In Which I Amble Along a Big, Circular Path Before Returning Back to My Original Topic - Authority
It was over 40 years ago, in 1961, that Stanley Milgram undertook his famous, or should I say infamous experiments in Obediance to authority. It's one of those things you learn about in Psych 101 -- the professor brings in the old, grainy, black and white video (or projector if your professor is super-duper old-school or if you go to a really shitty college) and you watch as unknowing subject upon unknowing subject administers painful electric shocks to a person they cannot see, just hear. The person whimpers in the distance, begging not to be shocked. But a "scientist" insists that the experiment goes on--that the subject keeps adminstering the shocks. Despite obvious discomfort, the subject generally keeps shocking until the shockee is rendered silent.
What they don't know? There is no real electric shock. The guy they think they are shocking is actually just an actor--albeit one who is excellent at whimpering pathetically.
Ethics would never allow such an experiment today, of course. (All the 'good' ones are that way--dammit!) But the implications of it were so far-reaching that, as I said, it's still the stuff of Psych 101 today.
Unquestioning obediance to authority figures (or perceived authority figures) is something I never really bought into, personally. Anyone who knew me as a child can reiterate this for you. I was always as I am now, raising my eyebrow disdainfully at the nuns and refusing to do what my parents asked of me unless they delivered a sensible explanation for why I should do said thing. Respect was, and still is in my eyes, something you earn by your actions, not something I would deliver to you unquestioningly.
I was a pain in the ass that way.
I see this strange "Obey the Authority Figures At All Costs" phenomenon quite often at work. It's crazy, really. How did physicians become an "authority figure"? Somehow, they are. I watch and listen as people's doctors make horrible suggestions, prescribe dangerous drugs, refuse to refer them to a specialist for something far beyond the doctor's personal realm of expertise. The consequences of some of these monumental fuck-ups are, well, monumental. Sometimes the patient is so embarrassed to return to a doctor who made him or her feel stupid that they don't go back. They don't call to ask if they should be having "that" reaction to their prescribed drugs. They sometimes die.
This crap pisses me off. People, your doctor is hired by you. To perform a service. If he or she is not performing up to par, freaking fire him/her already. It never ceases to amaze me that the same people who will pitch a ginormous fit right in a salon over what they perceive as a bad haircut will keep going back to the same crappy doctor who belittles them, doesn't have time for their questions, or makes bad decisions. (Note: telling your fat ass to lose weight already or your smelly ass to quit smoking does not qualify as belittling. Lose some weight, fat ass!)
Note to doctors: Don't do these things to people. When someone tells me you have done one of those things, I will send an ambassador to gently teach you the "right" way to be a doctor. If you don't change, I will fucking fire your ass. Hard to keep a steady patient base when an insurer won't cover you. And my clients deserve good doctors. So there.
All of this discussion about authority figures is kind of a roundabout way to share with you a hypothesis I was bouncing off of Sean this morning as I slurped coffee and he crunched corn flakes (Now with Bananas!). This is often how my hypotheses occur--before either one of us are really bright enough to hold our own in the ensuing discussion. It can get quite messy, really.
(That's the problem with keeping news radio on in the morning--they will mention something about Bush. And indubitably, it will piss me off and I will get all in a tither.)
Anyhow. So. My hypothesis. I was asking, audibly, "Who the FUCK in their RIGHT MIND would vote for Bush? This is NOT a rhetorical question. I REALLY DON'T understand! WHY would anyone DO THAT?"
Then, all of a sudden, I knew. Because he is the president. An authority figure. A major authority figure. And he is saying "Vote for me!". So, it stands to reason that one should. I mean, who is this John Kerry guy saying I should vote for him? He's not the boss of me. The president is the boss of me!
In essence, I believe that people will vote for him simply because he is the president.
There you have it. The power of Authority, as proved by Milgram and Redpanda.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Some Days It's Worth It
My phone jangled insistently, interrupting me from a boring-ass spreadsheet. My personal extension flashed on the caller ID. Damn. It was someone who had had previous contact with me, whether it was a message I left on a machine or a business card sent imploringly through the mail, please call me back, I want to help you... I had requested that he or she contact me. I couldn't ignore whoever it was. Flipping my eyes heavenward, I picked up the phone. Yet another fruitless call on yet another fruitless day in which I will impact nothing and no one.
A North Shore blue-collar accent greeted me. "Yeah, you sent me a letter. I just moved, so that's probably why it took me so long to get it..." I dug for his file, feeling my heart sink. People with North Shore blue-collar accents who are this young (mid-40's) don't make changes. They don't do anything. They just bitch about their "bad genes" and keep smoking, drinking, eating crap, not exercising.
I told him a little bit about why I had called, what was going on, the program I worked for; bracing myself all the while for the imminent rejection. But it didn't come. Instead, David (I'll call him David because that's his name. And why change it?) interrupted to say "That sounds great! I'd love to do that! I want to do anything to help me get healthier, especially my heart." (Well, he said "hahhht", really. But I think that's the same thing as "heart".)
"Well, great!" I replied, pleasantly surprised. Delving into conversation with David, I found more pleasant surprises.
"Yeah," he said, "I go wit' my wife now to the maaahket to do the grocery shopping. My GOD! It takes FOHEVAH! Reading all those labels! I gotta say, I really respect my wife now for doin' that all those yeaahs for me and the kids."
I laughed and explained that it was a system, that it was hard at first but that they'd get it down pat and it'd be easier.
"Gawd, I hope so!" he replied.
When I asked about smoking, he said he had just quit. I responded with my general yay-for-you-you-are-so-awesome stuff, telling him how great it was that he had done that, what an accomplishment it was, all that jazz. "Well, I tell ya what, I wish I had never lit that first one, tell ya the truth. Now, whenever I get those cravings, I just remember when they used the defibrillator on me. They put those paddles right on me to restart my heart. And Christ, it feels like getting kicked in the chest by a mule, I tell you what. Whenever I want to light up, I just think of that feeling. I thought I was going to die for sure. But thank God, I didn't. Now, I wish that my 22-year-old would learn from what happened to me, and quit too."
