I have lived on the west coast for twelve years. When I say the west coast I mean all of it. I’m one of the few people I know that can actually say that they have lived in California, Oregon, Washington and Alaska. Therefore, when I say I have lived on the west coast, I really mean it. The point is this. After twelve years living on the west side of America one would think that I would have not only become a “laid-back” person but would also have a solid working knowledge of what the term really means. But I don’t. Worse yet is that I detest this phrase.
My disdain for this phrase stems from the fact that everyone I know out west not only describes themselves as laid-back but also uses the term laid-back to explain all sorts of things, from why they were late to their indifference to what is happening around them.
Spurred on by yet another morning commute in which my carpooling colleague’s indifference to world events was explained away by being “laid-back”, I decided to get to the root of this phrase. A quick search of web-based Dictionary.com yielded nothing.
A thumb through Webster’s New World Dictionary resulted in nothing. No definition was found by searching any dictionary or thesaurus currently in print. My only option was to look up the phrase in urbandictionary.com. There I found five definitions for this irksome phrase. The first definition equated laid back to being “lazy”. The second claimed that a laid back person would “get stuff done…eventually.” The third defined it as “relaxed, calm, not anxious”, and the fourth “apathetic, passive or passive-aggressive.” It was the fourth definition that struck a powerful chord in me, as that is exactly how I would describe a laid-back person.
My claim that a laid back person is apathetic, passive or passive-aggressive has been proven throughout the duration of my tenure on the west coast. I have often been reproached by my employers for being “harsh” when I have addressed co-workers or my own staff with whom I had problems. I would be told that I should talk to my supervisor first about the problem and then have my supervisor talk to my offending colleague’s supervisor so that the issue could be worked out. What? This type of logic has always escaped me. I mean why would I not be able to discuss the matter with a co-worker like a reasonable adult? It’s work, it’s not personal and I can address someone is a very fair, open-minded and diplomatic method. I have learned however, that others cannot and I have been fodder for many an early morning water cooler gossip session. Moreover, I have come to realize that the simple act of talking to a colleague about a problem would be interpreted as being “harsh” and I would be accused of “yelling” despite the fact that I rarely, if ever, yell at anyone.
Around the fourth of fifth time I was accused of yelling I began to really question myself and seriously wonder if I was in fact yelling? Three minutes later I realized that I was not the problem and yet I was the problem. It simply came down to perceived versus real time location. I was on the west coast but acting like an east coaster would and this was something that needed to be addressed, immediately.
I began my professional career on the east-coast. I worked at a small college for a man named Mr. Dick. In addition to the obvious issue of having to address someone as Mr. Dick without laughing, I also had to work closely with a rather persnickety study abroad advisor who had the knack for promising things to international students that were patently untrue. As the Residence Life Director I would inevitably dash the hopes of the foreign students upon their arrival. I would have to explain that we didn’t offer private rooms, that you couldn’t smoke in your room, we did not have a private kitchen, and no you couldn’t call Djibouti from your dorm room without an international calling card.
After trying and failing to reason with my study abroad nemesis, I went to see Mr. Dick. I explained to him the ongoing problem with the dissemination of misinformation and he nodded appreciatively and would “hmmm, I see” to acknowledge my concern. I thought the meeting was going well and assumed he would come to my aid when he said, “ And you’re telling me this because?", he said sacrastically.
“Well like I said Mr. Dick, the problem is that…”
“Yes, and I believe I hired you to problem solve NOT to bring your problems to me. Is that correct?”, he countered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now go out there and solve your own problems. I have too many fish to fry and I hired you to solve these problems for me. Not to bring the problems back on to my plate. If you can’t handle that then you need to look for a new job.”
“I can handle it sir. Thank you for your time,” I muttered as I walked out of his office.
I was angry and dismayed. I thought he would help. I puttered around my house, furious the rest of the evening. I called my friend to tell her what happened and she said, “Well this is great. Now you can deal with it anyway you want to. The gloves come off.”
I never thought of it like that. I mean I was in charge of dealing with my own problems and conflicts. I could handle them the way I see fit to get the results I wanted. How liberating, how empowering. I began to like this Mr. Dick.
The next day I sought out the study abroad advisor and let her have it, diplomatically of course. I walked in to her office and laid down the ultimatum. I said what I needed to say, I stated very clearly my expectation for what I wanted to happen, and I gave her the choice to either do that or face the consequences. Period. And unsurprisingly that was the end of the conflict.
I realize in hindsight that the difference between east and west is simply the east-coasters willingness and desire to confront the situation. We are not afraid of confrontation and sometimes we actually like it. Moreover, we are often empowered to handle things ourselves. Mr. Dick didn’t like that I was going to him with the problems and in truth it made me look bad. That is why it was the last time I ever went to see a supervisor about a problem co-worker. I want to show that I can handle the issue myself, like an adult. Moreover, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble with the boss when we can handle it ourselves. I’m not trying to get anyone fired; I just want to work together in a more effective way. How is that not the epitome of laid-back? East-coasters deal with the issue when it comes up and then let it go.
That is not the west coast way. The west coast way involves telling your supervisor, getting someone in trouble, writing a report, and then telling everyone in the office what happened behind that person’s back. Its subterfuge and it’s catty and deliberate, especially when that same tattletale is nice and sweet to your face.
So why do the west-coasters do this? The first reason is fear of conflict. West-coasters are conflict adverse. They hide behind the idea of wanting everything to be nice and harmonious and “no worries” to the point that they won’t bring up anything that is really bothering them to the person who is the cause of the bothering. Instead they “vent” to everyone and anyone that is willing to listen to their complaints. The west coasters try to rally everyone on to their team before they take action. That action is usually avoidance of the trouble causing person and or scheming to make their lives miserable by getting everyone else to hate them too so that the trouble causing person eventually quits or gets promoted.
The second reason is that west coasters like their drama. Afterall, work wouldn’t be so much fun without the petty drama and gossip, the who said what to whom, the dirty looks, the back-stabbing, the lies and deception? West-coast living is a lot like The Real Housewives. I mean watch those two shows. Watch the California housewives and then watch the New York housewives. Wow, vastly different personalities and methods of handling problems. And they epitomize my point so effectively.
So all you “laid-back” west-coasters can continue to own that self-describing moniker and I will accept it for what it is – a self-descriptive phrase. In two words you are conveying to me the fact that you identify yourself as passive-aggressive and someone not to be trusted. I mean push come to shove you won’t tell me that you have a problem with me. You won’t tell me what the real issue is. You’ll simply tell everyone else and remain in high school forever. Now, remind me why I should want to hang out with you?
