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.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I'm Still Waiting
“I’m still waiting”, said the voice.
“I know”, said the man, “but I’m busy all the time. I have to do this first. I’m still becoming.”
“Oh”, said the voice. “What are you becoming?”
“Why, myself”, said the man.
“What do you mean? Are you not already your self?”
“No, I’m not. Or at least I don’t think I’m done becoming myself yet.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“Nothing, I’m not waiting, I’m in the process of becoming. That’s why you are still waiting!”
“Your wrong”, said the voice. “The reason I’m still waiting is because you are afraid of becoming.
“Afraid of becoming? I’m not afraid of becoming.”
“Then become. Become right now. This second. I want to see you become.”
“It doesn’t work that why”, the man replied with edge in his voice. He was feeling exasperated with the voice. What did the voice know anyway? What did the voice ever become? The voice was just a voice. The voice didn’t have obligations, responsibilities, people depending on him.
“Yes I did and I do”, the voice strongly interjected.
“How did you do that?” wondered the man.
“The same way I know you are the one to change me through changing yourself,” the voice calmly replied. “I know what it is to become. I have been becoming for thousands of years. Do you think you stop becoming? That one day you get to the end of becoming and there is a ceremony or something and a stamp of approval that reads, “The Man has now become. He is ready to begin living.”
“No” sulked the man.
“Everyday is a becoming. Every day I have changed and became anew. I am weathered and am built up, I am conquered and I am the conqueror, I am dreams, hope and despair in equal parts with joy, happiness and achievement. I am east and west, north and south, I am all the elements of this life and all the elements of lives past. Everyday, I become as everyday you become. For everyday the process begins again and every day you are shaped by the days past. The process is happening whether or not you are aware of it. And this is why I wait for you. For your becoming is tied to my own. You are destined to change me as I will change you. You will challenge, conquer, fail, succeed, you will know joy and sorrow in equal amounts and I will push you as you will push me to become new and through this our daily reinvention will occur. We will never be the same day or spirit again. And nor will our becomings be the same again.”
“Who are you?” said the man, his heart filled with trepidation
“Why, I am rock”, chuckled the voice. “I am the rock that has been waiting for you to come. I have endured the centuries and men have tested themselves against the time of me. Some have succeeded and some have failed but all have become. Out here, a knowing is revealed within each of us, some can’t deal with the knowing, some can. I think you CAN. So I wait. I stand here strong looking the sun, the wind, the moon, the sky, the lark, and all life in the eye. I bear each day and give each day. And today, I again wait for you to come. To come and change you, me, and all that surrounds us.”
“I will come,” said the Man. “Just not yet.”
The sound of the Voice laughing infuriates the man. “Why are you laughing?” screamed the man. “I know I am becoming. I am becoming this very day. I don’t have to beat myself against you to become. I will get there but I have to do this first.”
“That’s not why I laugh,” the voice whispered. “I laughed at my own impatience. I laugh because I know you are becoming. It’s just that some becomings seem bigger than others and I want you to get to this one. Even after all the eons, I still get impatient for those few ONES to come and test themselves against me, to become that which lives in the most hidden and secret parts of the their self’s.”
“You make it seem as though this becoming is a great undertaking. Like a surgery from which I will wake missing a part of myself.”
“No, you will not be missing parts of yourself. On the contrary, you will be on the road to completion, to being whole. Parts of the self will be added and the only parts that will be lost are those that never needed to be there to begin with. Now go! “, bellowed the voice. “I am tired by these years and need to rest.”
The Man walked off, thinking about the voice. And as the days progressed the man forgot some of what the voice said for HE was engrossed in his daily goings on. And one day, as he was about to sit down to eat his lunch on the pier a breeze danced across his neck, reached up to tickle his ear and blew across his forehead. His hand instinctively reached up to wipe the tickle of the wind from his skin when he heard the voice say,
“I am still waiting. Will you come today? Maybe, just maybe it will be today.”
by: annie passarello
“I know”, said the man, “but I’m busy all the time. I have to do this first. I’m still becoming.”
“Oh”, said the voice. “What are you becoming?”
“Why, myself”, said the man.
“What do you mean? Are you not already your self?”
“No, I’m not. Or at least I don’t think I’m done becoming myself yet.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“Nothing, I’m not waiting, I’m in the process of becoming. That’s why you are still waiting!”
“Your wrong”, said the voice. “The reason I’m still waiting is because you are afraid of becoming.
“Afraid of becoming? I’m not afraid of becoming.”
“Then become. Become right now. This second. I want to see you become.”
“It doesn’t work that why”, the man replied with edge in his voice. He was feeling exasperated with the voice. What did the voice know anyway? What did the voice ever become? The voice was just a voice. The voice didn’t have obligations, responsibilities, people depending on him.
“Yes I did and I do”, the voice strongly interjected.
“How did you do that?” wondered the man.
“The same way I know you are the one to change me through changing yourself,” the voice calmly replied. “I know what it is to become. I have been becoming for thousands of years. Do you think you stop becoming? That one day you get to the end of becoming and there is a ceremony or something and a stamp of approval that reads, “The Man has now become. He is ready to begin living.”
“No” sulked the man.
“Everyday is a becoming. Every day I have changed and became anew. I am weathered and am built up, I am conquered and I am the conqueror, I am dreams, hope and despair in equal parts with joy, happiness and achievement. I am east and west, north and south, I am all the elements of this life and all the elements of lives past. Everyday, I become as everyday you become. For everyday the process begins again and every day you are shaped by the days past. The process is happening whether or not you are aware of it. And this is why I wait for you. For your becoming is tied to my own. You are destined to change me as I will change you. You will challenge, conquer, fail, succeed, you will know joy and sorrow in equal amounts and I will push you as you will push me to become new and through this our daily reinvention will occur. We will never be the same day or spirit again. And nor will our becomings be the same again.”
“Who are you?” said the man, his heart filled with trepidation
“Why, I am rock”, chuckled the voice. “I am the rock that has been waiting for you to come. I have endured the centuries and men have tested themselves against the time of me. Some have succeeded and some have failed but all have become. Out here, a knowing is revealed within each of us, some can’t deal with the knowing, some can. I think you CAN. So I wait. I stand here strong looking the sun, the wind, the moon, the sky, the lark, and all life in the eye. I bear each day and give each day. And today, I again wait for you to come. To come and change you, me, and all that surrounds us.”
“I will come,” said the Man. “Just not yet.”
The sound of the Voice laughing infuriates the man. “Why are you laughing?” screamed the man. “I know I am becoming. I am becoming this very day. I don’t have to beat myself against you to become. I will get there but I have to do this first.”
“That’s not why I laugh,” the voice whispered. “I laughed at my own impatience. I laugh because I know you are becoming. It’s just that some becomings seem bigger than others and I want you to get to this one. Even after all the eons, I still get impatient for those few ONES to come and test themselves against me, to become that which lives in the most hidden and secret parts of the their self’s.”
“You make it seem as though this becoming is a great undertaking. Like a surgery from which I will wake missing a part of myself.”
“No, you will not be missing parts of yourself. On the contrary, you will be on the road to completion, to being whole. Parts of the self will be added and the only parts that will be lost are those that never needed to be there to begin with. Now go! “, bellowed the voice. “I am tired by these years and need to rest.”
The Man walked off, thinking about the voice. And as the days progressed the man forgot some of what the voice said for HE was engrossed in his daily goings on. And one day, as he was about to sit down to eat his lunch on the pier a breeze danced across his neck, reached up to tickle his ear and blew across his forehead. His hand instinctively reached up to wipe the tickle of the wind from his skin when he heard the voice say,
“I am still waiting. Will you come today? Maybe, just maybe it will be today.”
by: annie passarello
Thursday, January 15, 2009
SWF ISO John Cusack?
Dating is hard. Not only because of the delicate tango moves that comprise dating in it of itself but also because finding a partner to dance the first dance with is exhausting. Once you have a partner, the rest falls into place. Your place, his place, a public place or no place because you realize that you have nothing in common. But before you get to go to or through all those places you need to find a date. Or in my case a man.