The conversation went on. We talked about ways he could improve what he was already doing, how he should take the time off from work to attend cardiac rehab, how I would connect him with more resources to help him stay quit (smoking). He was bright and excited. His heart attack had made his life better--made him appreciate his wife more, made him quit smoking, made him eat better and exercise. He had a new lease on life.
We closed the (long) conversation with him fully enrolled in my program and swearing he would talk more to his doctor about attending cardiac rehab. When we got off the phone, I set down the headset and stared at it awhile. I thought, as I often do, about the inequities of life, the inequities of "the system". How this man, with his blue-collar background and lack of college education, was targeted by Big Tobacco. How they got ahold of him from a young age, teaching him that cigarettes were cool, were grand, were his best chance for escapism. I thought of his job that won't give him time off to attend cardiac rehab so he can learn how to best heal after a heart attack, and how to prevent a future one. I thought of his countless cigarette breaks at work, going for a beer with the guys afterwards. A culture of unhealthy habits. I thought of his son, who had been born when he was barely past his teens, who now didn't want to quit smoking. I thought of how the cycle repeats itself, what it really means to "Have a family history of heart trouble".
It means discrepancies. In care, in upbringing, in opportunities. It means being stunted from the start. It means having a fuckload further to fight before you reach your destination.
Fight the good fight, David. Keep at it. I will knock down any barrier I can to help you on your way. I will help you any way that I can. And one day, God help me, I will make it so someone else doesn't have to fight that fight.
Fuck you, Big Tobacco. You will lose. One day, you will fucking lose.
My phone jangled insistently, interrupting me from a boring-ass spreadsheet. My personal extension flashed on the caller ID. Damn. It was someone who had had previous contact with me, whether it was a message I left on a machine or a business card sent imploringly through the mail, please call me back, I want to help you... I had requested that he or she contact me. I couldn't ignore whoever it was. Flipping my eyes heavenward, I picked up the phone. Yet another fruitless call on yet another fruitless day in which I will impact nothing and no one.
A North Shore blue-collar accent greeted me. "Yeah, you sent me a letter. I just moved, so that's probably why it took me so long to get it..." I dug for his file, feeling my heart sink. People with North Shore blue-collar accents who are this young (mid-40's) don't make changes. They don't do anything. They just bitch about their "bad genes" and keep smoking, drinking, eating crap, not exercising.
I told him a little bit about why I had called, what was going on, the program I worked for; bracing myself all the while for the imminent rejection. But it didn't come. Instead, David (I'll call him David because that's his name. And why change it?) interrupted to say "That sounds great! I'd love to do that! I want to do anything to help me get healthier, especially my heart." (Well, he said "hahhht", really. But I think that's the same thing as "heart".)
"Well, great!" I replied, pleasantly surprised. Delving into conversation with David, I found more pleasant surprises.
"Yeah," he said, "I go wit' my wife now to the maaahket to do the grocery shopping. My GOD! It takes FOHEVAH! Reading all those labels! I gotta say, I really respect my wife now for doin' that all those yeaahs for me and the kids."
I laughed and explained that it was a system, that it was hard at first but that they'd get it down pat and it'd be easier.
"Gawd, I hope so!" he replied.
When I asked about smoking, he said he had just quit. I responded with my general yay-for-you-you-are-so-awesome stuff, telling him how great it was that he had done that, what an accomplishment it was, all that jazz. "Well, I tell ya what, I wish I had never lit that first one, tell ya the truth. Now, whenever I get those cravings, I just remember when they used the defibrillator on me. They put those paddles right on me to restart my heart. And Christ, it feels like getting kicked in the chest by a mule, I tell you what. Whenever I want to light up, I just think of that feeling. I thought I was going to die for sure. But thank God, I didn't. Now, I wish that my 22-year-old would learn from what happened to me, and quit too."
The conversation went on. We talked about ways he could improve what he was already doing, how he should take the time off from work to attend cardiac rehab, how I would connect him with more resources to help him stay quit (smoking). He was bright and excited. His heart attack had made his life better--made him appreciate his wife more, made him quit smoking, made him eat better and exercise. He had a new lease on life.
We closed the (long) conversation with him fully enrolled in my program and swearing he would talk more to his doctor about attending cardiac rehab. When we got off the phone, I set down the headset and stared at it awhile. I thought, as I often do, about the inequities of life, the inequities of "the system". How this man, with his blue-collar background and lack of college education, was targeted by Big Tobacco. How they got ahold of him from a young age, teaching him that cigarettes were cool, were grand, were his best chance for escapism. I thought of his job that won't give him time off to attend cardiac rehab so he can learn how to best heal after a heart attack, and how to prevent a future one. I thought of his countless cigarette breaks at work, going for a beer with the guys afterwards. A culture of unhealthy habits. I thought of his son, who had been born when he was barely past his teens, who now didn't want to quit smoking. I thought of how the cycle repeats itself, what it really means to "Have a family history of heart trouble".
It means discrepancies. In care, in upbringing, in opportunities. It means being stunted from the start. It means having a fuckload further to fight before you reach your destination.
Fight the good fight, David. Keep at it. I will knock down any barrier I can to help you on your way. I will help you any way that I can. And one day, God help me, I will make it so someone else doesn't have to fight that fight.
Fuck you, Big Tobacco. You will lose. One day, you will fucking lose.
Monday, September 27, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
A Pepto Tale
One of Sean's many obsessions is with Pepto-Bismol. (Or, rather, Target Brand Pink Bismuth Liquid). If I happen to complain about some ailment, be it a stubbed toe or gangrene, he's lightning quick to suggest: "Why don't you take some Pepto? Take some Pepto, honey! It'll make you feel better! It's yummy!"