Monday, March 21, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Worst Reason For Looking Good
“The only reason you still look so good is because you don’t have kids.” I was stunned the first time I heard a woman say this to me. I could not believe someone would say something so hurtful and ignorant to a complete stranger.
I was supposed to be relaxing at the nail salon, enjoying my day off with a well-deserved and long overdue pedicure. The place was busy and there was a lot of talking going on between a group of three women, all of whom I took to be around my age. They were laughing and gossiping and seemed to just be really enjoying their girl time. Made me long for my girlfriends as well, except that I didn’t really have any. I was always moving and never really had time to make friends. Thirty seven moves in thirty six years will do that to you.
As I sat there enjoying my salt soak and the kneading action of the massage chair on my back, one of the women turned to me and said, “You’re real fit. What’s your trick? What do you do?”
“Ugh, who me?” I asked incredulous. I was stunned by being invited to engage in some girl talk so her question threw me off my guard.
“Yes, you look really in shape. What’s your secret? No wheat? No sugar? No carb? You’re a vegan?”
“No,” I laughed. “I’m just a runner. Have been for 20 years.”
“That’s it. You run?” she questioned in disbelief. “You have a strict diet or something?”
“No. I pretty much eat anything I want, in moderation of course. Sure I try to avoid the bad things, the junk food, and I don’t drink soda – ever, but otherwise that’s it. I just eat when I’m hungry and keep lots of healthy snacks around. Oh and I eat lots of fruit and vegetables.”
She chortled. A real chortle. “That’s it? That easy huh? You have kids?”
“No, why? Does that matter?”
“Well of course it matters. I mean the only reason you still look so good is because you don’t have kids!”
I was stunned, shocked. I didn’t know what to say. I looked around the salon for help, for someone to say to me, “Oh don’t listen to her honey” or any one of those cliché phrases heard only in women’s salons. But there was no help. In fact, everyone who had heard the woman seemed to nod their head in agreement while they sized me up and down. The young man filing my toes just kept his head down and scrubbed harder.
“I don’t think that’s true”, I started in my defense. “I know plenty of women with kids that look fantastic.”
“Right. Hollywood women. Stay at home moms perhaps with nothing else to do all day but count calories and weigh food. But I’m talking real women. Women who work and raise kids. You wouldn’t look so good if you were one of those women.”
And that is when the gloves came off.
“So what you’re saying is that women look good before kids and look terrible after kids? I mean this is what you’re saying right?”
“I wouldn’t say I look like terrible now”, she retorted. I could tell she was getting upset and her friends too but honestly I didn’t care. I was beyond tired of having mean things said to me regarding my single, child-free status and this latest comment just pushed my anger over the edge. I was going to defend myself and my looks to the end, or at least to this woman and her goons.
“I wouldn’t say you look bad either. I just don’t agree with you. But you know what I will tell you my secret. It’s easy. Here you go……I work out. I work out a lot. I work out every single day. People don’t just “look good” they have to work at. It’s like going to a job. Models, actresses, athletes, spend a lot of time and money to look good. They work out. And I work out. I always have to push myself hard. To run farther, to run faster, to run better. It’s such hard work that it’s taken me 20 years of running to keep looking this good. Twenty years!” I was really fuming by now.
“And it has nothing to do with whether or not I’ve had a child," I raged on. "Plenty of mom’s look great. Why? Because they carefully monitor how much baby weight they gain during pregnancy and they work hard post-pregnancy to take the weight off. I even know women who were thinner post pregnancy. So you’re comments were not only mean to me, but a slap in the face to every mom out there who is fit and sexy and takes care of herself.”
“Fitness and health don’t just come naturally,” I preached on. “If you want to be in shape, if you want to be fit, then you’re going to have to work at it. Make it a job. Because it is the most important job you’ll ever have. Your life depends on it.”
And with that I pulled my feet out of my pool of tepid spa water, threw my money on the counter, grabbed my flip flops and walked out of there.
Was I mean? I don’t think so. I think I was candidly, east-coast style honest. And in my opinion my comments were long overdue to be heard. As a fit woman I’m tired of hearing and reading about other women’s complaints about their size, their figure, their thighs, and their weight. I’m tired of being fit and being blamed or ostracized or criticized for being fit. I don’t have super genes. I don’t have a weird diet. I don’t practice anything special. I just move, all day. I find ways to exercise throughout my day and it’s subconscious. It’s a nervous energy thing. And I eat when I’m hungry and not a second before. That’s it. No crazy diet scheme. I even drink whole milk.
All I want to see and hear is women taking responsibility for their own appearance, for their own health. Instead of blaming a fit person for being fit and instantly coming up with some far-fetched excuse as to why she is fit and you’re not, why not head outside for a walk or to the gym or eat an apple and get on track to being fit and being the envy of every woman that walks past you on the street.
I was supposed to be relaxing at the nail salon, enjoying my day off with a well-deserved and long overdue pedicure. The place was busy and there was a lot of talking going on between a group of three women, all of whom I took to be around my age. They were laughing and gossiping and seemed to just be really enjoying their girl time. Made me long for my girlfriends as well, except that I didn’t really have any. I was always moving and never really had time to make friends. Thirty seven moves in thirty six years will do that to you.
As I sat there enjoying my salt soak and the kneading action of the massage chair on my back, one of the women turned to me and said, “You’re real fit. What’s your trick? What do you do?”
“Ugh, who me?” I asked incredulous. I was stunned by being invited to engage in some girl talk so her question threw me off my guard.
“Yes, you look really in shape. What’s your secret? No wheat? No sugar? No carb? You’re a vegan?”
“No,” I laughed. “I’m just a runner. Have been for 20 years.”
“That’s it. You run?” she questioned in disbelief. “You have a strict diet or something?”
“No. I pretty much eat anything I want, in moderation of course. Sure I try to avoid the bad things, the junk food, and I don’t drink soda – ever, but otherwise that’s it. I just eat when I’m hungry and keep lots of healthy snacks around. Oh and I eat lots of fruit and vegetables.”
She chortled. A real chortle. “That’s it? That easy huh? You have kids?”
“No, why? Does that matter?”
“Well of course it matters. I mean the only reason you still look so good is because you don’t have kids!”
I was stunned, shocked. I didn’t know what to say. I looked around the salon for help, for someone to say to me, “Oh don’t listen to her honey” or any one of those cliché phrases heard only in women’s salons. But there was no help. In fact, everyone who had heard the woman seemed to nod their head in agreement while they sized me up and down. The young man filing my toes just kept his head down and scrubbed harder.