This train of thought began to make a home in my mind about a week ago as I sat in Starbucks drinking my sorrows away in a grande, no vanilla, hot chocolate, extra whip please. As I tried to come to grips with my last single friends looming marriage I turned my warm cup around in my hands to see what words of wisdom Starbucks had printed on it's 10% post recycled consumer waste paper coffee cup this week. I can't quote exactly what was written but the jist of it entailed believing in yourself, despite others telling you that you are not good enough. The part that struck me right in the breast plate was the phrase, "Ask anyone out!". "Right On!" was my initial mental response. Followed shortly by, "Really? Anyone?" I mean this "As I See It" quote was really telling me to believe in myself so much that I dare to have the confidence to ask anyone out and stare down possible rejection in the face. It was telling me to believe that I am good enough for absolutely anyone. And the truth is the wisdom is right. I am good enough for anyone. But is anyone good enough for me?
A few days later I found myself talking to a friend about our "laminated lists". You know those lists of secret crushes that we never admit to having. The list of, in my case, men that I would date in a heartbeat if only they would appear and ask me out. As my friend and I examined our lists she noted that John Cusack had been on my list for about the last 19 years. She laughed and said, "My god, are you still in lust with Cusack?"
"Yes, alright. He's fantastic," and I quickly launched into the many accolades of John Cusack and why he, to this day, remains number one on my list.
As I am recapping my long love affair with John to my friend, the Starbucks message from a few days before begins to play in the background of my mind, like the subtle, eerie music of a dramatic film. And it is then, in that moment, that I decide to end my 19 year love affair with John.
"What if I ask John Cusack out?", I ask my friend.
After her laughter abates enough for her to breathe and talk at the same time she says, "You're nuts. I mean you're really nuts. For starters, John doesn't know you exist and two, how would you go about finding him?"
"I don't know", I say, "Maybe I can call him? Do you think I can dial 411 and ask for John Cusack?"
My friend just gives me a sad look.
"Kidding, I was just kidding. Seriously though, why not? My Starbucks coffee cup said I should ask anyone out and that is precisely what I aim to do. John Cusack is just a man. So he happens to make films for a living. I happen to be a park ranger and it is only society that seems to deem one more glamorous, more untouchable than the other. John has dated many beautiful women, but they all have one thing in common. They were all famous and actresses/models. And since he is still single, I wager to say that dating that type of woman hasn't worked out so well for John. Maybe what he really needs is a beautiful, intelligent, ordinary park ranger that likes to get dirty in the outdoors. Maybe what John needs is ME?"
My friend just sighs, but she knows that I mean business.
"OK", she says, "How are we going to do this? It's not like you can just call him up?"
"I know. And the truth is I don't know how to ask John Cusack out. I can't call him as I'm sure he has a posse of people that screen for psychos and stalkers and I'm sure they will think I am one of them. I can't exactly write him a letter as I'm sure his "fan mail" is read and screened too. I doubt he has a public email address and I don't think I can poke him on Facebook."
"Well, my friend says, I'm sure you can poke him but I'm not sure you want Facebook to know about it."
I laugh at that as we continue to brainstorm.
What we came up with is this. A "Desperately Seeking Susan" type personal slash I SAW YOU ad for John Cusack to be posted on my blog site, my face book account and ultimately circulating around the world wide web until somehow, someone who works for or knows John will have him read this ad and my blogsite. So here goes and please feel free to cut and paste and send to friends to forward until John sees it:
SWF ISO John Cusack
Attractive, funny, articulate and witty female wants to take you, John Cusack, out on the funniest date of your life. We'll feed animals at the zoo, jump in the aquarium tank, play bocci ball with old men and ride the ferris wheel till we die of laughter. Anything is up for grabs. Is this crazy? Yes but every remarkable event begins with a crazy idea and ends with a courageous lunatic! And I'm just daring enough to stare down my inner critic and societial rationality and ask you John Cusack if you'd like to go out on a date with an extra-ordinary park ranger type girl that usually has dirt under her nails, travels the world, writes and tell amazing stories and is just funny as heck. If this finds its way to you John, you'll know how to find me. I'm the third house from the end in case your GPS unit quits out on the way to Rainier. Hope to see you. Annie
This train of thought began to make a home in my mind about a week ago as I sat in Starbucks drinking my sorrows away in a grande, no vanilla, hot chocolate, extra whip please. As I tried to come to grips with my last single friends looming marriage I turned my warm cup around in my hands to see what words of wisdom Starbucks had printed on it's 10% post recycled consumer waste paper coffee cup this week. I can't quote exactly what was written but the jist of it entailed believing in yourself, despite others telling you that you are not good enough. The part that struck me right in the breast plate was the phrase, "Ask anyone out!". "Right On!" was my initial mental response. Followed shortly by, "Really? Anyone?" I mean this "As I See It" quote was really telling me to believe in myself so much that I dare to have the confidence to ask anyone out and stare down possible rejection in the face. It was telling me to believe that I am good enough for absolutely anyone. And the truth is the wisdom is right. I am good enough for anyone. But is anyone good enough for me?
A few days later I found myself talking to a friend about our "laminated lists". You know those lists of secret crushes that we never admit to having. The list of, in my case, men that I would date in a heartbeat if only they would appear and ask me out. As my friend and I examined our lists she noted that John Cusack had been on my list for about the last 19 years. She laughed and said, "My god, are you still in lust with Cusack?"
"Yes, alright. He's fantastic," and I quickly launched into the many accolades of John Cusack and why he, to this day, remains number one on my list.
As I am recapping my long love affair with John to my friend, the Starbucks message from a few days before begins to play in the background of my mind, like the subtle, eerie music of a dramatic film. And it is then, in that moment, that I decide to end my 19 year love affair with John.
"What if I ask John Cusack out?", I ask my friend.
After her laughter abates enough for her to breathe and talk at the same time she says, "You're nuts. I mean you're really nuts. For starters, John doesn't know you exist and two, how would you go about finding him?"
"I don't know", I say, "Maybe I can call him? Do you think I can dial 411 and ask for John Cusack?"
My friend just gives me a sad look.
"Kidding, I was just kidding. Seriously though, why not? My Starbucks coffee cup said I should ask anyone out and that is precisely what I aim to do. John Cusack is just a man. So he happens to make films for a living. I happen to be a park ranger and it is only society that seems to deem one more glamorous, more untouchable than the other. John has dated many beautiful women, but they all have one thing in common. They were all famous and actresses/models. And since he is still single, I wager to say that dating that type of woman hasn't worked out so well for John. Maybe what he really needs is a beautiful, intelligent, ordinary park ranger that likes to get dirty in the outdoors. Maybe what John needs is ME?"
My friend just sighs, but she knows that I mean business.
"OK", she says, "How are we going to do this? It's not like you can just call him up?"
"I know. And the truth is I don't know how to ask John Cusack out. I can't call him as I'm sure he has a posse of people that screen for psychos and stalkers and I'm sure they will think I am one of them. I can't exactly write him a letter as I'm sure his "fan mail" is read and screened too. I doubt he has a public email address and I don't think I can poke him on Facebook."
"Well, my friend says, I'm sure you can poke him but I'm not sure you want Facebook to know about it."
I laugh at that as we continue to brainstorm.
What we came up with is this. A "Desperately Seeking Susan" type personal slash I SAW YOU ad for John Cusack to be posted on my blog site, my face book account and ultimately circulating around the world wide web until somehow, someone who works for or knows John will have him read this ad and my blogsite. So here goes and please feel free to cut and paste and send to friends to forward until John sees it:
SWF ISO John Cusack
Attractive, funny, articulate and witty female wants to take you, John Cusack, out on the funniest date of your life. We'll feed animals at the zoo, jump in the aquarium tank, play bocci ball with old men and ride the ferris wheel till we die of laughter. Anything is up for grabs. Is this crazy? Yes but every remarkable event begins with a crazy idea and ends with a courageous lunatic! And I'm just daring enough to stare down my inner critic and societial rationality and ask you John Cusack if you'd like to go out on a date with an extra-ordinary park ranger type girl that usually has dirt under her nails, travels the world, writes and tell amazing stories and is just funny as heck. If this finds its way to you John, you'll know how to find me. I'm the third house from the end in case your GPS unit quits out on the way to Rainier. Hope to see you. Annie
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Have You Seen My Teeth?
It's not hard to know when you've been on a bad date. And most people that I have spoken too can pinpoint the exact moment in a date when things went very awry. Having recently reexamined my dating history I found that for me, the worst date I've ever been on actually began the morning after the date.
