we exited, and Matt asked “What did you think, Chester? Was that fun?” He thought for a moment before cautiously answering, “Yeah, it was fun . . . scary fun!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">As it turns out, Chester is an extreme-ride rock star. He did California Screamin’ right out of the gate and didn’t stop there. He went on everything (an advantage of being a tall five year old) including Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain Railroad, Soarin’ Over California, and the Haunted Mansion. He even did the Tower of Terror, which is a repetitive free-fall, in the dark, with a horror/Twilight Zone theme. After it was over, he said, “Mommy, I think I want to be a little bit older next time I go on that one.” Apparently “a little bit older” meant two days older because that’s when he decided he wanted to go on it with me again rather than wait with daddy. The only thing that scared him so much he didn’t want to go near it again was Sleeping Beauty’s castle, which makes sense when you know Maleficent lurks inside. Who doesn’t she scare, turning into a dragon and summoning “all the powers of hell?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">After our California Screamin’ rollercoaster trial by fire, we proceeded to “A Bug’s Land” which is an area actually designed for small children. Chester enjoyed the familiar Pixar and Disney themes throughout the parks and liked all the rides, but he never did take to the costumed characters. He was mildly interested when Buzz Lightyear strolled by or when we pointed out Mickey Mouse, but if we suggested meeting them, getting their autographs or, God forbid, being photographed with them, he informed us, in no uncertain terms “THAT is for babies.” Fair enough.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">His favorite ride was Splash Mountain – the Brer Rabbit-themed log ride with an enormous plunging, splashing drop coupled with woodland critters singing Zipadeedoodah. We rode Splash Mountain four or five times and, with each consecutive ride, Chester became more of an expert and served as the “tour guide” for our log, telling other riders what was coming up: “OK, there’s going to be a drop, but this isn’t a big one, this is just a baby one,” and when to prepare for the big drop: “Yeah, OK, this is the big one, here it comes, we’re going to get weeeeettttt!” Fortunately, everyone seemed to agree that his commentary was cuter than it was annoying. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">We even had the unique experience of getting stuck on Splash Mountain when it broke down one afternoon. We sat in our log, enjoying the sunny day, listening to “cast members” tell us our ride was experiencing some “log jams” and “should continue shortly” for about fifteen minutes. Finally it did, but only for a minute or two. Our second “log jam” occurred inside the mountain, surrounded by singing, animatronic characters. When the singing stopped and the lights came on, we knew the ride was over, and sure enough, a “cast member” came along to escort us out of our logs. It was fantastic to walk through the mountain, amongst the Brer Rabbits, Bears, and Foxes, frozen mid-doodah. We took every opportunity to discreetly pet the animals and see how everything worked. It was like having our very own behind-the-scenes-exclusive tour of Splash Mountain, followed by a nice apology and a “fast past” to come back later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The underbelly of Disneyland fun is, of course, Disneyland fatigue. Long days of walking and standing in line definitely leave your dogs barking; and by dogs barking I mean feet aching. Apparently a common saying in Matt’s Chicago up-bringing, “my dogs are barking” was a phrase I had never heard before. I thought it was pretty funny when I first heard it and Chester thinks it’s hilarious. One night, after letting him stay up way past his normal bed time to go swimming after an already very long day, we climbed into bed complaining about our “barking dogs” – complete with canine sound effects. I’m not sure who got the giggles first but Chester and I couldn’t stop laughing. Just about the time we would start to calm down and drift off to sleep, somebody would burst out laughing again, or barking, or both. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>Disney Fatigue</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">So, our days at Disneyland became filled with making jokes about “barking dogs” and creating elaborate strategies to take advantage of opportunities to rest them. Chester began asking us to take turns holding him in particularly long lines – “I’ve got to save my dogs!” he would plead. One evening, he was so exhausted that he fell asleep in Matt’s arms waiting in line for the interactive Toy Story ride – one of his other favorites. It truly is a cool ride and, consequently, always had one of the longest lines. Everyone around us was completely smitten by how sweet he looked, snoozing peacefully. The only thing more adorable was watching him wake up to discover he was, “like magic,” at the front of the line. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The trip was definitely all I hoped for. We had a great time and came home with lots of happy memories. I can’t help but wonder what Chester will remember many years later – the “scary fun” rollercoaster, his Splash Mountain adventures, the magic of falling asleep and waking up in the front of the line, or the late night hotel room giggling? I don’t think I can pick a favorite memory – I love and will remember them all. I do have a favorite souvenir though – it’s one I got after we returned home. When I arrived to pick Chester up from school after his first day back, he handed me a piece of paper, all folded up and taped tightly. I carefully opened it and slowly read his “best guess” spelled note. It took some deciphering but I figured out what it said with his help: </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I love you with all my heart. Thank you for bringing me to Disneyland.