“I don’t think that’s true”, I started in my defense. “I know plenty of women with kids that look fantastic.”
“Right. Hollywood women. Stay at home moms perhaps with nothing else to do all day but count calories and weigh food. But I’m talking real women. Women who work and raise kids. You wouldn’t look so good if you were one of those women.”
And that is when the gloves came off.
“So what you’re saying is that women look good before kids and look terrible after kids? I mean this is what you’re saying right?”
“I wouldn’t say I look like terrible now”, she retorted. I could tell she was getting upset and her friends too but honestly I didn’t care. I was beyond tired of having mean things said to me regarding my single, child-free status and this latest comment just pushed my anger over the edge. I was going to defend myself and my looks to the end, or at least to this woman and her goons.
“I wouldn’t say you look bad either. I just don’t agree with you. But you know what I will tell you my secret. It’s easy. Here you go……I work out. I work out a lot. I work out every single day. People don’t just “look good” they have to work at. It’s like going to a job. Models, actresses, athletes, spend a lot of time and money to look good. They work out. And I work out. I always have to push myself hard. To run farther, to run faster, to run better. It’s such hard work that it’s taken me 20 years of running to keep looking this good. Twenty years!” I was really fuming by now.
“And it has nothing to do with whether or not I’ve had a child," I raged on. "Plenty of mom’s look great. Why? Because they carefully monitor how much baby weight they gain during pregnancy and they work hard post-pregnancy to take the weight off. I even know women who were thinner post pregnancy. So you’re comments were not only mean to me, but a slap in the face to every mom out there who is fit and sexy and takes care of herself.”
“Fitness and health don’t just come naturally,” I preached on. “If you want to be in shape, if you want to be fit, then you’re going to have to work at it. Make it a job. Because it is the most important job you’ll ever have. Your life depends on it.”
And with that I pulled my feet out of my pool of tepid spa water, threw my money on the counter, grabbed my flip flops and walked out of there.
Was I mean? I don’t think so. I think I was candidly, east-coast style honest. And in my opinion my comments were long overdue to be heard. As a fit woman I’m tired of hearing and reading about other women’s complaints about their size, their figure, their thighs, and their weight. I’m tired of being fit and being blamed or ostracized or criticized for being fit. I don’t have super genes. I don’t have a weird diet. I don’t practice anything special. I just move, all day. I find ways to exercise throughout my day and it’s subconscious. It’s a nervous energy thing. And I eat when I’m hungry and not a second before. That’s it. No crazy diet scheme. I even drink whole milk.
All I want to see and hear is women taking responsibility for their own appearance, for their own health. Instead of blaming a fit person for being fit and instantly coming up with some far-fetched excuse as to why she is fit and you’re not, why not head outside for a walk or to the gym or eat an apple and get on track to being fit and being the envy of every woman that walks past you on the street.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Baccalaureate Versus Bachelorette
I am an academic advisor at a university. My job is to assist students in identifying a major, reviewing degree requirements, and offering suggestions on what courses to take. I also offer advice on financial aid, scholarships, study abroad, internships, practicums, medical/law/dental school, and work with faculty on advising issues, etc, etc, etc. The job description may read simple enough and anyone who’s been to college may recall having met with their academic advisor at some point or another.
When I tell people I’m an academic advisor I’m typically met with a cringe, followed by the regaling story of how their advisor “did them wrong”. Now I’m not going to claim that an academic advisor never gave bad advice or mistakenly told a student the wrong information. It happens. We are human and in our defense we see a lot of students. I alone have over a thousand (yeah you try keeping them all straight and see how good you do!) Sometimes though, it’s not the advisor that does the student wrong. Sometimes the student is or does the wrong all by themselves.
One such case involves the nigh unfathomable number of times I have had to explain to a young lady that she is in college to earn her baccalaureate degree not her bachelorette. Now, you may laugh as I admittedly did the first time a young woman said this to me. In fact, I almost spit my coffee all over my keyboard. The young woman asked me if I was, “Ok”, to which I quickly said, “Great. So you want to earn your baccalaureate degree” and quickly moved on with the conversation hoping that the young lady would not make the same faux pas in the future.
As time passed however, I routinely began to hear students of the female persuasion calling their degree a bachelorette and I began to wonder if this was some type of deliberate euphemism for a women with a degree and by default a brain. I mean after all, I have two degrees and am still single so I could argue that I in fact have earned by bachelorette status as a result of attending college. I mean society is rife with clichés about how men don’t fancy smart women or how smart, confident women intimidate men. I have always dismissed those comments and the men who have called me intimidating as mere troglodytes who want to drag me back to stupid and the cave kitchen. But alas, with this new upsurge in “Bachelorette Degree” verbiage I may have been wrong.
Perhaps not though.
I decided to put my theory to the test and began asking the women, who referred to wanting to earn a baccalaureate degree as a bachelorette, if they knew they were using the wrong word. Often the young lady would appear uncomfortable and would say, “You mean it’s not a bachelorette?” I would then have to explain the difference in the meaning of these two words, which admittedly made me question the quality of English education our students are receiving in high school. I mean can you imagine having to explain to a college student that “A baccalaureate is a degree issued after four to five years of study in a specific discipline and demonstrates the student’s increased ability to reason, research, and form and communicate ideas and opinions whereas a bachelorette is a single woman most likely seen on ABC’s “The Bachelor or Bachelorette”, “Temptation Island” or my personal reality TV favorite ‘The Flavor of Love.’”
In most cases the young lady realizes her mistake and says, “Wow, that sounded real dumb didn’t it?” To which I yearn to reply, “Well, frankly, YES!” But I never do. I always say, “Easy mistake and great joke,” in the hopes that they would confirm my theory that the bachelorette degree is the new euphemism for a smart, unmarried woman. But they never get the joke. I end up having to explain the joke or I just say, “Never mind,” and continue with the advising appointment.
In rare cases I have to offer a more in-depth explanation of the differences. This explanation usually goes like this:
Me: Are you single or do you have a boyfriend, husband, etc?
Student: I’m single.
Me: So if you’re single, then you are bachelorette. That is why the bride is given a bachelorette party. It’s her last night of being an unmarried woman.
Student: Oh! So wait, how’s that different?
Me: Well are you in college to earn a degree in being single forever or are you here to earn a degree in say biology or chemistry?
Student: Well I’m pre-med.
Me: Whatever. The point is, are you getting a degree in being a single girl or are you getting a degree in pre-med?
Student: Pre-med.
Me: So if you want a degree in pre-med it’s called a B-A-C-C-A-L-A-U-R-E-A-T-E not a bachelorette.