My date was Sky. The tall, handsome, JCREW model type, who spoke two languages and was entering the foreign service. We went out for drinks and ended up closing the bar. Since we were both too drunk to drive and since he lived well out of town, I had no choice but to take him back to my place. We made out. It was nice. It was very nice in fact. I remember Sky saying he was hungry at some point and he got up to make some food in my kitchen. I wasn't hungry at all and told him that I was going to sleep and that he had sofa duty. He laughed and said he understood and that he would be very quite while making some food. I kissed him good night not knowing that would be the last time I would ever kiss Sky.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of rummaging. I dragged my alcohol leadened limbs out of bed and into the living room where I found Sky frantically searching the living room.
"What's going on?", I asked.
"I'm just looking for my things", he said, the sound of underlying fear sneaking through his otherwise calm voice.
"Need some help?", I offered.
"Ugh, no, it's OK. I'll find them."
"No seriously, what are you looking for? Maybe I know where we set them last night?"
"No really I'll find them."
"OK, I said," as I stumbled into the bathroom.
I brushed my teeth and let the hot water of the shower slowly wake me up. I hadn't drank that much in a long time and I was feeling the first hint of a hang over. Which for me translates into still being drunk. I state this fact, that of still being drunk, in order to honor the fact that many who read what is to follow will think that I am lying. The truth is that drunk or sober, I could never make THIS up.
I emerge from the bathroom, turban wrapped around my head, warm towel wrapped around me only to find Sky still searching the apartment with an increasing sense of urgency and panic. I approach him cautiously, as at this point I'm sure things are not going as well as I had thought they were. My gut told me that something bad was about to happen.
"Sky?", I ask hesitantly.
No response.
"Sky?", I ask again, louder this time.
No response.
"Sky?" I yell this time while grabbing his arm. "What is wrong?"
And without hesitation, my JCREW man looks me in the eye and says, "Babe, I can't seem to find my teeth."
"Come again?", I stammer.
"Ugh, have you seen my teeth?" he asks sheepishly.
"What do you mean your teeth?"
"Well, I mean teeth, you know those things in your mouth used to chew food. Things that you brush twice a day. You know TEETH!", he says, panic practically shaking the words out of him.
I didn't know what to say. I just stood there in disbelief.
"Well, what exactly am I looking for? I mean I didn't know your teeth weren't real."
With a sigh and a bit of calming he said, "I have a partial plate and I am missing my front four teeth."
He then opens his mouth in a weak smile and shows me the place where his top four front teeth should be. Here is my date, my model good looks man smiling at me with no front teeth. And I lose it. I just started to laugh really, really loud. I doubled over with laughter and tears began to rush down my face. Sky just stood there looking at me while I laughed. I tried to tell him that I was sorry and didn't mean to laugh and that I would gladly help him locate his mystery teeth but he wasn't amused. He just looked at me and firmly stated,
"I need my teeth and I'm not leaving without them."
I laugh even harder at the idea of him walking the three miles home toothless.
"OK, so when did you last have your teeth? Do you remember where you last saw them? Can you describe them?" I ask these in mock police investigative tone.
"Forget you," he states and walks away.
"Sky," I plead. "Come on, this is funny. I mean this is seriously funny."
He doesn't answer, just continues to search. After two hours of looking we still have no teeth. All I have to go on is that the night before, after I went to bed, he made a burrito and had his teeth then. He hadn't recalled seeing them sense. He thought he had taken them out before bed, like he usually does, but he was really drunk and couldn't remember. I wanted to ask if he swallowed them, but I thought that would really push him over the edge.
"Well, we can't seem to find them", I say as I usher him towards the door. "I'll call you if they turn up." And with that I slam the door and double over with laughter. Long, hard, seemingly endless laughter. Sky knocks on the door, pleading with me to let him in to continue the search but all I do is laugh. I manage to yell that I'll have a good look around and I will call him. I hear his feet on the tile floor as he walks away.
Once I regained composure I did what any young, single woman would do after realizing her dates teeth are MIA in her home. I called all my friends and told them every single toothless detail.
A few hours later I find the teeth sitting in a glass of water on top of my refrigerator. They were hidden within the leaves of the large philodendren plant that sat atop my refrigerator. I pulled the teeth and began to take a careful look. As I looked on I became angry. Angry at the teeth that brought a quick end to a possible blooming relationship. "Damn teeth," I whispered as I set them down on the coffee table and picked up the phone.
The call was quick. I figured the realtionship was over so why bother holding back on the humor of the moment. I mean it's not everyday I had the opportunity to call someone to tell them that I found their teeth in my house so I planned to make the most of it. When Sky picked up the phone I simply yelled, "I found your teeth!"
He did not find that funny although relief did flood his voice. In a quick, diplomatic manner we set a time for the exchange. He acted as though I was holding them for ransom. I didn't want his teeth. I didn't want him either. I wanted the guy I went out the night before. The one that was fun up until the moment the teeth came out.
About an hour later I found myself standing on Sky's doorstep holding a clear, crystal, juice glass full of teeth and water. As I handed him the glass of teeth I couldn't help but laugh. Just thinking of me carrying a juice glass of teeth out of my apartment building and placing it in the cup holder in my car and then walking the block to Sky's place was just too much to bare. As I laughed Sky just stood there. "It's not funny", he demanded.
"Yeah it is", I chuckled.
And with that I walked away.
I can't say that Dear Abbey or Miss Manners would be proud of how I handled the situation, but then again I doubt those two classy ladies ever had to deal with such a situation. So all in all, I think I did a pretty good job. Besides what do you say to the man who lost his teeth in your house?
"Keep It Real?"
My date was Sky. The tall, handsome, JCREW model type, who spoke two languages and was entering the foreign service. We went out for drinks and ended up closing the bar. Since we were both too drunk to drive and since he lived well out of town, I had no choice but to take him back to my place. We made out. It was nice. It was very nice in fact. I remember Sky saying he was hungry at some point and he got up to make some food in my kitchen. I wasn't hungry at all and told him that I was going to sleep and that he had sofa duty. He laughed and said he understood and that he would be very quite while making some food. I kissed him good night not knowing that would be the last time I would ever kiss Sky.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of rummaging. I dragged my alcohol leadened limbs out of bed and into the living room where I found Sky frantically searching the living room.
"What's going on?", I asked.
"I'm just looking for my things", he said, the sound of underlying fear sneaking through his otherwise calm voice.
"Need some help?", I offered.
"Ugh, no, it's OK. I'll find them."
"No seriously, what are you looking for? Maybe I know where we set them last night?"
"No really I'll find them."
"OK, I said," as I stumbled into the bathroom.
I brushed my teeth and let the hot water of the shower slowly wake me up. I hadn't drank that much in a long time and I was feeling the first hint of a hang over. Which for me translates into still being drunk. I state this fact, that of still being drunk, in order to honor the fact that many who read what is to follow will think that I am lying. The truth is that drunk or sober, I could never make THIS up.
I emerge from the bathroom, turban wrapped around my head, warm towel wrapped around me only to find Sky still searching the apartment with an increasing sense of urgency and panic. I approach him cautiously, as at this point I'm sure things are not going as well as I had thought they were. My gut told me that something bad was about to happen.
"Sky?", I ask hesitantly.
No response.
"Sky?", I ask again, louder this time.
No response.
"Sky?" I yell this time while grabbing his arm. "What is wrong?"
And without hesitation, my JCREW man looks me in the eye and says, "Babe, I can't seem to find my teeth."
"Come again?", I stammer.
"Ugh, have you seen my teeth?" he asks sheepishly.
"What do you mean your teeth?"
"Well, I mean teeth, you know those things in your mouth used to chew food. Things that you brush twice a day. You know TEETH!", he says, panic practically shaking the words out of him.
I didn't know what to say. I just stood there in disbelief.
"Well, what exactly am I looking for? I mean I didn't know your teeth weren't real."
With a sigh and a bit of calming he said, "I have a partial plate and I am missing my front four teeth."
He then opens his mouth in a weak smile and shows me the place where his top four front teeth should be. Here is my date, my model good looks man smiling at me with no front teeth. And I lose it. I just started to laugh really, really loud. I doubled over with laughter and tears began to rush down my face. Sky just stood there looking at me while I laughed. I tried to tell him that I was sorry and didn't mean to laugh and that I would gladly help him locate his mystery teeth but he wasn't amused. He just looked at me and firmly stated,
"I need my teeth and I'm not leaving without them."