What Sean does not understand is that if one has a digestive system with any sort of sensitivity, one cannot, I repeat, NOT go around chugging Pink Death. To do so is to capitulate all thoughts of pooping for the next week, if not longer. And it is not, in any way, shape, or form, yummy. In fact, I would say that the opposite is true--that Pepto is, in fact, yucky.
That said, Pepto does come in very handy when one is having issues of, shall we say, ass explosivity. It functions as the only nonsexual buttplug.
Now, I have been a bit under the weather this week. It began as a cold, but as things drifted south, I began to feel the first twinges of Upset Tummy-ness. Yep. It was one of Those Times. I was in need of some Pepto.
Except, there wasn't any. None. Nada. Ix-nay on the epto-pay.
Why is that?
Well, I'll tell you. That is because Sean chugs Pepto. He does shots of it the way some people shoot tequila. He drinks it as a beverage, likening it to strawberry milkshakes in consistency and flavor. He uses it in recipes as a substitute for milk, butter, or eggs. He finds any possible way to suck down as much pepto as is humanly possible.
And he will be very, very sorry for that When I Get Home.
One of Sean's many obsessions is with Pepto-Bismol. (Or, rather, Target Brand Pink Bismuth Liquid). If I happen to complain about some ailment, be it a stubbed toe or gangrene, he's lightning quick to suggest: "Why don't you take some Pepto? Take some Pepto, honey! It'll make you feel better! It's yummy!"
What Sean does not understand is that if one has a digestive system with any sort of sensitivity, one cannot, I repeat, NOT go around chugging Pink Death. To do so is to capitulate all thoughts of pooping for the next week, if not longer. And it is not, in any way, shape, or form, yummy. In fact, I would say that the opposite is true--that Pepto is, in fact, yucky.
That said, Pepto does come in very handy when one is having issues of, shall we say, ass explosivity. It functions as the only nonsexual buttplug.
Now, I have been a bit under the weather this week. It began as a cold, but as things drifted south, I began to feel the first twinges of Upset Tummy-ness. Yep. It was one of Those Times. I was in need of some Pepto.
Except, there wasn't any. None. Nada. Ix-nay on the epto-pay.
Why is that?
Well, I'll tell you. That is because Sean chugs Pepto. He does shots of it the way some people shoot tequila. He drinks it as a beverage, likening it to strawberry milkshakes in consistency and flavor. He uses it in recipes as a substitute for milk, butter, or eggs. He finds any possible way to suck down as much pepto as is humanly possible.
And he will be very, very sorry for that When I Get Home.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Weekend
Friday evening we went out, my hair shiny-bright with a new dye job, to dinner and a movie with our friend Mike. We always seem to do the same thing with Mike--dinner and a movie, or a movie and dinner, or maybe dinner, a movie, and then a drink. I'm not sure if it's because we automatically think of Mike now when we're going to do these things, if it's just a habit we've gotten into and can't seem to break, or if it's just plain The Way Things Are. But an evening with Mike often means we'll be catching a movie at the Kendall and eating dinner at Cambridge Brewing Company. No slouch, that. I enjoyed a Pumpkin Ale with my Mediterranean pizza, while Sean and Mike opted for a burger and pecan-crusted catfish, respectively.
We saw a "special sneak preview" ofShaun of the Dead. Three words for you, folks--Kick. Ass. Flick. Over-the-top gore, a sicko sense of humor, and a smart, biting wit all wrapped up in one nice, neat package. I laughed my ass clean off.
Saturday, I worked as the rain came down in sheets, pounding against the windows and making me glad that I hadn't signed up for the Heart Walk (which was, incidentally, cancelled anyway...). When at last that was over and I was home, I found myself making moussaka. Making moussaka is always fun because Sean particularly likes to find new things to call it. This time his favorites seemed to be "Mufasa" and "Baked Montana". Either way, the important thing is that he ate the stuff even though I'm sure it pained him to do so.
That night, we headed back down south to Dorchester for the going-away party of my friend from work, Siobhan. I'm very bummed that she's leaving me, since I never tire of her stories of things like men taking Viagra and then trying to pick her up by saying "Hey, I just took a Viagra!". But alas, the greener pastures of fashion school in Milan were calling, and answer she must. Sean and I spent the evening drinking immense cocktails and complaining that the immense cocktails were not strong enough and too expensive. Oh wait, maybe that was just me.
After sleeping in the next morning, we arose and had a leisurely brekkie before heading north to join R-Dubs, Alayna, Paige, and Theron for some group apple-pickin'. It was my very first time, and it did not disappoint! I have numerous great shots of all involved that I may post one of these days. Beautiful day + apple pickin' = Yay! After we had picked our requisite bags of apples (we all favored the Honey Crisp variety), we headed back to Chez R-Dubs to gather round the Pats game and have some snackies.
So, that was my weekend. A slice of my life, if you will. Not too shabby, not to fancy.
Friday evening we went out, my hair shiny-bright with a new dye job, to dinner and a movie with our friend Mike. We always seem to do the same thing with Mike--dinner and a movie, or a movie and dinner, or maybe dinner, a movie, and then a drink. I'm not sure if it's because we automatically think of Mike now when we're going to do these things, if it's just a habit we've gotten into and can't seem to break, or if it's just plain The Way Things Are. But an evening with Mike often means we'll be catching a movie at the Kendall and eating dinner at Cambridge Brewing Company. No slouch, that. I enjoyed a Pumpkin Ale with my Mediterranean pizza, while Sean and Mike opted for a burger and pecan-crusted catfish, respectively.
We saw a "special sneak preview" ofShaun of the Dead. Three words for you, folks--Kick. Ass. Flick. Over-the-top gore, a sicko sense of humor, and a smart, biting wit all wrapped up in one nice, neat package. I laughed my ass clean off.