Student: Uh-huh, yeah so do I need to take Anatomy or…?
This is typically the point where I really want to have Homer Simpson fed audio in my office so that I can make the “D'OH” sound at the click of a button. Other times I simply scribble the students name into my notebook of people who will never be my doctor. And still other times I simply wish for students to really hear what they are saying and to take responsibility for themselves and their own academic career instead of blaming us poor advisors all the time. But sometimes wishes are like bachelorettes – always the bridesmaid never the degree.
When I tell people I’m an academic advisor I’m typically met with a cringe, followed by the regaling story of how their advisor “did them wrong”. Now I’m not going to claim that an academic advisor never gave bad advice or mistakenly told a student the wrong information. It happens. We are human and in our defense we see a lot of students. I alone have over a thousand (yeah you try keeping them all straight and see how good you do!) Sometimes though, it’s not the advisor that does the student wrong. Sometimes the student is or does the wrong all by themselves.
One such case involves the nigh unfathomable number of times I have had to explain to a young lady that she is in college to earn her baccalaureate degree not her bachelorette. Now, you may laugh as I admittedly did the first time a young woman said this to me. In fact, I almost spit my coffee all over my keyboard. The young woman asked me if I was, “Ok”, to which I quickly said, “Great. So you want to earn your baccalaureate degree” and quickly moved on with the conversation hoping that the young lady would not make the same faux pas in the future.
As time passed however, I routinely began to hear students of the female persuasion calling their degree a bachelorette and I began to wonder if this was some type of deliberate euphemism for a women with a degree and by default a brain. I mean after all, I have two degrees and am still single so I could argue that I in fact have earned by bachelorette status as a result of attending college. I mean society is rife with clichés about how men don’t fancy smart women or how smart, confident women intimidate men. I have always dismissed those comments and the men who have called me intimidating as mere troglodytes who want to drag me back to stupid and the cave kitchen. But alas, with this new upsurge in “Bachelorette Degree” verbiage I may have been wrong.
Perhaps not though.
I decided to put my theory to the test and began asking the women, who referred to wanting to earn a baccalaureate degree as a bachelorette, if they knew they were using the wrong word. Often the young lady would appear uncomfortable and would say, “You mean it’s not a bachelorette?” I would then have to explain the difference in the meaning of these two words, which admittedly made me question the quality of English education our students are receiving in high school. I mean can you imagine having to explain to a college student that “A baccalaureate is a degree issued after four to five years of study in a specific discipline and demonstrates the student’s increased ability to reason, research, and form and communicate ideas and opinions whereas a bachelorette is a single woman most likely seen on ABC’s “The Bachelor or Bachelorette”, “Temptation Island” or my personal reality TV favorite ‘The Flavor of Love.’”
In most cases the young lady realizes her mistake and says, “Wow, that sounded real dumb didn’t it?” To which I yearn to reply, “Well, frankly, YES!” But I never do. I always say, “Easy mistake and great joke,” in the hopes that they would confirm my theory that the bachelorette degree is the new euphemism for a smart, unmarried woman. But they never get the joke. I end up having to explain the joke or I just say, “Never mind,” and continue with the advising appointment.
In rare cases I have to offer a more in-depth explanation of the differences. This explanation usually goes like this:
Me: Are you single or do you have a boyfriend, husband, etc?
Student: I’m single.
Me: So if you’re single, then you are bachelorette. That is why the bride is given a bachelorette party. It’s her last night of being an unmarried woman.
Student: Oh! So wait, how’s that different?
Me: Well are you in college to earn a degree in being single forever or are you here to earn a degree in say biology or chemistry?
Student: Well I’m pre-med.
Me: Whatever. The point is, are you getting a degree in being a single girl or are you getting a degree in pre-med?
Student: Pre-med.
Me: So if you want a degree in pre-med it’s called a B-A-C-C-A-L-A-U-R-E-A-T-E not a bachelorette.
Student: Uh-huh, yeah so do I need to take Anatomy or…?
This is typically the point where I really want to have Homer Simpson fed audio in my office so that I can make the “D'OH” sound at the click of a button. Other times I simply scribble the students name into my notebook of people who will never be my doctor. And still other times I simply wish for students to really hear what they are saying and to take responsibility for themselves and their own academic career instead of blaming us poor advisors all the time. But sometimes wishes are like bachelorettes – always the bridesmaid never the degree.
Friday, December 31, 2010
A Mean Funny Thing
We all have those “things”, those moments, instances, memories of doing something to someone we know and love that was just flat out mean but so funny it was worth it. This is a story about one of those times.
Beck Hall, Kutztown University, 1995. My roommate was Katherine Grill and grunge ruled the airwaves while The X-Files ruled primetime television. We lived for Thursday as all college students do and needless to say we usually found ourselves surfing the buzz somewhere between only slightly and flat out totally drunk. This particular Thursday was no different except for the one, small, mistaken drunken admission by Kathy to Anna and myself.
We had walked home from The Cliffs, a group of dilapidated, low-rent, shabby furnished apartments managed by a slumlord on the far edge of campus. Few women lived there as The Cliffs tended to be the providence of boys who typically raised rent money but throwing keggers for all the underage folks and charging anywhere between $3 and $5 for a red plastic party cup of beer.
It was always embarrassing to go to The Cliffs and walk in to a house full of men, as a woman was instantly sized up by dozens of probing eyes. What was far more embarrassing however, was having to do “The Walk of Shame”. The Walk of Shame was what the college kids called the long, one mile, drunken walk back to campus from The Cliffs that was punctuated by fits of yelling, staggering, vomiting, passing out in snowbanks or any combination thereof.
This particular Thursday night the three of us girls made “The Walk” back from the Cliffs around 1am. This was a strategic plan as Camillo’s pizza didn’t close until 2am and they were located about 8 blocks from the dorm. As the three of us sat eating our pizza and mozzarella cheese fries, Kathy started talking about the X-Files, which was her favorite television show at the moment. Anna and I knew little of the X-Files as neither of us were big TV watchers and more importantly we didn’t really care for sci-fi. But we were drunk and so we sat there listening to her prattle on about aliens and body snatches and UFO captures and human monitoring experiments.
“Ya know P”, Kathy loudly whispered to me, “every morning when I first wake up I reach behind my ears to check to see if I’ve been tagged by aliens.”
“Bahahahaha” was the sound that erupted from me followed by a “What? Are you for real?”
“I’m being totally serious. Aliens leave little bar tags behind your ears. You can tell because you’ll feel a scar and that is where they cut you and buried the tag.”
“If someone cut you at night it wouldn’t heal in time for there to be a scar the next morning?”