I laugh even harder at the idea of him walking the three miles home toothless.
"OK, so when did you last have your teeth? Do you remember where you last saw them? Can you describe them?" I ask these in mock police investigative tone.
"Forget you," he states and walks away.
"Sky," I plead. "Come on, this is funny. I mean this is seriously funny."
He doesn't answer, just continues to search. After two hours of looking we still have no teeth. All I have to go on is that the night before, after I went to bed, he made a burrito and had his teeth then. He hadn't recalled seeing them sense. He thought he had taken them out before bed, like he usually does, but he was really drunk and couldn't remember. I wanted to ask if he swallowed them, but I thought that would really push him over the edge.
"Well, we can't seem to find them", I say as I usher him towards the door. "I'll call you if they turn up." And with that I slam the door and double over with laughter. Long, hard, seemingly endless laughter. Sky knocks on the door, pleading with me to let him in to continue the search but all I do is laugh. I manage to yell that I'll have a good look around and I will call him. I hear his feet on the tile floor as he walks away.
Once I regained composure I did what any young, single woman would do after realizing her dates teeth are MIA in her home. I called all my friends and told them every single toothless detail.
A few hours later I find the teeth sitting in a glass of water on top of my refrigerator. They were hidden within the leaves of the large philodendren plant that sat atop my refrigerator. I pulled the teeth and began to take a careful look. As I looked on I became angry. Angry at the teeth that brought a quick end to a possible blooming relationship. "Damn teeth," I whispered as I set them down on the coffee table and picked up the phone.
The call was quick. I figured the realtionship was over so why bother holding back on the humor of the moment. I mean it's not everyday I had the opportunity to call someone to tell them that I found their teeth in my house so I planned to make the most of it. When Sky picked up the phone I simply yelled, "I found your teeth!"
He did not find that funny although relief did flood his voice. In a quick, diplomatic manner we set a time for the exchange. He acted as though I was holding them for ransom. I didn't want his teeth. I didn't want him either. I wanted the guy I went out the night before. The one that was fun up until the moment the teeth came out.
About an hour later I found myself standing on Sky's doorstep holding a clear, crystal, juice glass full of teeth and water. As I handed him the glass of teeth I couldn't help but laugh. Just thinking of me carrying a juice glass of teeth out of my apartment building and placing it in the cup holder in my car and then walking the block to Sky's place was just too much to bare. As I laughed Sky just stood there. "It's not funny", he demanded.
"Yeah it is", I chuckled.
And with that I walked away.
I can't say that Dear Abbey or Miss Manners would be proud of how I handled the situation, but then again I doubt those two classy ladies ever had to deal with such a situation. So all in all, I think I did a pretty good job. Besides what do you say to the man who lost his teeth in your house?
"Keep It Real?"
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
I Wasn't Looking At Porn!
I wasn’t looking at porn, although the staff at the Oregon State Valley Library may claim differently. The question up for debate in the matter was not what constitutes pornography but rather, what exactly constitutes looking?” Now I accept that everyone sees a situation from their own point of view, but I maintain that the following events are true to the best of my recollection and I leave the judgement of this matter up to you, the humble reader.
It was December 2004 and I was sitting in the library computer lab, terminal 84 to be exact. I had just finished a 22 page paper on conflict resolution – albeit the dumbest and worst paper I had ever written. The assignment: explain in detail a conflict currently going on in one’s life and explain through the use of various conflict resolution and mediation techniques the methods one could use to resolve the matter. Since the only conflict I had at the time was my conflict over writing a 22 page paper on a conflict I opted to write about my conflict over being assigned to write a 22 page paper about a conflict I wasn’t having. (I got an A.)
At any rate, there I sat, putting the finishing touches on my paper. I hit print and walked, with a rather robust spring in my step for someone who had been up for over 2 days, to the printing kiosk. I actually managed to smile as I pulled my paper from the printer and put a staple, just so in the top left hand corner. I walked back to terminal 84 and checked the time. I had 10 minutes before I was meeting my boyfriend Jensen so I figured I’d check my email one last time.
In my exhaustion and delirium I typed the web address wrong. Simple mistake, easily corrected most days. But today was not most days. Today, I typed hotmale.com instead of hotmail.com. And instead of being greeted by the nice blue and white MSN log in page and reports from my mom of the latest case of my grandfather's gout and a box of cookies being sent in the mail, I was greeted by the largest manhood I had ever seen. Not only was this man’s “hood” displayed ever so abundantly on my screen, surrounding what I assumed was a doctored picture, was one of those obnoxious flashing yellow boxes with the words, “YOU WANT IT NOW” flashing over it in a sunshine array of colors.
Now, the logical thing to do would be to simply and quickly navigate away from the page. But that didn’t work. Ok, so I hit the little x on the top right corner and still nothing. I tried to remain calm, I did. But I’m an east coast girl in a west coast world. So, I began to panic. I quickly thought to simply log off the computer. I went to the START bottom on the bottom left and the dialogue box opened and I thought, “I’m home free – only to have my hopes dashed by that stupid arrow. You know the little arrow, the little arrow that guides you on your journey through cyberspace – it was locked and now the log off box was stuck open on the bottom of my screen too. Unfortuneatly the box was not large enough to cover the cock flashing in the middle of my screen. I quickly turn to the pimply young man next to me and I tell him my computer screen is stuck. He says try to hit Escape. I hit that button like 30 times and …nothing. I tell him it’s not working. He says let me take a look and he pokes his head around the corner of that divider wall that pretends to issue privacy to co-eds as the work but really only serve to post memos by librarian staff that read, “Any student caught looking at porn in the computer lab will have their computer usage privledges revoked.” This young man’s head pokes around the corner of our divider wall and he says, “Whoa, lady you’re like hard core!”
“No I’m not, it just came up on my screen and I want it gone.”
‘He just laughed and said ask the help desk.
The help desk, the help desk, yes, this was a solution. A desk designed for the sole purpose of helping people like me – those us non savy computer type people. Those of us who don’t spend their nights playing dungeons and dragons and grad theft auto, yes the help desk would help.
I got up from my chair and quickly and calmly walked up to the help desk, only to have my hopes of an easy solution to my dilemma being delivered by some nerdy computer geek dashed. I was instead confronted by Constance – the white- haired old lady librarian who wore those squeaky shoes and rather tight cordoroy pants for a old lady librarian. Constance the women with pictures of her 20 grandkids and her latest trip to the Grand Canyon on display on her desk. Constance who had a hard candy dish on the desk for those of us seeking her guidance and assistance in the wee hours of the morning. Constance, the women who I was about to ask to remove the porn from my computer screen. This was really not going well. I swallowed hard. I quickly explained that my computer was frozen. I didn’t provide any other details. Constance asked what happened and I said I didn’t know. I told her I was trying to navigate to my email site and it just froze. She then delivered doom, “That’s been happening lately”, she cackled. “Let’s go over there and see what I can figure out. “
• “Noooooooooo”, I bellowed. “Can’t you just tell me how to fix it and I’ll go take care of it.”
• “Well, I can’t tell you how to fit it without seeing it. Let’s just go over there. What’s your station number?”
• “Really it’s no big deal”, I replied. “I’ll just come back later.”
• “Well, if you leave I still have to fix it for the next person” she said as she came around the counter and started heading in the direction she saw me come from. “What computer were you at?” she asked over her shoulder.
• “Number 84” I mumbled almost inaudibly.
Constance’s shoes made that muffled squelching sound that squeaky shoes will make on carpet as she padded over to my terminal. She came around the corner to walk down my aisle with me schlumping behind her. The young boy sitting at the terminal next to mine had this silly grin on his face. I wanted to kill him.
Constance turned around and said to me, “Don’t worry, we’ll fix this together. Let’s see what we have here.”
And she turned around only to be confronted by “the neon yellow, you want it now picture of the that mans hood”.
• “Oh my god. Oh my, oh dear, Oh my. Young lady”, she stammered, “You are NOT allowed to look at pornographic materials in the library.”
Now, when a little grey-haired old lady says the word porn, the world stops. Everything grew suddenly quite and I felt the eyes of every co-ed in the room on me.
• “I wasn’t looking at porn,” I declared
• “Yes she was”, said the pimple young man seated next to me, a smile escaping from his acrid mouth.
• “You shut up” I yelled.