Saturday, I worked as the rain came down in sheets, pounding against the windows and making me glad that I hadn't signed up for the Heart Walk (which was, incidentally, cancelled anyway...). When at last that was over and I was home, I found myself making moussaka. Making moussaka is always fun because Sean particularly likes to find new things to call it. This time his favorites seemed to be "Mufasa" and "Baked Montana". Either way, the important thing is that he ate the stuff even though I'm sure it pained him to do so.
That night, we headed back down south to Dorchester for the going-away party of my friend from work, Siobhan. I'm very bummed that she's leaving me, since I never tire of her stories of things like men taking Viagra and then trying to pick her up by saying "Hey, I just took a Viagra!". But alas, the greener pastures of fashion school in Milan were calling, and answer she must. Sean and I spent the evening drinking immense cocktails and complaining that the immense cocktails were not strong enough and too expensive. Oh wait, maybe that was just me.
After sleeping in the next morning, we arose and had a leisurely brekkie before heading north to join R-Dubs, Alayna, Paige, and Theron for some group apple-pickin'. It was my very first time, and it did not disappoint! I have numerous great shots of all involved that I may post one of these days. Beautiful day + apple pickin' = Yay! After we had picked our requisite bags of apples (we all favored the Honey Crisp variety), we headed back to Chez R-Dubs to gather round the Pats game and have some snackies.
So, that was my weekend. A slice of my life, if you will. Not too shabby, not to fancy.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The Way to Get the Poon-tang
I'm sure many of you are familiar with the new craze that is sweeping the nation (I love to say "sweeping the nation", It makes it sound like some entity is flying over cities and plains in a superhero-like fashion, wreaking havoc amongst mad thralls of people who are jumping up and down, desperate for WHATEVER IT IS!) freecycle.
Sean is a freecycle junkie. He spends a substantial portion of his day forwarding me descriptions of what can only be described as Crap That We Don't Need in Any Way, Shape, or Form. Sometimes, he even goes and retrieves said Crap from the offerer and hides it in the trunk of his car for weeks on end. Then, when I find the Crap in his trunk and say: "Where the fuck did this Crap come from?", he can safely reply: "Oh, that? I've had that for weeks!"
But, I digress. Although freecycle is a great resource for people both trying to get rid of Crap and people trying to obtain Crap, sometimes things that really piss me off get sent around. Some of the best examples are things like "My 4-year-old son would love some kittens to play with!",(That's kittenSSSSS. Plural. Because, you know, it's normal to get more than one pet at a time for your 4-year-old.) or "Does anyone have a puppy I can adopt? I went to the shelters, but the ones there are expensive--like $200--and I can't afford that!" (News for you, assfuck--if you can't afford to shell out the 2 big ones required to adopt the puppy, than you can't afford to own a puppy.), or the unending "Please adopt my kitten. She is 7 months old and no longer cute. Also, she still needs to be neutered. She hasn't gotten her shots yet, either. I only got her because she was cute. Now I have discovered that she is a lot of trouble and I wish someone else would take her now that she is not cute anymore!" (No further explanation required on that one.)
After the seven millionth of those hit the list, Sean took action. He pretty much spammed the entire freecycle community with the suggestion that pets can be found easily on Petfinder or in the shelters, and that it was not appropriate to treat them like they were an old bookcase or table. He also provided a link to the Saddest Craigslist Post Ever, one that made me tear up for weeks after whenever I thought about it. It's so sad, in fact, that I think everyone should read it so that they too can spend a few days stumbling around muttering "good dog or good cat!" and bursting into tears.
Well, the response was pretty overwhelming, to say the least. For a while, Sean forwarded me the nice responses he was receiving from the freecycle community.
So, what does this have to do with The Poon-tang?
Well, all, I mean EVERY SINGLE ONE of the responses he received were from women. And some kept responding, sending more and more personal information in each email. I am still patiently waiting for the "Great post--here is a crotch shot!" or "Very well said. Would you like to put my boobie in your mouth?" or "Enough about pets. When can we fuck?" emails to arrive.
That Sean, he is one helluva chick magnet.
I'm sure many of you are familiar with the new craze that is sweeping the nation (I love to say "sweeping the nation", It makes it sound like some entity is flying over cities and plains in a superhero-like fashion, wreaking havoc amongst mad thralls of people who are jumping up and down, desperate for WHATEVER IT IS!) freecycle.
Sean is a freecycle junkie. He spends a substantial portion of his day forwarding me descriptions of what can only be described as Crap That We Don't Need in Any Way, Shape, or Form. Sometimes, he even goes and retrieves said Crap from the offerer and hides it in the trunk of his car for weeks on end. Then, when I find the Crap in his trunk and say: "Where the fuck did this Crap come from?", he can safely reply: "Oh, that? I've had that for weeks!"
But, I digress. Although freecycle is a great resource for people both trying to get rid of Crap and people trying to obtain Crap, sometimes things that really piss me off get sent around. Some of the best examples are things like "My 4-year-old son would love some kittens to play with!",(That's kittenSSSSS. Plural. Because, you know, it's normal to get more than one pet at a time for your 4-year-old.) or "Does anyone have a puppy I can adopt? I went to the shelters, but the ones there are expensive--like $200--and I can't afford that!" (News for you, assfuck--if you can't afford to shell out the 2 big ones required to adopt the puppy, than you can't afford to own a puppy.), or the unending "Please adopt my kitten. She is 7 months old and no longer cute. Also, she still needs to be neutered. She hasn't gotten her shots yet, either. I only got her because she was cute. Now I have discovered that she is a lot of trouble and I wish someone else would take her now that she is not cute anymore!" (No further explanation required on that one.)