“Yeah it would, if it was put there by aliens.”
“Ok you’re both being stupid”, Anna erupts. “Let’s just go. I feel sick.”
We get up, pay the clerk, and head back to the dorm. As we walk Kathy begins to stagger more and more and Anna and I end up have carrying her back to her room. I was rooming with Kathy then and fortunately had the key. We got her changed and into bed and then headed for the TV lounge.
As Anna and I sat there waiting for the buzz to wear off I had a flash of genius. “Anna?”
“Yeah?”
“You know how we are always playing jokes on one another?”
“Yeah?”
“Kathy’s overdue. I say we tag her!”
“What?”
“You know. Like the aliens. I say we put a tag behind her ear so she’ll find it in the morning when she is still pissed drunk and freak out.”
“Oh my god P, that is soooooo mean. Funny, but mean. I’m in!”
I could always count on Anna to do something diabolical with me. We hatched our plan. It involved a paperclip, a slip of paper with numbers typed on it using my old word processor, and egg of silly putty, and some Crazy Glue.
At this point I have to say, do you know how hard it is to not laugh when drunk and trying to mess with your best friend? Nye impossible.
Anna and I commando back to my room like Navy Seals on a convert mission. I turn the doorknob to the room so slowly that it barely clicks and swing the door open. Anna scurries in while I slowly turn the handle back to its normal position before letting go of the knob. We prop the door open with the one-pound trilobite fossil I found while on a geology dig so that we can make a clean and quite getaway. My job is to figure out how to get Kathy to turn over on her stomach so as to expose the back of one of her ears. Anna’s job is to prepare the tag. She secures the two inch long piece of paper with serial number XG74829 typed on it to the unfolded paperclip with some clear tape. She then pushes the paperclip into the silly putty so that the entire clip and paper is covered by putty. Then she carefully applies a thin line of Crazy Glue to the back of the putty, just enough for the putty to stick to the skin behind Kathy’s ear but not enough to actually stick permanently and be painful to pull off.
While Anna is doing this I continue to battle with Kathy. I finally tickle her armpit which causes her to swing her right arm across her body in a defensive move and ultimately makes her roll on to her side. I gently pull Kathy’s long, black hair back exposing her ear. Anna erupts in hushed laughter as I’m holding the hair and choking on my own chortles of laughter. “Quick Anna”, I loudly whisper.
Anna leans in, posed to stick the putty and at the last second says, “I can’t do it. I’m laughing to hard. I’m gonna hit her in the head.”
We both stand there shaking from excited laughter, which is made more funny by the fact that every time I laugh Kathy’s hair, which is still clutched in my hand, bounces up and down and I’m convinced the tugging of her hair is gonna foil the whole plan.
“Anna. Shhh. Ok. Calm down. We can do this. Deep breaths. Now stick it!” Anna moves in slow motion and gently pushes the putty against the skin behind her ear. Kathy twitches and starts to turn and I let go of her hair. We run out of the room and I kick the trilobite doorstop and begin to shut the door.
“P is that you?” Kathy mutters.
“Yeah I’m just getting in. Sorry to wake you,” I say through laughter. As I walk in the door I signal for Anna to wait at the bathroom for me.
“Oh ok”, Kathy mumbles and goes back to bed. I grab my shower caddy and towel and head for the bathroom to meet Anna and clean up for bed.
As Anna and I laugh she says, “I think it stuck. I’m not sure.”
“Well we’ll know in the morning. I’ll call you soon as she wakes up.”
“She is gonna kill you. Call me ASAP!” she says as she skips out of the bathroom.
I clean up and head for bed. I manage to quietly crawl up to my loft bed and snuggle in for sleep, which doesn’t come. I lay awake in silent anticipation of morning and Kathy waking up. About 9am the next morning I hear Kathy turning in the bed below. I open my eyes and peer out under the safety roll bar that prevents me from falling out of the loft. A bar that also provides for the safety of prying eyes as Kathy can’t tell I’m watching her. She stands up, stretches right then left and then stands in front of the vanity mirror. I watch as she looks over both her shoulders to see if I’m awake and I make the deep breathing sounds of deep sleep for good effect. She buys it and in one swift movement she reaches up behind her ears to check for alien tags.
“Aaaggghhh, oh my god!” she silently screams as she leans in close to the mirror and tries to pull her hair back from her head. She’s contorted in front of the mirror when she spies the silly putty. I’m dying and trying not to laugh out loud by shoving an entire pillow in my mouth. I continue to watch as she tries to pull of the putty and can’t. Oh damn it Anna, too much Super Glue. She tries again and finally frees it with a loud “Ouch! What the fuck is that!” emanating from Kathy.
“Kathy? You ok?” I mutter sleepily.
“P?” she says in terror.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been tagged!” She holds the silly putty out to me in her shaky hand as I lean up over the roll bar to get a better view.
“What is it?” I snigger.
“Agh, Agh, Agh! Oh my god! Oh my god! Agh!”, Kathy screams.
“What?”
“Holy fuck. Shit, fuck, holy fuck. Oh my god, oh my god. It’s a serial number.”
She starts to shake and falls on to her bed in hyperventilating sobs.
Now at this point I am torn between the two opposing emotions of victory and guilt. Victory in pulling off the greatest alien prank ever and guilt for pulling of the greatest alien prank ever and making Kathy truly believe that she was tagged and grabbed by X-File origin aliens.
The only thing left to decide was what to do. Do I pretend to deactivate the alien tag and thereby liberate Kathy from a lifetime of alien experiments and put her back to bed in the hopes that she forget about the whole incident OR do I fess up and tell her what Anna and I did?
Later that day when Kathy woke up she told me about this crazy dream she had about alien tags and how I rescued her by destroying the ear sensor. I laughed and said, “Sounds like you need to eat. Let’s go to the cafeteria.”
Anna and I made a pact of silence and never told anyone what we had done, but every now and then we’d leave numbered tags and silly putty around Kathy’s room just to see what she’d do. Mean…yes. Funny…definitely.
Beck Hall, Kutztown University, 1995. My roommate was Katherine Grill and grunge ruled the airwaves while The X-Files ruled primetime television. We lived for Thursday as all college students do and needless to say we usually found ourselves surfing the buzz somewhere between only slightly and flat out totally drunk. This particular Thursday was no different except for the one, small, mistaken drunken admission by Kathy to Anna and myself.
We had walked home from The Cliffs, a group of dilapidated, low-rent, shabby furnished apartments managed by a slumlord on the far edge of campus. Few women lived there as The Cliffs tended to be the providence of boys who typically raised rent money but throwing keggers for all the underage folks and charging anywhere between $3 and $5 for a red plastic party cup of beer.