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Chester</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">He pointed to the bottom of the page, where he had drawn three hearts – a big one, a medium one and a small one – all with smiling faces. “That’s us,” he said proudly. I hugged him tight, kissed the top of his head, closed my eyes, and silently expressed profound gratitude for my beautiful son, my family, and our successful trip to “The Happiest Place on Earth.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Speaking of gratitude, I don’t know if I ever thanked my parents for my five-year-old Disneyland trip as wonderfully as Chester thanked us. In case I didn’t, and even if I did, it certainly bears repeating . . . </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Mom and Daddy, I love you with all my heart. Thank you for bringing me to Disneyland.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Ronda </span></i></div>Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1604234540160253379.post-51185705182011732422012-02-14T21:55:00.000-08:002012-02-14T21:55:18.120-08:00What's hot, what's not<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">In my last blog post, I wrote about things on Facebook that irritate me and identified a continuum ranging from mild annoyance to substantial aggravation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I forgot a level. Every so often, Facebook irritation moves beyond annoyance, blows past aggravation and takes me straight to anger. These are the things that get me so fired up I go to sleep fuming about them, wake up thinking about them, and feel compelled to write about them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">This montage of photos makes me angry. Maybe you’ve seen it; it has been making the rounds.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mq43_e1a0Z4/TztG9sB3A4I/AAAAAAAAAK4/KHu7IQJbWtg/s1600/HotterThan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mq43_e1a0Z4/TztG9sB3A4I/AAAAAAAAAK4/KHu7IQJbWtg/s320/HotterThan.jpg" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">As you can see, the image juxtaposes photos of bikini-clad modern day celebrities, looking thin, with photos of retro starlets looking not as thin. The tag line asks, “When did THIS become hotter than THIS?!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I am puzzled that this image is getting such play. Is it crying out “repost me, repost me, repost me!”? If it is, I can’t hear it. Haven’t we figured out by now, with the richly diverse world we live in, that what is and isn’t “hot” is very much in the eye of the beholder? I’m not sure I get the point of this image and the incessant reposting of it, unless it is simply to elevate one type of woman, based on how her body looks in a bathing suit, by tearing down another type. This is a lose/lose situation, and that’s what makes me angry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Almost every time I’ve seen this image, it has been posted by a woman. The comments that inevitably follow are also largely made by women, and they always have the same tone: “Amen, Sister!” “It never has been or will be hotter!” “They look like skeletons – gross!” I get the sense these women think they are celebrating “real” women’s bodies and advocating for accepting women’s bodies as they are. Oddly, they seem completely blind to the fact that they’re doing the exact same thing they claim to be against – judging women based on their physical appearance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Since when are thin women not “real”? I know plenty of women who are thin. In fact, I’m fairly thin myself. I think I’m real. I feel pretty real. I have a job, a husband, a kid. My days are filled with the challenges of balancing work, family and personal time and interests. I get tired; I sleep. I get hungry; I eat. Am I real? It seems run-of-the-mill real to me. Here’s another thing about me: I don’t like being judged based solely on what my body looks like anymore than the fat girl, or the super tall girl, or the short girl, or the girl with freckles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I don’t think my body is perfect, but I do love it. It takes me from point A to point B in the world pretty effectively. It runs, it does yoga, it plays with my son. It brought my son into the world and that’s pretty amazing. We all have things we like about our bodies and things we don’t like as much. The fact that we put so much focus on physical appearance is the problem. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Objectifying any woman or group of women is objectifying all women. The more women post photos of skinny girls with catty comments or spend precious time and energy criticizing Angelina Jolie or celeb du jour for being too thin on the awards shows, the more women are making it okay for someone else to criticize Adele or any woman for being fat. Media is brutal on all women – they’re equal opportunity objectifiers. One tabloid headline blasts Jessica Simpson for looking fat in her high-waist jeans and the very next is all over Keira Knightly for being too thin. “Is starlet X expecting? It looks like a baby bump! Does Starlet Y have an eating disorder? She looks awfully skinny!” We all know how it goes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I recently saw Miss Representation, a 2011 documentary film directed by Jennifer Siebel Newsom. <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The film explores how mainstream <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mass_media" title="Mass media"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">media</span></a> contribute to the under-representation of women in positions of power, influence and leadership by portraying women in narrow and often disparaging roles. “You can’t be what you can’t see,” is a major theme of the movie, and our society’s media is not providing positive role models for women and girls to see. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Rarely are women the protagonists of mainstream movies (only 16% of film protagonists are female). Apparently it is a firmly held belief in Hollywood that people want to watch movies about white men and aren’t interested in watching movies about women, particularly strong women who talk to each other about something other than men. What about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lara Croft: Tomb Raider</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Catwoman</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Charlie’s Angels</i>? Yes, there seems to be a whole new genre of action movies featuring women as heroes. Unfortunately, these female protagonists are even more sexualized than the traditional love-interest-of-leading-man roles. Caroline Heldman, a Professor of political science at Occidental College, calls this trend the “Fighting Fuck Toy,” which is an image that is both sad and hilarious; a cross between an action figure and a blow-up doll. “Press the button on my back for badass karate-chop motion!” “Squeeze my thigh for realistic hip-grinding action!” “Pull my hair and I say more than 20 phrases: ‘Take that!’ ‘You’ve been a very bad boy!’ ‘Oh, baby!’ and more!” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I was also shocked by a statistic the film shared about the ages of women in mainstream media. I don’t recall the exact percentages, but the gist was this: </span>the majority of women on television are under the age of 31, while the majority of women in this country are over the age of 45. One of the academics interviewed for the film said something to the effect of “judging by what you see in media, women might as well cease to exist when they turn 40.” Upon hearing this, I clutched my husband’s hand and gave him a panic-stricken look out of the corner of my eye. Yes, I’ll be turning the big 4-0 this year and I will admit I’m a little distraught about it. Now I think I know why: Growing up around media that doesn’t show many examples of women over 40 makes it feel a little like I’m going to cease to exist. I’ve begun to, tongue-in-cheek, call 2012 my “cease to exist year.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">While I consciously know I won’t vanish into thin air when I hit 40, I do know I’ll continue struggling with the results of media’s disparaging and limited depictions of women. That has been going on my entire career. I’ve blogged before about the scarcity of women in highly influential leadership positions in my chosen field – one that is generally thought to be “dominated” by women, at least in terms of sheer numbers. It amazes me to hear people say we’ve gotten past sexism. Are they just not paying attention? When I returned from my three month maternity leave, a high-ranking employee of my organization asked me how I was enjoying motherhood. I told him it was wonderful and I was enjoying it more than I ever imagined I would. He shook his head and said, “Yeah, I’ll never forget what one of my first mentors told me: ‘Never hire a woman of child-bearing age.’” In addition to being sexist, his sentiment doesn’t even make sense. I’m still at my job, working as hard as ever. Besides that over the top example, I notice I am frequently interrupted by men in professional settings and my ideas are disregarded more often than the ideas of men. I know it isn’t just me, as plenty of female colleagues share similar experiences. A friend who is in a high-level leadership position talks about having everyone at a meeting dismiss her suggestions, only to embrace the exact same ideas when they are brought up by a man later in the same meeting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">My friend Llysa Holland recently shared a fascinating article called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How the sex bias prevails </i>by Shankar Vedantam. It describes the experiences of two transgendered Stanford University scientists, both of whom underwent sex changes fairly late in their lives – one from man to woman and one from woman to man. The experiences they shared in the different ways they were treated before and after their sex changes are striking. The article posits that perhaps we cannot truly see sexism at work in our society and how it impacts our lives without women being able to experience life as men and vice versa. The scientist who went from being a woman to a man had this to say: “</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">By far, the main difference that I have noticed is that people who don't know I am transgendered treat me with much more respect: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can even complete a whole sentence without being interrupted by a man."</i> (The italicized emphasis is mine.) The scientist who transitioned from man to woman said this about the differing interpersonal dynamics: "You get interrupted when you are talking, you can't command attention, but above all you can't frame the issues.” This sounds all too familiar. </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">When smart, successful women can’t get through a sentence in a professional setting without being interrupted, why do we, as women, spend so much time adding our voices to the dull roar portraying us as nothing more than bodies – either too fat or too thin, love-interests, and “Fighting Fuck Toys?” We’ve been well-trained to objectify ourselves and other women; that’s why. </span>We’ve grown up in a media-saturated world that surrounds us with images of how women are “supposed” to look and learned that our value is dependent on whether or not we meet that standard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">How can we get past being critical of ourselves when we apply the same judgmental eye (with the standards simply flipped) to other women? We can’t pick our brand of beautiful and then disparage the rest without opening ourselves up to the same kind of criticism. Let’s stop obsessing about whether Fergie’s tummy-pooch means she’s expecting or if Katie Holmes has an eating disorder. Let’s stop circulating images that compare and judge women based solely on their physical appearance and start concentrating on framing the issues, shall we? That would be hot.<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></span></div>Rondahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12356993290776429619noreply@blogger.com0