After the seven millionth of those hit the list, Sean took action. He pretty much spammed the entire freecycle community with the suggestion that pets can be found easily on Petfinder or in the shelters, and that it was not appropriate to treat them like they were an old bookcase or table. He also provided a link to the Saddest Craigslist Post Ever, one that made me tear up for weeks after whenever I thought about it. It's so sad, in fact, that I think everyone should read it so that they too can spend a few days stumbling around muttering "good dog or good cat!" and bursting into tears.
Well, the response was pretty overwhelming, to say the least. For a while, Sean forwarded me the nice responses he was receiving from the freecycle community.
So, what does this have to do with The Poon-tang?
Well, all, I mean EVERY SINGLE ONE of the responses he received were from women. And some kept responding, sending more and more personal information in each email. I am still patiently waiting for the "Great post--here is a crotch shot!" or "Very well said. Would you like to put my boobie in your mouth?" or "Enough about pets. When can we fuck?" emails to arrive.
That Sean, he is one helluva chick magnet.
Friday, September 17, 2004
And Just Like That, I Got "Old"
Last Saturday, I was at a party for Someone's adorable 1-year-old's first birthday. (I say "Someone" because I don't like to mention people's names on my blog without their Ok. Except for people I have known for years and years and therefore own the rights to by default, like Brandy or Fady or Sarah...you guys I'll talk all kinds of smack about, ha ha!)
So, anyway, we were at Someone's house for Son of Someone's first birthday. It was, in all honesty, one of my very first Non-family Child's Birthday Celebrations. (My friends aren't much into the reproducin'.) Being that it was a family kind of celebration, there were kids of various age and descrip about. Some were youngish, some were old enough that if I really faced reality, I'd realize that they were spending their weekends at sleepovers discussing blowjobs and how they weren't sure if they wanted to do them one day or not. Really. But really, that is very odd to me--to think that I'm talking to peeople who have kids who are old enough to discuss blowjobs at sleepovers and it's not in the form of "So, how are you doing in school this year, young lady?".
I guess I still think of myself as young, or youngish. Or at least Not Older Yet.
It was a delightful party, catered superbly by Mother of Someone. Everyone seemed to have a good time celebrating Son of Someone's birthday, and Someone had had a great idea--she left out a Polaroid (yes, they still have those) camera and a memory book, so all party attendees could take their picture and leave a message for Son of Someone! Isn't that just the cutest?
Sean and I were hanging out in the room with the aforementioned memory book (and, not coincidentally, the food) when one of the youngish kids of the Old Enough to Talk about Blowjobs at Slumber Parties variety (Not to imply that she would ever do such a thing--oh, no. Just that she is of the age to do so. Oh, yes.) began flipping around a wet-with-newness Polaroid and singing "Shake it! Shake it! Shake it like a Polaroid Pictuah!"
Watching this transpire, I couldn't help but remember back to last year, when Hey Ya was at its heydey and a radio DJ called Polaroid to ask if it was, indeed, appropriate to "shake" a poloroid picture. "Oh, no!" the Polaroid representative had explained in mild horror, "Shaking a Polaroid can cause the colors to run and the picture to develop improperly. You should never shake a Polaroid picture."
So, with this knowledge in mind, I felt it was only fair to warn her that her actions could very well jeopardize the very picture she was clutching. "Hey," I began, "I wes listening to the radio one time, and the DJ called Polaroid, and--"
"It's a song!" Youngish interjected laughingly. "It's called Hey Ya!"
I got ready to interrupt and explain that I knew it was a song, that I was just trying to pass on some information about Proper Polaroid Procedure, but one look at her laughing face and I knew. I knew. It was futile.
Nevermind that I've been an OutKast fan since before Miss Jackson hit the airwaves almost 4 years ago, that I remember singing it on the way down to New Orleans for a spring break roadtrip. I was old. Grown-up old. Far too old to know anything about anything, obviously. At least, to a twelve-year-old.
Just like that.
Sean laughed at me. "You're old!"
"You're old, too." I replied dryly.
And so, it begins.
Last Saturday, I was at a party for Someone's adorable 1-year-old's first birthday. (I say "Someone" because I don't like to mention people's names on my blog without their Ok. Except for people I have known for years and years and therefore own the rights to by default, like Brandy or Fady or Sarah...you guys I'll talk all kinds of smack about, ha ha!)
So, anyway, we were at Someone's house for Son of Someone's first birthday. It was, in all honesty, one of my very first Non-family Child's Birthday Celebrations. (My friends aren't much into the reproducin'.) Being that it was a family kind of celebration, there were kids of various age and descrip about. Some were youngish, some were old enough that if I really faced reality, I'd realize that they were spending their weekends at sleepovers discussing blowjobs and how they weren't sure if they wanted to do them one day or not. Really. But really, that is very odd to me--to think that I'm talking to peeople who have kids who are old enough to discuss blowjobs at sleepovers and it's not in the form of "So, how are you doing in school this year, young lady?".
I guess I still think of myself as young, or youngish. Or at least Not Older Yet.
It was a delightful party, catered superbly by Mother of Someone. Everyone seemed to have a good time celebrating Son of Someone's birthday, and Someone had had a great idea--she left out a Polaroid (yes, they still have those) camera and a memory book, so all party attendees could take their picture and leave a message for Son of Someone! Isn't that just the cutest?
Sean and I were hanging out in the room with the aforementioned memory book (and, not coincidentally, the food) when one of the youngish kids of the Old Enough to Talk about Blowjobs at Slumber Parties variety (Not to imply that she would ever do such a thing--oh, no. Just that she is of the age to do so. Oh, yes.) began flipping around a wet-with-newness Polaroid and singing "Shake it! Shake it! Shake it like a Polaroid Pictuah!"