It was always embarrassing to go to The Cliffs and walk in to a house full of men, as a woman was instantly sized up by dozens of probing eyes. What was far more embarrassing however, was having to do “The Walk of Shame”. The Walk of Shame was what the college kids called the long, one mile, drunken walk back to campus from The Cliffs that was punctuated by fits of yelling, staggering, vomiting, passing out in snowbanks or any combination thereof.
This particular Thursday night the three of us girls made “The Walk” back from the Cliffs around 1am. This was a strategic plan as Camillo’s pizza didn’t close until 2am and they were located about 8 blocks from the dorm. As the three of us sat eating our pizza and mozzarella cheese fries, Kathy started talking about the X-Files, which was her favorite television show at the moment. Anna and I knew little of the X-Files as neither of us were big TV watchers and more importantly we didn’t really care for sci-fi. But we were drunk and so we sat there listening to her prattle on about aliens and body snatches and UFO captures and human monitoring experiments.
“Ya know P”, Kathy loudly whispered to me, “every morning when I first wake up I reach behind my ears to check to see if I’ve been tagged by aliens.”
“Bahahahaha” was the sound that erupted from me followed by a “What? Are you for real?”
“I’m being totally serious. Aliens leave little bar tags behind your ears. You can tell because you’ll feel a scar and that is where they cut you and buried the tag.”
“If someone cut you at night it wouldn’t heal in time for there to be a scar the next morning?”
“Yeah it would, if it was put there by aliens.”
“Ok you’re both being stupid”, Anna erupts. “Let’s just go. I feel sick.”
We get up, pay the clerk, and head back to the dorm. As we walk Kathy begins to stagger more and more and Anna and I end up have carrying her back to her room. I was rooming with Kathy then and fortunately had the key. We got her changed and into bed and then headed for the TV lounge.
As Anna and I sat there waiting for the buzz to wear off I had a flash of genius. “Anna?”
“Yeah?”
“You know how we are always playing jokes on one another?”
“Yeah?”
“Kathy’s overdue. I say we tag her!”
“What?”
“You know. Like the aliens. I say we put a tag behind her ear so she’ll find it in the morning when she is still pissed drunk and freak out.”
“Oh my god P, that is soooooo mean. Funny, but mean. I’m in!”
I could always count on Anna to do something diabolical with me. We hatched our plan. It involved a paperclip, a slip of paper with numbers typed on it using my old word processor, and egg of silly putty, and some Crazy Glue.
At this point I have to say, do you know how hard it is to not laugh when drunk and trying to mess with your best friend? Nye impossible.
Anna and I commando back to my room like Navy Seals on a convert mission. I turn the doorknob to the room so slowly that it barely clicks and swing the door open. Anna scurries in while I slowly turn the handle back to its normal position before letting go of the knob. We prop the door open with the one-pound trilobite fossil I found while on a geology dig so that we can make a clean and quite getaway. My job is to figure out how to get Kathy to turn over on her stomach so as to expose the back of one of her ears. Anna’s job is to prepare the tag. She secures the two inch long piece of paper with serial number XG74829 typed on it to the unfolded paperclip with some clear tape. She then pushes the paperclip into the silly putty so that the entire clip and paper is covered by putty. Then she carefully applies a thin line of Crazy Glue to the back of the putty, just enough for the putty to stick to the skin behind Kathy’s ear but not enough to actually stick permanently and be painful to pull off.
While Anna is doing this I continue to battle with Kathy. I finally tickle her armpit which causes her to swing her right arm across her body in a defensive move and ultimately makes her roll on to her side. I gently pull Kathy’s long, black hair back exposing her ear. Anna erupts in hushed laughter as I’m holding the hair and choking on my own chortles of laughter. “Quick Anna”, I loudly whisper.
Anna leans in, posed to stick the putty and at the last second says, “I can’t do it. I’m laughing to hard. I’m gonna hit her in the head.”
We both stand there shaking from excited laughter, which is made more funny by the fact that every time I laugh Kathy’s hair, which is still clutched in my hand, bounces up and down and I’m convinced the tugging of her hair is gonna foil the whole plan.
“Anna. Shhh. Ok. Calm down. We can do this. Deep breaths. Now stick it!” Anna moves in slow motion and gently pushes the putty against the skin behind her ear. Kathy twitches and starts to turn and I let go of her hair. We run out of the room and I kick the trilobite doorstop and begin to shut the door.
“P is that you?” Kathy mutters.
“Yeah I’m just getting in. Sorry to wake you,” I say through laughter. As I walk in the door I signal for Anna to wait at the bathroom for me.
“Oh ok”, Kathy mumbles and goes back to bed. I grab my shower caddy and towel and head for the bathroom to meet Anna and clean up for bed.
As Anna and I laugh she says, “I think it stuck. I’m not sure.”
“Well we’ll know in the morning. I’ll call you soon as she wakes up.”
“She is gonna kill you. Call me ASAP!” she says as she skips out of the bathroom.
I clean up and head for bed. I manage to quietly crawl up to my loft bed and snuggle in for sleep, which doesn’t come. I lay awake in silent anticipation of morning and Kathy waking up. About 9am the next morning I hear Kathy turning in the bed below. I open my eyes and peer out under the safety roll bar that prevents me from falling out of the loft. A bar that also provides for the safety of prying eyes as Kathy can’t tell I’m watching her. She stands up, stretches right then left and then stands in front of the vanity mirror. I watch as she looks over both her shoulders to see if I’m awake and I make the deep breathing sounds of deep sleep for good effect. She buys it and in one swift movement she reaches up behind her ears to check for alien tags.
“Aaaggghhh, oh my god!” she silently screams as she leans in close to the mirror and tries to pull her hair back from her head. She’s contorted in front of the mirror when she spies the silly putty. I’m dying and trying not to laugh out loud by shoving an entire pillow in my mouth. I continue to watch as she tries to pull of the putty and can’t. Oh damn it Anna, too much Super Glue. She tries again and finally frees it with a loud “Ouch! What the fuck is that!” emanating from Kathy.
“Kathy? You ok?” I mutter sleepily.
“P?” she says in terror.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been tagged!” She holds the silly putty out to me in her shaky hand as I lean up over the roll bar to get a better view.
“What is it?” I snigger.
“Agh, Agh, Agh! Oh my god! Oh my god! Agh!”, Kathy screams.
“What?”
“Holy fuck. Shit, fuck, holy fuck. Oh my god, oh my god. It’s a serial number.”