• “I’m going to have to revoke your library privledges young lady”, Constance declared.
• “Please don’t. I wasn’t looking at porn. I was trying to check my hotmail account to see if I got any emails and I just typed the address wrong. It was a simple mistake. I really need to use the library. I’m a grad student for Christ sake” I pleaded.
• “I’m sorry but rules are rules”, she said as she wrote down the username on the bottom of my computer screen. She then tried to turn off the computer but it wouldn’t work.
• “I tried that already”, I told her.
• “Well, it looks like we are going to have to put in a work order for this and just leave it for tomorrow.”
• “WHAT????” I seemingly yelled.
• “Well, I can’t fix it. It’s stuck, we’ll just have to turn off the screen and put a do not use sign on there until the morning.”
Turn off the screen. Why didn’t I think of that? So simple, so basic, so genious.
"Follow me", Constance barked.
I grabbed my satchel and things and followed Constance back to the desk. I gave her my name and she told me my privledges would be revoked and that I would get a letter in the mail and my account would be turned off tomorrow. I begged, pleaded asked to appeal – she was unmovable. I slumped away angry, down trodden, exhausted and just pissed. I met Jensen at the doors to the library and he was like,
“Why was that little old lady yelling at you?”
I told him she took away my privileges for looking at porn. He cracked up.
"Really, you were looking at porn?"
He said this with the magical lilt in the voice that only a 24 year old man can muster when the topic of porn comes up. I told him the story and how I had to appeal this b/c I needed to use the library to write my thesis, to grade papers, to do everything! We walked home with Jensen trying to comfort me under his secretly proud eyes that it was his girlfriend who just got kicked out of the library for looking at pron.
That night as I flip flopped in bed the irony of my situation finally hit home. I was in a conflict, and finally had a 22 page worthy topic to write about.
It was December 2004 and I was sitting in the library computer lab, terminal 84 to be exact. I had just finished a 22 page paper on conflict resolution – albeit the dumbest and worst paper I had ever written. The assignment: explain in detail a conflict currently going on in one’s life and explain through the use of various conflict resolution and mediation techniques the methods one could use to resolve the matter. Since the only conflict I had at the time was my conflict over writing a 22 page paper on a conflict I opted to write about my conflict over being assigned to write a 22 page paper about a conflict I wasn’t having. (I got an A.)
At any rate, there I sat, putting the finishing touches on my paper. I hit print and walked, with a rather robust spring in my step for someone who had been up for over 2 days, to the printing kiosk. I actually managed to smile as I pulled my paper from the printer and put a staple, just so in the top left hand corner. I walked back to terminal 84 and checked the time. I had 10 minutes before I was meeting my boyfriend Jensen so I figured I’d check my email one last time.
In my exhaustion and delirium I typed the web address wrong. Simple mistake, easily corrected most days. But today was not most days. Today, I typed hotmale.com instead of hotmail.com. And instead of being greeted by the nice blue and white MSN log in page and reports from my mom of the latest case of my grandfather's gout and a box of cookies being sent in the mail, I was greeted by the largest manhood I had ever seen. Not only was this man’s “hood” displayed ever so abundantly on my screen, surrounding what I assumed was a doctored picture, was one of those obnoxious flashing yellow boxes with the words, “YOU WANT IT NOW” flashing over it in a sunshine array of colors.
Now, the logical thing to do would be to simply and quickly navigate away from the page. But that didn’t work. Ok, so I hit the little x on the top right corner and still nothing. I tried to remain calm, I did. But I’m an east coast girl in a west coast world. So, I began to panic. I quickly thought to simply log off the computer. I went to the START bottom on the bottom left and the dialogue box opened and I thought, “I’m home free – only to have my hopes dashed by that stupid arrow. You know the little arrow, the little arrow that guides you on your journey through cyberspace – it was locked and now the log off box was stuck open on the bottom of my screen too. Unfortuneatly the box was not large enough to cover the cock flashing in the middle of my screen. I quickly turn to the pimply young man next to me and I tell him my computer screen is stuck. He says try to hit Escape. I hit that button like 30 times and …nothing. I tell him it’s not working. He says let me take a look and he pokes his head around the corner of that divider wall that pretends to issue privacy to co-eds as the work but really only serve to post memos by librarian staff that read, “Any student caught looking at porn in the computer lab will have their computer usage privledges revoked.” This young man’s head pokes around the corner of our divider wall and he says, “Whoa, lady you’re like hard core!”
“No I’m not, it just came up on my screen and I want it gone.”
‘He just laughed and said ask the help desk.
The help desk, the help desk, yes, this was a solution. A desk designed for the sole purpose of helping people like me – those us non savy computer type people. Those of us who don’t spend their nights playing dungeons and dragons and grad theft auto, yes the help desk would help.
I got up from my chair and quickly and calmly walked up to the help desk, only to have my hopes of an easy solution to my dilemma being delivered by some nerdy computer geek dashed. I was instead confronted by Constance – the white- haired old lady librarian who wore those squeaky shoes and rather tight cordoroy pants for a old lady librarian. Constance the women with pictures of her 20 grandkids and her latest trip to the Grand Canyon on display on her desk. Constance who had a hard candy dish on the desk for those of us seeking her guidance and assistance in the wee hours of the morning. Constance, the women who I was about to ask to remove the porn from my computer screen. This was really not going well. I swallowed hard. I quickly explained that my computer was frozen. I didn’t provide any other details. Constance asked what happened and I said I didn’t know. I told her I was trying to navigate to my email site and it just froze. She then delivered doom, “That’s been happening lately”, she cackled. “Let’s go over there and see what I can figure out. “
• “Noooooooooo”, I bellowed. “Can’t you just tell me how to fix it and I’ll go take care of it.”
• “Well, I can’t tell you how to fit it without seeing it. Let’s just go over there. What’s your station number?”
• “Really it’s no big deal”, I replied. “I’ll just come back later.”
• “Well, if you leave I still have to fix it for the next person” she said as she came around the counter and started heading in the direction she saw me come from. “What computer were you at?” she asked over her shoulder.
• “Number 84” I mumbled almost inaudibly.
Constance’s shoes made that muffled squelching sound that squeaky shoes will make on carpet as she padded over to my terminal. She came around the corner to walk down my aisle with me schlumping behind her. The young boy sitting at the terminal next to mine had this silly grin on his face. I wanted to kill him.
Constance turned around and said to me, “Don’t worry, we’ll fix this together. Let’s see what we have here.”
And she turned around only to be confronted by “the neon yellow, you want it now picture of the that mans hood”.
• “Oh my god. Oh my, oh dear, Oh my. Young lady”, she stammered, “You are NOT allowed to look at pornographic materials in the library.”
Now, when a little grey-haired old lady says the word porn, the world stops. Everything grew suddenly quite and I felt the eyes of every co-ed in the room on me.
• “I wasn’t looking at porn,” I declared
• “Yes she was”, said the pimple young man seated next to me, a smile escaping from his acrid mouth.
• “You shut up” I yelled.
• “I’m going to have to revoke your library privledges young lady”, Constance declared.
• “Please don’t. I wasn’t looking at porn. I was trying to check my hotmail account to see if I got any emails and I just typed the address wrong. It was a simple mistake. I really need to use the library. I’m a grad student for Christ sake” I pleaded.
• “I’m sorry but rules are rules”, she said as she wrote down the username on the bottom of my computer screen. She then tried to turn off the computer but it wouldn’t work.
• “I tried that already”, I told her.
• “Well, it looks like we are going to have to put in a work order for this and just leave it for tomorrow.”
• “WHAT????” I seemingly yelled.
• “Well, I can’t fix it. It’s stuck, we’ll just have to turn off the screen and put a do not use sign on there until the morning.”
Turn off the screen. Why didn’t I think of that? So simple, so basic, so genious.
"Follow me", Constance barked.
I grabbed my satchel and things and followed Constance back to the desk. I gave her my name and she told me my privledges would be revoked and that I would get a letter in the mail and my account would be turned off tomorrow. I begged, pleaded asked to appeal – she was unmovable. I slumped away angry, down trodden, exhausted and just pissed. I met Jensen at the doors to the library and he was like,
“Why was that little old lady yelling at you?”
I told him she took away my privileges for looking at porn. He cracked up.
"Really, you were looking at porn?"