Watching this transpire, I couldn't help but remember back to last year, when Hey Ya was at its heydey and a radio DJ called Polaroid to ask if it was, indeed, appropriate to "shake" a poloroid picture. "Oh, no!" the Polaroid representative had explained in mild horror, "Shaking a Polaroid can cause the colors to run and the picture to develop improperly. You should never shake a Polaroid picture."
So, with this knowledge in mind, I felt it was only fair to warn her that her actions could very well jeopardize the very picture she was clutching. "Hey," I began, "I wes listening to the radio one time, and the DJ called Polaroid, and--"
"It's a song!" Youngish interjected laughingly. "It's called Hey Ya!"
I got ready to interrupt and explain that I knew it was a song, that I was just trying to pass on some information about Proper Polaroid Procedure, but one look at her laughing face and I knew. I knew. It was futile.
Nevermind that I've been an OutKast fan since before Miss Jackson hit the airwaves almost 4 years ago, that I remember singing it on the way down to New Orleans for a spring break roadtrip. I was old. Grown-up old. Far too old to know anything about anything, obviously. At least, to a twelve-year-old.
Just like that.
Sean laughed at me. "You're old!"
"You're old, too." I replied dryly.
And so, it begins.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Sickening
Let me explain something, as quickly and easily as possible.
If you have deep religious beliefs, or deep beliefs of any kind, that conflict with the requirements of a specific position and/or career choice; You have no goddamn right to be in that position.
Are you a vegetarian? Don't get a job in a slaughterhouse and then say that your morals are being compromised by your position. Do you go into epilectic seizures every time you see a Nintendo game? Don't apply for a job at Nintendo as a game tester. You don't believe in a woman's right to choose? Don't become a pharmacist, a doctor, a nurse, or any other health worker who works with women and the choices they make. (You know, like buying birth control?)
I have the utmost respect for anyone's right to his or her own beliefs. It stops at beliefs. Using your position (especially that of a trusted medical professional) to force your beliefs upon others is not acceptable under any circumstances.
What's next? A Christian Scientist ER doc who refuses to treat anyone walking through the door?
Let me explain something, as quickly and easily as possible.
If you have deep religious beliefs, or deep beliefs of any kind, that conflict with the requirements of a specific position and/or career choice; You have no goddamn right to be in that position.
Are you a vegetarian? Don't get a job in a slaughterhouse and then say that your morals are being compromised by your position. Do you go into epilectic seizures every time you see a Nintendo game? Don't apply for a job at Nintendo as a game tester. You don't believe in a woman's right to choose? Don't become a pharmacist, a doctor, a nurse, or any other health worker who works with women and the choices they make. (You know, like buying birth control?)
I have the utmost respect for anyone's right to his or her own beliefs. It stops at beliefs. Using your position (especially that of a trusted medical professional) to force your beliefs upon others is not acceptable under any circumstances.
What's next? A Christian Scientist ER doc who refuses to treat anyone walking through the door?
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Friday, September 10, 2004
Now, That's a Big Cat!
We had been having some troubles with Tivy (who answers to Tivy, Septivious Kittious, Mr. C., Mr. Cat, Mr. Large, Mr. Large Cat, Cat, You Are A Cat, Large; and finally, You Are A Large Cat) peeing on the bathroom floor. Not this-is-my-motherfucking-bathroom spraying, but more of a I-have-to-PEE-NOW puddling. The entire thing was a bit baffling, frankly, because the cat litter box is not 4 feet from the chosen pee-puddling locale. So clearly, it was not a matter of having to PEE NOW. Otherwise, I like to think that Mr. Large Cat would take the extra 12 cat-steps and pee IN THE LITTER BOX.
Well, we mused, perhaps we are not changing the litter often enough. We began scooping a couple times a day, practically waiting behind the cats with a scoop when they disappeared into the Booda Dome.
This did not improve matters any.
Ok, we further mused, perhaps he has decided he no longer is a fan of the Feline Pine litter. Maybe we should go back to scoopable stuff? So we bought a special recycled scoopable flushable litter.
Again, the pee puddle fairy kept leaving gifts.
Fine, we mused. Our cat is an asshole. But what if we try the scoopable clay litter? Could that help matters?
We were at PetSmart, perusing the contents of the Cat Poo Defense department, when Sean raised his finger in the manner of a mad scientist and said "Egads!" (Well, no, he really didn't say that. But I've always wanted to be around someone who said "Egads!".) "Do you suppose that he is too bigfor the litter box?"
"Nah. No way!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "We have a Booda Dome. It's freakin' HUGE!"
"He's a big cat, honey." Sean replied dubiously.
This was an assertion I couldn't find fault with. We selected a litter box roughly the size of a 1984 Buick, a covered model with a plastic door flap; and made our way to the front of the store.
Cut to present times. We have not, (*knocking on any and all available wood-like substances*) as of yet, experienced any more floor puddling incidents. All pee seems to now be safely contained within the litter box.
And last night, when I went into the bathroom to wash my face, I spied something I had never seen before. A bit of black and white fur that could only be Tivy was visible within the litter box, the door flap propped up against him because he was so big it stayed on top of him rather than fall back down.
Now, that's a big cat.
We had been having some troubles with Tivy (who answers to Tivy, Septivious Kittious, Mr. C., Mr. Cat, Mr. Large, Mr. Large Cat, Cat, You Are A Cat, Large; and finally, You Are A Large Cat) peeing on the bathroom floor. Not this-is-my-motherfucking-bathroom spraying, but more of a I-have-to-PEE-NOW puddling. The entire thing was a bit baffling, frankly, because the cat litter box is not 4 feet from the chosen pee-puddling locale. So clearly, it was not a matter of having to PEE NOW. Otherwise, I like to think that Mr. Large Cat would take the extra 12 cat-steps and pee IN THE LITTER BOX.
Well, we mused, perhaps we are not changing the litter often enough. We began scooping a couple times a day, practically waiting behind the cats with a scoop when they disappeared into the Booda Dome.