She starts to shake and falls on to her bed in hyperventilating sobs.
Now at this point I am torn between the two opposing emotions of victory and guilt. Victory in pulling off the greatest alien prank ever and guilt for pulling of the greatest alien prank ever and making Kathy truly believe that she was tagged and grabbed by X-File origin aliens.
The only thing left to decide was what to do. Do I pretend to deactivate the alien tag and thereby liberate Kathy from a lifetime of alien experiments and put her back to bed in the hopes that she forget about the whole incident OR do I fess up and tell her what Anna and I did?
Later that day when Kathy woke up she told me about this crazy dream she had about alien tags and how I rescued her by destroying the ear sensor. I laughed and said, “Sounds like you need to eat. Let’s go to the cafeteria.”
Anna and I made a pact of silence and never told anyone what we had done, but every now and then we’d leave numbered tags and silly putty around Kathy’s room just to see what she’d do. Mean…yes. Funny…definitely.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
What's In Your Spam?
If you are like most Americans, you probably have a spam filter to sort your email. Whenever my Gmail spam folder reaches 100, I delete whatever is in the folder. Having recently noticed that I've had to delete my spam mail folder every other day, I began to wonder what I was really receiving. Here is the breakdown by top three categories:
1. Porn
2. Credit Card Help
3. Product Advertising – usually associated with Porn
Since Porn makes up over 70% of my spam mail, I had a few questions. First of all did the senders of this Spam mail have no inferential skill and think that lillysparrow@gmail.com was a man and as such looking for women? Or did they think I was a lesbian? Worse is that they assumed I was just lonely and somehow needed their help to find a partner, even if only for one night. Also, why these Spam Mailers would think I needed to "Increase My Manhood" in 3 easy, albeit painful, steps was necessary had to most certainly be related to the fact that they assume that lillysparrow is a man.
The point of all of this is that if senders of Spam mail really want to trap innocent people into subscribing, buying, using, whatever it is they are peddling, wouldn't a more targeted campaign work better?
At first glance, I would think finding a target audience as opposed to mass marketing would be a better approach, but having realized how very easy and cheap it is to send mass emails to whomever I understand the SPAM mailers approach. After all, they are bound to hit upon a few idiots to click on their links or subscribe to their magazine or order their product. And their subject lines are compelling. I mean who wouldn't want a HUGE HOOD, a LIFETIME of car wax, or a ORAL ARRAY of PLEASURE (I'm sure this one is for toothpaste.)
After all, everyone needs something. And LOVE is at the top of that list. Even the most narcissistic, love-torn, burned, battered, and dejected love victims secretly hope to find and have love again. And unfortunately, most people associate love with pleasure. And although not without it's merits, any one who has been married a long time will tell you that the physical pleasure may fade, but it's the passion and love for one another that remains. If I know this, how come everyone out there who is responding to these Spam messages does not?
I realize that it is not that they don't know this, but that they don't care. We live in an instant gratification society. We want it now and we don't want to work hard to get it or keep it. We are all children. We see a toy we want and we hope and pray and fawn until we get it and once we have it, we toss it aside and it is forgotten for we have been sated. The need is not for the thing, the need is for the feeling of desire that is associated with longing and wanting. And once the lust is slaked, we want something new. We want to keep having that feeling over and over again for as long as we can. And instead of working at creating that in our own lives, we look outside ourselves for the cure and answer. And our SPAM mail will be waiting there for us and will welcome us in with open arms. It will promise us everything we long for...but for a price.
The question is do you want to pay that price?
1. Porn
2. Credit Card Help
3. Product Advertising – usually associated with Porn
Since Porn makes up over 70% of my spam mail, I had a few questions. First of all did the senders of this Spam mail have no inferential skill and think that lillysparrow@gmail.com was a man and as such looking for women? Or did they think I was a lesbian? Worse is that they assumed I was just lonely and somehow needed their help to find a partner, even if only for one night. Also, why these Spam Mailers would think I needed to "Increase My Manhood" in 3 easy, albeit painful, steps was necessary had to most certainly be related to the fact that they assume that lillysparrow is a man.
The point of all of this is that if senders of Spam mail really want to trap innocent people into subscribing, buying, using, whatever it is they are peddling, wouldn't a more targeted campaign work better?
At first glance, I would think finding a target audience as opposed to mass marketing would be a better approach, but having realized how very easy and cheap it is to send mass emails to whomever I understand the SPAM mailers approach. After all, they are bound to hit upon a few idiots to click on their links or subscribe to their magazine or order their product. And their subject lines are compelling. I mean who wouldn't want a HUGE HOOD, a LIFETIME of car wax, or a ORAL ARRAY of PLEASURE (I'm sure this one is for toothpaste.)
After all, everyone needs something. And LOVE is at the top of that list. Even the most narcissistic, love-torn, burned, battered, and dejected love victims secretly hope to find and have love again. And unfortunately, most people associate love with pleasure. And although not without it's merits, any one who has been married a long time will tell you that the physical pleasure may fade, but it's the passion and love for one another that remains. If I know this, how come everyone out there who is responding to these Spam messages does not?
I realize that it is not that they don't know this, but that they don't care. We live in an instant gratification society. We want it now and we don't want to work hard to get it or keep it. We are all children. We see a toy we want and we hope and pray and fawn until we get it and once we have it, we toss it aside and it is forgotten for we have been sated. The need is not for the thing, the need is for the feeling of desire that is associated with longing and wanting. And once the lust is slaked, we want something new. We want to keep having that feeling over and over again for as long as we can. And instead of working at creating that in our own lives, we look outside ourselves for the cure and answer. And our SPAM mail will be waiting there for us and will welcome us in with open arms. It will promise us everything we long for...but for a price.
The question is do you want to pay that price?
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Bathed Bliss
I woke up that first morning in a state of jubilant bliss. My feet felt warm and cushioned as they skit across the beige, plush carpet. I glided across the clean, slippery tile floor of the kitchen and continued my skid into the bathroom.
“A bathroom, what joy, what bliss”, I remember thinking. How I enjoyed flicking on the light and associated fan so many times that the room became my very own mini discothèque with the muffled background fan serving as a spin doctor. I caressed all the brass Moen faucet taps, one cold and one hot. Oh, to have a hot water tap. My fixated gaze caressed that hot water handle as though a long lost love had at last returned. My gaze shifted from the tap into my very own mirror. A mirror, clean and free of those speckled dots that cover mirrors that are ripe with age. I could see my whole undotted, unbroken reflection in one piece and not worry that I had developed chicken pox or a bad case of acne overnight. I could see that I looked haggard, a sight that had gone unnoticed for so many months having not had a clear mirror.