He said this with the magical lilt in the voice that only a 24 year old man can muster when the topic of porn comes up. I told him the story and how I had to appeal this b/c I needed to use the library to write my thesis, to grade papers, to do everything! We walked home with Jensen trying to comfort me under his secretly proud eyes that it was his girlfriend who just got kicked out of the library for looking at pron.
That night as I flip flopped in bed the irony of my situation finally hit home. I was in a conflict, and finally had a 22 page worthy topic to write about.
Monday, December 22, 2008
This Ain't Fear Factor!
We simply went out to dinner. And this night was no different from the other 23 nights that we went out for our evening meal as we travelled the Camino through Spain. It didn't matter the location, the appearance or how busy the resturant/bar was, the pilgrim menu was always the same. A three course meal of soup,salad or pasta, followed by a plate of meat with a side of french fries, and a dessert of either flan, an orange on a plate, or rice pudding. In over 500 miles of walking the menu was always the same and roughly cost eight euros.
So on our 23rd evening of taking our evening pilgrims menu we didn't expect anything much different. That is until Max and Jim noticed that the menu card had advertised a three course meal special featuring local, traditional delicacies. And at only 10 euros it seemed like a nice change of pace. Given that Max and Jim didn't speak Spanish, it fell to Emily to translate the waitress's description of the menu. It went exactly like this: First course is a meat dish of mostly pork, the second course is of vegetables, the third course is soup and the fourth is a dessert of your choice. Max and Jim were excited, four whole courses for only two euros more! They quickly opted for the special menu. Emily, Dan and I opted to stick to the traditional pilgrim menu. A fortuitous decision in hindsight.
As Emily, Dan and I dug into our first course of pasta noodles drenched in red sauce and cheese, the waitress arrived with Max and Jim's first platter. She placed before them a large white bowl, filled with animal parts. A look of horror crossed Max and Dan's faces, followed shortly by a look of confusion. Max was the first to speak. "
"What is that?", he exclaimed while pointing towards the bowl of animal parts.
"More over are we supposed to eat that?", Jim wondered aloud.
Emily quickly grabbed the waitress and asked her what type of meat was in the bowl. The waitress cheerily explained that it was boiled pig parts. She kept smiling at Max and Jim and indicated that they should dig in.
"Boiled pig parts! Boiled pig parts! What does she mean parts? What parts?", Max loudly whispered.
"Well for starters, here are some pig ears", Jim said, while spearing a boiled ear with his fork and waving it in the air for all of us to see.
"Ok, I'm eating here. You got to put that down", Dan stated. "Really, that is just gross."
"Come on, eat an ear! Or wait, look, there's a hoof. Is that a fingernail on that hoof?", Jim speculated as he prodded a hoof in the bowl.
"Holy shit! I can't eat that. That is seriously a bowl of pig trotters", Max yelped.
"Ok, we have to eat something from the bowl", Jim conjectured.
"This ain't fear factor and I'm not eating shit from that bowl!," Max declared.
"Look, this is a perfectly good piece of bacon right here. So it's gray, it's still bacon. Why don't you eat that?", Jim said as he placed a piece of boiled pig on Max's plate.
"No way! I can't do it."
"Max, it's just bacon."
"That's not like any bacon I ever ate. Besides what are you going to eat?"
"I'm going to dig into that trodder."
"Oh, that's just wrong dude. There are still nails on that shit."
This went on for about five minutes. Jim happily tucking into a pig trotter, Max picking at his bacon, while the rest of us dined on steak and french fries. As Max and Jim finished their first selection they began to ponder the feasibility of finishing the bowl of pig parts. On one hand they didn't want to feel rude by not eating the bowl of pig, on the other hand, Max was becoming certain that he was being secretly taped for an episode of Fear Factor - Spain. So, it came down to this.
Fifty euros paid in cash to the person who would eat at least two larger parts out of the bowl.
Jim laid down this offer, probably not thinking anyone would do it. But Dan, my fellow American hailing from the "We eat road kill" state of Alaska, quickly accepted the challenge.
Because a good sum of money was being thrown down, the following rules were agreed upon after heated negotiation.
1) Dan had to eat one hoof (or trotter as the English call it), one ear, and one unknown bacon like substance.
2) Dan would be able to wash down the food with beer, wine or any beverage of his choice.
3) He was not allowed to regurgitate the food for at least 5 minutes.
Dan anxiously agreed and began to eat. And after the longest and most tedious 7 minutes of his 26 years of life he finished his three items. He pocked the money Jim placed on the table, checked his watch, indicated 5 minutes had elapsed and politely excused himself from the table. The rest of us finished up our ice cream and paid the bill.
We met Dan outside the bar and began our walk back to the alburgue in silence, each contemplating all that had transpired in the course of one evening out to dinner. The special menu never held the same allure for Max and for the remainder of the trip he stuck exclusively to the pilgrims menu. Jim continued to explore the Spanish daily specials but none were as interesting as that first night. Dan recovered from his fear factor meal but he could never look at a pig the same again. As for Emily and me, we spent the last 15 days on the Camino reminding the boys that the Cambridge Dictionary defines "special" as "that which is better, greater or otherwise different from what is usual."
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Starbucks Encountered
Apparently, my beauty is mesmerizing. Or at least that is what the man who handed me his email address scribbled on a piece of scrap paper said to me. I saw him staring at me at the Starbucks, where I sat typing new stories for my blog spot. Every time I sat back and looked up from my screen he was there staring at me. I offered a weak smile and looked away, appearing engrossed in my work. When I saw him leave I felt relieved and then I felt bad for having felt relieved. But my feeling would be short lived as I looked up and there he was standing next to my table, my mystery man in a blue Carhart type work jacked. He walked up to me and said, "I felt compelled to come back and take a chance. Do what you feel is right by you but your beauty is mesmerizing and I wanted to take my chance and give you my email."
He said his name was Mike and I said I was Annie and that was that. He walked away. The older gentlemen sitting across from me gave me one of those knowing smiles and I just laughed. Mike's actions were flattering, humorous, bold and brazen - two qualities I admire. Too bad he was born under the wrong name, I thought as I tore up his email address. I mean, after all, I've never met a Mike that wasn't a dick. I should know. I've dated 12 of them.
(p.s. - this does not mean that I don't have friends named Mike or that Mike's are not good people. It just means that I shouldn't date them. But maybe you should. Anyway, I mean no offense to Mike's around the world.)
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Scrambled Egg on the Onion, Turkish Honey and Other Mistranslations
The small table placard sandwiched between the salt and peppers shakers and the napkin holder proved to be an interesting read. Blazoned across the top in big, bold letters were the words, "Breakfast Options". I decided to peruse my options since it was breakfast time and I was hungry. My eyes reached the fourth option on the list, when my brain seemingly stopped processing. I had to shake my head a few times to decode the English translation of this mystery breakfast item. The menu read, "Scrambled Egg on the Onion".
"What?", I said aloud as I read the entry again.
"Jochen, does that really say, "Scrambled Egg ON the Onion"?"
Jochen took the sign and read to where I was pointing. He nodded his head and laughed and said, "Yeah, that says Scrambled Egg on the Onion."
We immediately began trying to decode this translation. Was it merely a typo and meant to read scrambled egg with onion? Or if it was an accurate translation would I, if I dared to order it, really be served a whole onion topped with one scrambled egg? Was the onion cooked we wondered? Was the onion chopped and sauteed before the egg being placed on top or was it just scrambled eggs with sauteed onions mixed in?
We read the rest of the breakfast card searching for clues that would unravel the mystery of this translation. To our surprise we noticed that the other translations were seemingly accurate. The menu items read, "Scrambled Eggs WITH Bacon", "Scrambled Eggs WITH Toast". Not ON Bacon or ON Toast but WITH. Therefore, how could the translation for Scrambled Egg On the Onion be wrong? Obviously, whoever translated the menu items knew On from With. Even the German translation on the card read On and not With. Jochen and I were stumped. Moreover, since neither of us was willing to order item number 4 to solve the mystery, Jochen and I were forced to concede that the translation was accurate and "Scrambled Egg ON the Onion" was indeed a valid breakfast description.
This was not to be the last of my encounters with translation faux pas on my travels through Europe. A mere two days after the Scrambled Egg on the Onion episode, I found myself spitting my non-fizzy water into the sleeve of my sweater when Jochen, at the wheel of our green, road trippin, Skoda automobile, turned to me and said, "Can I have some of your Turkish Honey?"