This did not improve matters any.
Ok, we further mused, perhaps he has decided he no longer is a fan of the Feline Pine litter. Maybe we should go back to scoopable stuff? So we bought a special recycled scoopable flushable litter.
Again, the pee puddle fairy kept leaving gifts.
Fine, we mused. Our cat is an asshole. But what if we try the scoopable clay litter? Could that help matters?
We were at PetSmart, perusing the contents of the Cat Poo Defense department, when Sean raised his finger in the manner of a mad scientist and said "Egads!" (Well, no, he really didn't say that. But I've always wanted to be around someone who said "Egads!".) "Do you suppose that he is too bigfor the litter box?"
"Nah. No way!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "We have a Booda Dome. It's freakin' HUGE!"
"He's a big cat, honey." Sean replied dubiously.
This was an assertion I couldn't find fault with. We selected a litter box roughly the size of a 1984 Buick, a covered model with a plastic door flap; and made our way to the front of the store.
Cut to present times. We have not, (*knocking on any and all available wood-like substances*) as of yet, experienced any more floor puddling incidents. All pee seems to now be safely contained within the litter box.
And last night, when I went into the bathroom to wash my face, I spied something I had never seen before. A bit of black and white fur that could only be Tivy was visible within the litter box, the door flap propped up against him because he was so big it stayed on top of him rather than fall back down.
Now, that's a big cat.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Good Things
There just aren't enough good things in the world. Or maybe I'm just greedy for 'em.
Sean and I have been getting organic produce delivered to us for the last couple of months! Boston Organics delivers to your home or office, every week or every other week. You select if you would like a $25 or $35 box (we find the $25 to be an abundance), what percentage of fruits v/s veggies you would like, and anything you DON'T want in your box. Then you sit back and wait. Ahh. They have taught me that roasted beets can be yummy. Who knew?
The Boston Film Festival starts this weekend. I'm a mad sucker for those shorts presentations. Check 'em out!
I bought some lovely glass rings for myself and a couple of near and dear friends recently. I love mine, the smoothness and weight against my finger. I loved theirs, too, almost to the point where I had some trouble sending them off. Luckily, I managed to do so. Props to the Carrot Box!
Barbados is still there, as far as I know. I'll let you know for sure (*knocking furtively against all available wood*) when we head out there in 24 days. Leave it to me to plan a Caribbean vacation in the WORST hurricane season EVER. Bah.
There just aren't enough good things in the world. Or maybe I'm just greedy for 'em.
Sean and I have been getting organic produce delivered to us for the last couple of months! Boston Organics delivers to your home or office, every week or every other week. You select if you would like a $25 or $35 box (we find the $25 to be an abundance), what percentage of fruits v/s veggies you would like, and anything you DON'T want in your box. Then you sit back and wait. Ahh. They have taught me that roasted beets can be yummy. Who knew?
The Boston Film Festival starts this weekend. I'm a mad sucker for those shorts presentations. Check 'em out!
I bought some lovely glass rings for myself and a couple of near and dear friends recently. I love mine, the smoothness and weight against my finger. I loved theirs, too, almost to the point where I had some trouble sending them off. Luckily, I managed to do so. Props to the Carrot Box!
Barbados is still there, as far as I know. I'll let you know for sure (*knocking furtively against all available wood*) when we head out there in 24 days. Leave it to me to plan a Caribbean vacation in the WORST hurricane season EVER. Bah.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
The Problem With Furrowing
I am one of those expressively-faced people. This is a good thing, in that it makes me endlessly amusing and endearing. But it's a bad thing in that it can A) Get me into Trouble, and B) Give me Permanent Brow Furrows.
The getting into Trouble has been an issue all my life, but I'm only recently becoming aware of the Permanent Brow Furrows. I fear that they will only deepen and deepen until I resemble a Neanderthal (the "h" is silent, people!) woman. Especially if they get to be so deep that I can no longer fit any pair of tweezers in existence into the vast gaping cleft that will have taken up residence on my forehead. The sweetly shaped eyebrows that I am currently in possession of will become singular in nature, and I will begin to grunt, wear animal skins, and celebrate the burial of my dead with primitive religious ceremonies.
I fear that this is imminent.
The expressions getting me into trouble thing just waxes and wanes seemingly of its own volition. I can remember getting a "check" next to my name in grade school with my teacher's explanation written beside it in neat, flowing cursive: Rolled eyes at me. Yeah, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, bitch. It was totally worth it. Even though I didn't get to watch The Golden Child with my class that month because of the fateful check.
In grad school, we were taking a break from class (the classes were, like, FOUR. HOURS. LONG.) when one of my friends pointed at me and laughed maniacly. "You look SOOO pissed off during class! And I was like, I know she's happy, why does she look so mad? I know she's not mad. She's happy! I was, indeed, "happy". It was then that I came to a realization--my "thoughtful" look, complete with deep brow furrowing, translates as pissed-offed-ness. Oops. Now when I'm doing things like sitting in boring-ass meetings or going on job interviews, I make a concerted effort to hold my eyebrows aloft in perfectly groomed little St. Louis Arches, all the while nodding thoughtfully.
After one of those aforementioned boring-ass meetings last week, a co-worker-slash-friend informed me that she was no longer going to be able to sit either anywhere near me or anywhere it was possible to see my facial expressions. (This, I think, limits her meeting seating choices quite severely.) Apparently, unbeknownst to me, when something stupid is said or done, my right eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly in a miniscule expression of aghast disdain. Oops.
(In my defense, at the last boring-ass meeting, my boss's boss unveiled our "department's New Mascot!" that she "couldn't leave in the store!" because "he was too cute!!!". This was a bug. A stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug in a rainbow of garish neon colors. A giant stuffed but in a rainbow of garish neon colors that makes me feel like I'm working at a freaking CARNIVAL. Now, can one's eyebrow really be expected to remain in a position of non-disdain when faced with events such as this?)