I turned my head away from the mirror and there it was, sitting perched so delicate and crisp under the spotlight of the warm bathroom track lighting. A white porcelain toilet with matching lid just sitting there sparking, waiting to be used. Ooohhhh, to have an indoor toilet of my very own. I knelt down and wrapped my little arms around the bulky body of that porcelain beauty. I laid my head ever so gently on the lid as a smile broke free on my face. I just sat there, hugging that porcelain god like a drunken college co-ed after a Thirsty Thursday night on the town. She was all mine!
When at last I tore myself from my toilet reverie I stood and stared my desire in the face, removed my pajamas and readied myself to enter euphoria. My ears recalled that familiar clacking sound of a shower curtain being drawn back on its rod. My feet felt the cold, grainy tub bottom. My hands reached out and turned the dial taps and I stood, in my best yoga sun salutation pose, head boldly turned to the sky, and waited for that interminable moment for the water to move through the pipes and pour spurtfully out of the massaging shower head and directly into my face. I felt the warm heat of hot water and the shivers of goose flesh it sent down my spine. I flicked my head left and right, my feet did a little shuffle skip, my arms wrapped themselves around my core and I laughed and laughed and laughed as the hot water warmed and soothed my tired body.
I used every single product in that shower. The shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, razor blade, foot scrub, body loofa, even the coconut and mint shower gel. I used them all and my old friends embraced me and welcomed me back into the fold of civilization.
I had used a community bath house for the last four months. For four months I smelled the fetid, moldy smell of steam that never escapes. Used never quite clean showers that were always clogging from hair and other debris and whose walls always had a slimy, greasy feel to them. Used toilets whose stall doors never shut so that one was always being walked in on or observed by anyone passing the line of four toilet stalls. Used sinks whose water poured in milky white and whose surfaces, although clean, always reminded me of a hospital. I looked into mirrors pocked with water marks and old dust film. And moreover, in four months time, I never had a moment to myself in the bathroom. No one moment, not one second of private aloneness, for over 50 women shared that bathhouse and there was constant traffic in and out.
The bathhouse served its purpose and did its job well and I’m grateful for its presence as I know many other rangers go much longer with far fewer amenities. But for me, four months was enough. The morning of my return to my own place was bliss. I had my space, my time, my private clean aloneness restored. And although being home meant my park ranger season was over and the wild open spaces would have to wait another year for my return, I was glad to be back in a place where the hot tap ran hot, the cold ran cold, the toilet flushed and there was never a line for the shower.
“A bathroom, what joy, what bliss”, I remember thinking. How I enjoyed flicking on the light and associated fan so many times that the room became my very own mini discothèque with the muffled background fan serving as a spin doctor. I caressed all the brass Moen faucet taps, one cold and one hot. Oh, to have a hot water tap. My fixated gaze caressed that hot water handle as though a long lost love had at last returned. My gaze shifted from the tap into my very own mirror. A mirror, clean and free of those speckled dots that cover mirrors that are ripe with age. I could see my whole undotted, unbroken reflection in one piece and not worry that I had developed chicken pox or a bad case of acne overnight. I could see that I looked haggard, a sight that had gone unnoticed for so many months having not had a clear mirror.
I turned my head away from the mirror and there it was, sitting perched so delicate and crisp under the spotlight of the warm bathroom track lighting. A white porcelain toilet with matching lid just sitting there sparking, waiting to be used. Ooohhhh, to have an indoor toilet of my very own. I knelt down and wrapped my little arms around the bulky body of that porcelain beauty. I laid my head ever so gently on the lid as a smile broke free on my face. I just sat there, hugging that porcelain god like a drunken college co-ed after a Thirsty Thursday night on the town. She was all mine!
When at last I tore myself from my toilet reverie I stood and stared my desire in the face, removed my pajamas and readied myself to enter euphoria. My ears recalled that familiar clacking sound of a shower curtain being drawn back on its rod. My feet felt the cold, grainy tub bottom. My hands reached out and turned the dial taps and I stood, in my best yoga sun salutation pose, head boldly turned to the sky, and waited for that interminable moment for the water to move through the pipes and pour spurtfully out of the massaging shower head and directly into my face. I felt the warm heat of hot water and the shivers of goose flesh it sent down my spine. I flicked my head left and right, my feet did a little shuffle skip, my arms wrapped themselves around my core and I laughed and laughed and laughed as the hot water warmed and soothed my tired body.
I used every single product in that shower. The shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, razor blade, foot scrub, body loofa, even the coconut and mint shower gel. I used them all and my old friends embraced me and welcomed me back into the fold of civilization.
I had used a community bath house for the last four months. For four months I smelled the fetid, moldy smell of steam that never escapes. Used never quite clean showers that were always clogging from hair and other debris and whose walls always had a slimy, greasy feel to them. Used toilets whose stall doors never shut so that one was always being walked in on or observed by anyone passing the line of four toilet stalls. Used sinks whose water poured in milky white and whose surfaces, although clean, always reminded me of a hospital. I looked into mirrors pocked with water marks and old dust film. And moreover, in four months time, I never had a moment to myself in the bathroom. No one moment, not one second of private aloneness, for over 50 women shared that bathhouse and there was constant traffic in and out.
The bathhouse served its purpose and did its job well and I’m grateful for its presence as I know many other rangers go much longer with far fewer amenities. But for me, four months was enough. The morning of my return to my own place was bliss. I had my space, my time, my private clean aloneness restored. And although being home meant my park ranger season was over and the wild open spaces would have to wait another year for my return, I was glad to be back in a place where the hot tap ran hot, the cold ran cold, the toilet flushed and there was never a line for the shower.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A Climbers Journal
I walk out on the snow, ice axe in hand. I hear the familiar crunch of my footprints as I begin the slow arduous slog up the mountain. The wind is playing with me today. Its faint whisper against my ear alerts me to its presence only to blow itself into silence again. I walk on axe in hand, the weight of my pack like a comfortable old friend. It’s the middle of the night but my body doesn’t seem to mind. The glow of my headlamp coupled with the natural lightness of snow and the play of moon shows me the way. As I climb the stiffness leaves my mind and is replaced by the stillness that only the fluidity of my rhythmic steps can provide. I am a climber and my body knows this. My climb today was short, as I have work in a few hours, yet I needed to climb. I need to know this snow, this ice, this mountain. As I walk back to my car, the sun rising off my left shoulder, I feel accomplished with the steps taken today. And tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I will wake again well before dawn and walk out on the snow, ice axe in hand.
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