Pppfffttt, was the sound the water made as it hit the glove box in front of me. "Excuse me", I said as I gave Jochen a very curious look mixed with laughter.
"What?", he said. "I just want some of your Turkish Honey."
"I know what you said but don't you have a girlfriend for that?" I argued back.
After a second in which confusion passed over Jochen's face, he began laughing and said, "Annie, I want some of the candy you bought at the store. What do you call it?" and he pointed to the little compartment in the passenger side door where I had put the nougat.
"Uh, we call that nougat in the states," I laughed as I pulled out the nougat and handed him a piece.
"What did you think I meant?", he asked me.
"Well, I thought you were getting frisky and that you were using the term "Turkish Honey" as a euphemism for fooling around."
Now it was Jochen's turn to almost spit out water. He just shook his head at me, laughter erupting sporadically from him as he continued to drive down the road.
We continue our road trip for two more days before arriving back at his apartment in Saarbrucken. We were making ourselves at home and unpacking our things when Jochen walks into the kitchen and says to me, "What does get your freak on me?"
Water again spews from my mouth and my eyes fill with the tears of laughter.
"Ok, I'm done!" I say.
"What? What does this mean?"
"Jochen, where did you hear this phrase?"
"It's written on the letter enclosed with my bike parts. What does it mean?"
"Hmmm, well...."
As I stood there in front of Jochen trying to figure out how to explain what "Get Your Freak On" means I was suddenly overcome with a strong desire to be home in the states where things made sense, where things didn't need to be translated for me. But as I fumbled for a way to explain to Jochen this simple phrase I realized that I was at a loss for a translation. In fact, I needed my own slang dictionary/thesaurus to decipher the correct meaning. Maybe the linguistic errors encountered on my travels were not isolated to travelling outside the U.S. but maybe there were a part of my everyday life experiences, in which I translate for myself the meaning of words, things, actions, etc. Maybe, just maybe, Scrambled Egg on the Onion, Turkish Honey and Get Your Freak On were subject to individual interpretation. Or maybe not....
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Making Much Water
He appeared as though a mirage. I first noticed him as a blue figure in the distance, clearly a fellow pilgrim as no locals walked this stretch of road. The gravel path, scratched out of the edge of a farmers field, paralleled the highway leading into Sahagun. It was a wet, splashy, dreary day and I was cold. I wanted nothing more than to be out of the rain, sitting in a nice warm cafe with my hands wrapped around a hot mug of ColaCao (cheap hot chocolate powder.) These warm thoughts were broken by the movement of the man in blue. He had paused and turned back to look my way. The motion took only a second but it was enough to break me of my thoughts. As I walked on the figure paused two more times, each time seeming to mark my location. This simple act made me feel safe, protected even. I liked knowing that someone was looking out for me, encouraging me to press forward on this rainy day. As I entered a bend in the path I lost site of my distant pilgrim. A sudden wave of panic flooded over me and I picked up the pace in hopes of seeing my emotional safety blanket on the horizon once again. As I cleared the bend there he was, not 1/4 km in front of me, peeing into the bushes on the roadside, with little shelter from the eyes of passing cars. I stopped walking and looked away, trying to grant some semblance of privacy. As I waited for him to finish, I laughed at myself as I realized that the pilgrim I heralded as watching over me was in reality just timing my distance so he could go to the bathroom. He finishes and walks on with me not too far behind.
I catch up to him, my pilgrim stranger, in about 10 minutes. We smile, say hola, and walk on together in silence. We walk together this way, neither saying anything for about an hour, when suddenly a eerie sounding moan escapes from my pilgrim and he races, doubled over at the waist, into the bushes once again. From the bushes I hear the sounds of someone suffering from "pilgrims revenge". I move away to grant him some privacy, but I opt not to press on in case he turns out to be seriously ill. After a long time, he emerges from the bushes, pale and clammy. I hand him some of my water and a hanky.
"Merci", he says and smiles weakly.
"You ok?", I ask.
"Not ok, but walk now", he says in thick French accent.
We walk on.
Ten minutes later, another moan, followed by another bolt into the bushes. Again, I wait to offer water and a hanky. This routine continues for another 5km. Each time a moan, a mad dash, the sound of a backpack hitting the earth and a buckle being undone.
He emerges yet again from the bushes. He obviously feels embarrassed and tries to explain.
"My stomach makes much water."
"I know", I say with a laugh. "You ok to keep walking?"
"Not ok, but we keep walk."
Eventually, we reach Sahagun. He says he will stop at the alburgue (pilgrim hostel) and he points to his stomach. I smile, offer a hug and my last hanky and I walk on.
I reach my destination of Calzadilla de los Hermanillos as the sun was setting and a early evening storm was threatening to break. I meet up with some pilgrim friends at the alburgue and I ask if any of them were feeling ill. All of them recount some type of stomach ailment and we conclude it must have been the food from the alburge the previous night.
The next morning, I begin walking to Leon, a mere 20km away. After about 8km a sharp pain grips my abdomen and I launch into the bushes. I emerge pale and clammy with my Frenchman pilgrim from the previous day standing before me.
"Your stomach make much water", he says with a smile.
"Yes it does", I manage to respond, as he hands me some water and a hanky.
"You ok?", he asks.
"Not ok, but we walk", I say, as I shrug into my backback.
We walk on this way for another day, our roles reveresed.
And so it was that an unknown American and an unknown Frenchman walked the Camino de Santiago de Compostela together for two days, each taking turns making too much water and offering a hanky.
I catch up to him, my pilgrim stranger, in about 10 minutes. We smile, say hola, and walk on together in silence. We walk together this way, neither saying anything for about an hour, when suddenly a eerie sounding moan escapes from my pilgrim and he races, doubled over at the waist, into the bushes once again. From the bushes I hear the sounds of someone suffering from "pilgrims revenge". I move away to grant him some privacy, but I opt not to press on in case he turns out to be seriously ill. After a long time, he emerges from the bushes, pale and clammy. I hand him some of my water and a hanky.
"Merci", he says and smiles weakly.
"You ok?", I ask.
"Not ok, but walk now", he says in thick French accent.
We walk on.
Ten minutes later, another moan, followed by another bolt into the bushes. Again, I wait to offer water and a hanky. This routine continues for another 5km. Each time a moan, a mad dash, the sound of a backpack hitting the earth and a buckle being undone.
He emerges yet again from the bushes. He obviously feels embarrassed and tries to explain.
"My stomach makes much water."
"I know", I say with a laugh. "You ok to keep walking?"
"Not ok, but we keep walk."
Eventually, we reach Sahagun. He says he will stop at the alburgue (pilgrim hostel) and he points to his stomach. I smile, offer a hug and my last hanky and I walk on.
I reach my destination of Calzadilla de los Hermanillos as the sun was setting and a early evening storm was threatening to break. I meet up with some pilgrim friends at the alburgue and I ask if any of them were feeling ill. All of them recount some type of stomach ailment and we conclude it must have been the food from the alburge the previous night.
The next morning, I begin walking to Leon, a mere 20km away. After about 8km a sharp pain grips my abdomen and I launch into the bushes. I emerge pale and clammy with my Frenchman pilgrim from the previous day standing before me.
"Your stomach make much water", he says with a smile.
"Yes it does", I manage to respond, as he hands me some water and a hanky.
"You ok?", he asks.
"Not ok, but we walk", I say, as I shrug into my backback.
We walk on this way for another day, our roles reveresed.
And so it was that an unknown American and an unknown Frenchman walked the Camino de Santiago de Compostela together for two days, each taking turns making too much water and offering a hanky.
Friday, October 31, 2008
The Good, The Bad and the Muddy!
When I packed for this trip, I prepared for cold, rainy weather. I prepared for days of heat and sun as well. And so far this walk has seen all the above, plus the special element of MUD. I have walked the last 80km uphill, downhill, on flat ground, and through many a vineyard in deep, red clay mud. The type of mud that sucks your shoes off, the type of mud that makes the quads burn and the butt ache with each pull of the shoe. The mud is the best suction cup i have every encountered. It can hold anything. Even me! But for better or worse I have persisted and have made my muddy way through town after town. And the beauty of the camino is evident as I enter each new town, village and city. Because instead of being greeted with stares of disgust I am greeted with many a friendly Spanish face and a cheer of Buon Camino!!! The Spanish are proud of the Camino and every town has arrows that guide me on my way to the next place of refuge for the night. The townspeople smile and wish me well. They offer me cafe con leche and at night I drink the deep red wines of Rioja for about 4 euros a bottle! And each time I stop on my way, thinking I cannot take another step in mud, someone will pass me by and say, ¨Buon Camino¨and they then grab my arm and walk with me until my smile comes back. I can´t describe the feeling it gives me to be on this walk, but I can say that every day my love affair with Spain grows deeper. Now I just have to figure out how to get out of eating the intestines that they serve for dinner! That is the bad part!