The bug is really deserving of a blog all his own, but at this point I don't think I have the energy to get into how there can possibly be a giant stuffed bug flopped atop a cubicle in the middle of the room. Really, it's just too much.
But, back to the brow furrowing. I can combat the encroachment of Neanderthal-dom with Burt's Bees slathered liberally across my already greasy T-zone, but I'm not really sure how to combat the disdain. Most especially the aghast disdain, which is the worst kind of disdain of all.
Perhaps there's a lotion.
I am one of those expressively-faced people. This is a good thing, in that it makes me endlessly amusing and endearing. But it's a bad thing in that it can A) Get me into Trouble, and B) Give me Permanent Brow Furrows.
The getting into Trouble has been an issue all my life, but I'm only recently becoming aware of the Permanent Brow Furrows. I fear that they will only deepen and deepen until I resemble a Neanderthal (the "h" is silent, people!) woman. Especially if they get to be so deep that I can no longer fit any pair of tweezers in existence into the vast gaping cleft that will have taken up residence on my forehead. The sweetly shaped eyebrows that I am currently in possession of will become singular in nature, and I will begin to grunt, wear animal skins, and celebrate the burial of my dead with primitive religious ceremonies.
I fear that this is imminent.
The expressions getting me into trouble thing just waxes and wanes seemingly of its own volition. I can remember getting a "check" next to my name in grade school with my teacher's explanation written beside it in neat, flowing cursive: Rolled eyes at me. Yeah, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, bitch. It was totally worth it. Even though I didn't get to watch The Golden Child with my class that month because of the fateful check.
In grad school, we were taking a break from class (the classes were, like, FOUR. HOURS. LONG.) when one of my friends pointed at me and laughed maniacly. "You look SOOO pissed off during class! And I was like, I know she's happy, why does she look so mad? I know she's not mad. She's happy! I was, indeed, "happy". It was then that I came to a realization--my "thoughtful" look, complete with deep brow furrowing, translates as pissed-offed-ness. Oops. Now when I'm doing things like sitting in boring-ass meetings or going on job interviews, I make a concerted effort to hold my eyebrows aloft in perfectly groomed little St. Louis Arches, all the while nodding thoughtfully.
After one of those aforementioned boring-ass meetings last week, a co-worker-slash-friend informed me that she was no longer going to be able to sit either anywhere near me or anywhere it was possible to see my facial expressions. (This, I think, limits her meeting seating choices quite severely.) Apparently, unbeknownst to me, when something stupid is said or done, my right eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly in a miniscule expression of aghast disdain. Oops.
(In my defense, at the last boring-ass meeting, my boss's boss unveiled our "department's New Mascot!" that she "couldn't leave in the store!" because "he was too cute!!!". This was a bug. A stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug in a rainbow of garish neon colors. A giant stuffed but in a rainbow of garish neon colors that makes me feel like I'm working at a freaking CARNIVAL. Now, can one's eyebrow really be expected to remain in a position of non-disdain when faced with events such as this?)
The bug is really deserving of a blog all his own, but at this point I don't think I have the energy to get into how there can possibly be a giant stuffed bug flopped atop a cubicle in the middle of the room. Really, it's just too much.
But, back to the brow furrowing. I can combat the encroachment of Neanderthal-dom with Burt's Bees slathered liberally across my already greasy T-zone, but I'm not really sure how to combat the disdain. Most especially the aghast disdain, which is the worst kind of disdain of all.
Perhaps there's a lotion.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Bloodletting #2
I was scheduled to give blood again today, so I once again found myself questioning every little item on the questionnaire When was that acupuncture treatment? How close is "close relationship"?.
It takes soooo very long to get through the whole process. You have to be called up by number and counseled countless times, by the end of which you are so frazzled you're likely to accidentally stick the For the Love of God Don't Use My Blood sticker on the form instead of its Please Use My Healthy Delicious Blood cousin. This has happened to me before.
While you wait, people wheel Igloo brand coolers full of blood past. This is endlessly creepy.
After I was bled today, (and can we talk about how fast I bled? I am the Fastest! Bleeder! Ever!) a different nurse from the one who had put the bloodsucking tube into my arm came over to staunch the bleeding. She is my new best friend. This is because when I sat up, she gave me a backrub and told me I should have "double food for the rest of the week" and "no heavy lifting or strenuous activities, like doing dishes, cleaning, or laundry".
At this last tidbit of information, the very joy within my being thrust me up and airborne, so I floated gracefully over to the folding table where Famous Amos cookies and cranberry juice were being handed out. Two times one is TWO!!! TWO COOKIES FOR MEEEEEE!!!!!!
I was scheduled to give blood again today, so I once again found myself questioning every little item on the questionnaire When was that acupuncture treatment? How close is "close relationship"?.
It takes soooo very long to get through the whole process. You have to be called up by number and counseled countless times, by the end of which you are so frazzled you're likely to accidentally stick the For the Love of God Don't Use My Blood sticker on the form instead of its Please Use My Healthy Delicious Blood cousin. This has happened to me before.
While you wait, people wheel Igloo brand coolers full of blood past. This is endlessly creepy.
After I was bled today, (and can we talk about how fast I bled? I am the Fastest! Bleeder! Ever!) a different nurse from the one who had put the bloodsucking tube into my arm came over to staunch the bleeding. She is my new best friend. This is because when I sat up, she gave me a backrub and told me I should have "double food for the rest of the week" and "no heavy lifting or strenuous activities, like doing dishes, cleaning, or laundry".
At this last tidbit of information, the very joy within my being thrust me up and airborne, so I floated gracefully over to the folding table where Famous Amos cookies and cranberry juice were being handed out. Two times one is TWO!!! TWO COOKIES FOR MEEEEEE!!!!!!
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