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Camino Frances Walking Route
Here is a place for almost daily information on the route I am following and how much walking I´m actually doing!
Day 1- Saint Jean-Pied-Du-Port to Roncesvalles - 25km walk going over the Pyreenes
Day 2 - Roncesvalles to Zubiri - walked 23km - mostly downhill
Day 3 - Zubiri to Pomplona - will walk 23km - terrain vaires
Day 4 - Pomplona to Puenta la Reina - crazy walking into and out of Pomplona! -22.5km
Day 5 - Puenta La Reina to Estella. Estella is a great city! - 21.5km
Day 6 - Estella to Los Arcos - 24km
Day 7 - Los Arcos to Vianna - 18km
Day 8 - Vianna to Navarrete - 22.5 km
Day 9 - Navarrete to Azofra - 21.5 km
Day 10 - Azofra to Granon - 20.5km
Day 11 - Granon to Tosantos - 22km
Day 12 - Tosantos to Atapuerca - 25km
Day 13 - Atapuerca to Burgos - 21km - 2nd large city and a day of rest for me!
Day 14 - RESTED IN BURGOS!!! Went to the cathedral and a real chocolateria!
Day 15 - Burgos to Hornillos del Camino - 20km
Day 15 - Hornillos del Camino to Castrojeriz - 19km
Day 16 - Castrojeriz to Fromista - 25km
Day 17 - Fromista to Carrion de los Condes - 20km
Day 18 - Carrion to Terradillos de los Templarios - 26km
THIS IS THE HALF WAY POINT! WE WERE ALL EXCITED.
I continue to cross the meseta, the high plains of wheat fields. I will finish the meseta is three days when I arrive in Leon. There is a snow prediction for Leon but we hope that will pass. After Leon the plains climb into the mountains again and there are long days of 27 to 32 km to reach the next hostal. My route is dictated by the hostals being open. In summer this is not a problem but in winter many of these places close.
Day 19 - Terradillos to Bercianos - 23km (i may go to El Burgo Ranero at 30km but it depends on the weather and the opening of Bercianos hostal)
Total walked so far: 397km!
Left to walk: 357km
Day 1- Saint Jean-Pied-Du-Port to Roncesvalles - 25km walk going over the Pyreenes
Day 2 - Roncesvalles to Zubiri - walked 23km - mostly downhill
Day 3 - Zubiri to Pomplona - will walk 23km - terrain vaires
Day 4 - Pomplona to Puenta la Reina - crazy walking into and out of Pomplona! -22.5km
Day 5 - Puenta La Reina to Estella. Estella is a great city! - 21.5km
Day 6 - Estella to Los Arcos - 24km
Day 7 - Los Arcos to Vianna - 18km
Day 8 - Vianna to Navarrete - 22.5 km
Day 9 - Navarrete to Azofra - 21.5 km
Day 10 - Azofra to Granon - 20.5km
Day 11 - Granon to Tosantos - 22km
Day 12 - Tosantos to Atapuerca - 25km
Day 13 - Atapuerca to Burgos - 21km - 2nd large city and a day of rest for me!
Day 14 - RESTED IN BURGOS!!! Went to the cathedral and a real chocolateria!
Day 15 - Burgos to Hornillos del Camino - 20km
Day 15 - Hornillos del Camino to Castrojeriz - 19km
Day 16 - Castrojeriz to Fromista - 25km
Day 17 - Fromista to Carrion de los Condes - 20km
Day 18 - Carrion to Terradillos de los Templarios - 26km
THIS IS THE HALF WAY POINT! WE WERE ALL EXCITED.
I continue to cross the meseta, the high plains of wheat fields. I will finish the meseta is three days when I arrive in Leon. There is a snow prediction for Leon but we hope that will pass. After Leon the plains climb into the mountains again and there are long days of 27 to 32 km to reach the next hostal. My route is dictated by the hostals being open. In summer this is not a problem but in winter many of these places close.
Day 19 - Terradillos to Bercianos - 23km (i may go to El Burgo Ranero at 30km but it depends on the weather and the opening of Bercianos hostal)
Total walked so far: 397km!
Left to walk: 357km
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Pictues Coming Soon!
Hey Eveyone!
Thanks for reading and keeping in touch. Please keep reading and pass this site along to anyone and everyone. Im leaving tomorrow for Paris and then Im off to St. Jean Pied-de-Port to begin the Camino Fances. Ill post photos of my time in Germany tonight. Take care and see you all in two months!
Annie
Thanks for reading and keeping in touch. Please keep reading and pass this site along to anyone and everyone. Im leaving tomorrow for Paris and then Im off to St. Jean Pied-de-Port to begin the Camino Fances. Ill post photos of my time in Germany tonight. Take care and see you all in two months!
Annie
Postcards from a Plane!
How does one prepare for international travel? This is a slightly rhetorical question, but aside from compiling all the necessary clothes, adapters, luggage, etc. how does one mentally and physically prepare for time travel? That is what flying across time zones is essentially - time travel. In my particular case, I lost a day. I left the US Thurs. aftenoon and woke up in Germany the next day. But unlike time travel in movies, i remember every detail of my journey. I remember vividly the joy of discovering that on a full flight i had the only row with no one sitting beside me. i had two seats by the window all to myself. But a price was paid for this pleasure. It was paid in every single evil stare directed my way by my fellow passengers in coach. Specifically the very tall gentlemen who was squeesed tighter than paris hiltons jeans in his seat. and the unkind person that i am, i just smiled and snuggled down further in my luxury row. that is until..the two women in front of me reclined their seats and proceeded to "get it on" for the enjoyment of everyone is rows 24 to 27 A to J. I have nothing against lesbians mind you, nor do i have anything against public display of affection. Quite the contrary i like nothing more than someone to hold my hand, rest my head on their shoulder, secretly touch my butt though my back pocket and even give me a kiss. BUT......i have a problem with someone basically sitting in my lap and going full-tongue. Now, kudos to them for having the gumption to do that. But even more kodos go out to the Indian man who was brave enough to ring his flight attendant buzzer repeatedly until help arrived. And molto kodos to the male flight attendant who, with a great big smile plastered on his face- kindly interrupted said ladies with a few loud, "UGH HMMMS!" and a stern tap on the shoulder of the woman closest to him. The women looked sheepish and said sorry, and the male flight attendent walked away smiling. The women apologized to me, but what does one say, "oh thats ok, i had nothing to do before the in-flight movie began." or maybe "i always wanted to see real lesbians make out - its really nothing like in the movies!" or maybe "i always thought the mile high club was a myth." None of these seemed appopriate. I merely smiled and said in true northewest fashion, "No worries. Its all good!" And truth is, it was all good. The flight was good, the selection of inn flight movies, the little boy from russia who at some point in the night snuggled up next to me in the luxary row(much to the shock of his parents and me), the connecting flight in amsterdam was good - any country with toilets that have wet wipes and hand soap in the stalls is ok with me, and best of all was walking off the plane in Gemany and seeing Jochen great me at the teminal, AC-DC t-shirt and all!
Ive spent the last 5 days loving Germany. The food, the beer for breakfast, walking everywhere and seeing my friend. Im off to Spain tomorrow to begin my pilgrimage and again i sit here asking myself how does one prepare to walk across a county outside of bringing the necessary preparations. And i dont have an answer but if it involves lesbians, reclining seats, and toddlers im sure it wont be that bad!
Ive spent the last 5 days loving Germany. The food, the beer for breakfast, walking everywhere and seeing my friend. Im off to Spain tomorrow to begin my pilgrimage and again i sit here asking myself how does one prepare to walk across a county outside of bringing the necessary preparations. And i dont have an answer but if it involves lesbians, reclining seats, and toddlers im sure it wont be that bad!
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