Please get your mind out of the gutter... That's not what I mean.
I'm talking about when you were little and your parents would ask you that asinine question.
"Do you want a spanking?"
There's only one answer to that question. Well, there are a couple:
- Sure... why not. I haven't had one in a while
- Depends... Which one of you is doing the spanking?
- Yes, but do you know who REALLY wants one? Evan (my brother)
Not sure any of those is really appropriate and at age seven definitely not worth the risk. So really, there is only one answer.
Still, you had to do something right? You knew that ultimately you were going to say no, but you had to drag it out. For pride's sake. So you stood silent, glaring... running down the clock. Then your parents would catch on and call your bluff.
"DO YOU?!"Checkmate.
"No."
"Then knock it off."
I'm sure when I was young I promised myself that I'd NEVER do that to my kids - force them to answer stupid questions so that I could appear all-powerful. But that was when I was young...
I can't wait to have kids. It's gonna be fun. :)
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar?
Now that game was ridiculous was it not? You essentially went from child to child accusing them of having stolen this alleged cookie from the cookie jar. Frankly I didn’t think we had that much evidence to work with. There were never any cookies, no cookie crumbs. There was no jar. It was a witch-hunt; all of us yelling this accusation at each other. But here’s the part that always got me. Rather than vehemently object, the kid in question would respond with shock.
"Bernard stole the cookie from the cookie jar!!!!!"
"Who me?"
No the other Bernard in the group. "Yes you!"
And then he’d say…
"Couldn’t be."
Hold the phone here. Couldn’t be? Why? I wanted to ask… Why couldn’t it be you Bernard? Were you physically impaired in some way that would’ve prevented you from removing said cookie from the cookie jar? I’m guessing, by the way you were running around at recess, probably not. So yes little Bernard, it in fact could have been you.
But we let him slide, didn't we folks… Not only that, but we then gave him the opportunity to cast blame on some other unsuspecting kid.
So, the next someone wants to vent to me about why people today don’t want to take responsibility for their actions, I’m going to remind them of a little game we used to play called Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar…
"Bernard stole the cookie from the cookie jar!!!!!"
"Who me?"
No the other Bernard in the group. "Yes you!"
And then he’d say…
"Couldn’t be."
Hold the phone here. Couldn’t be? Why? I wanted to ask… Why couldn’t it be you Bernard? Were you physically impaired in some way that would’ve prevented you from removing said cookie from the cookie jar? I’m guessing, by the way you were running around at recess, probably not. So yes little Bernard, it in fact could have been you.
But we let him slide, didn't we folks… Not only that, but we then gave him the opportunity to cast blame on some other unsuspecting kid.
So, the next someone wants to vent to me about why people today don’t want to take responsibility for their actions, I’m going to remind them of a little game we used to play called Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar…
Friday, August 8, 2008
Waiting on the world to change? Nope not me...
Ever since I can remember I’ve thought that cans of whipped cream were poorly designed. I didn’t mind the dispensing bit at the top, that was fine, genius in fact. I loved seeing that thread of whipped cream on my dessert or hot chocolate, with ridges created by that circularly perforated dispenser. No no, my quarrel was with the cap, and I use the term "cap" loosely. At some point, yes it's a cap. It's a cap when it's sitting on the shelf in the refrigerated section of the grocery store. It's a cap on the way home from the grocery store. It's even a cap if left unopened in your refrigerator.
But as soon as you broke the seal by snapping off that little piece of plastic, you were left with something that looked like a cap, but by no means functioned as a cap. It sat atop the can but didn’t seal it, so the slightest movement would send that little red piece flying. And within a couple of days of opening the can a dried yellowish whipped cream encrustation would form on the top. I remember looking at that as a child and thinking, "That can’t be sanitary." I griped about it every time I had to run that grimy tip under hot water.
Then about a month ago, I went to replenish my stock of whipped cream and I noticed something different about one brand of cans. It didn’t look like the others. There was… a cap on top. No little piece of plastic to be broken off. No, this was a real cap... one that would actually seal and keep the tip of my precious whipped cream safe from oxygen and free of dust and dirt. Cool Whip. Oh Cool Whip you…
Bastards…
What the hell?! What is this?! Is nothing sacred? Granted the old caps weren’t the best design, but I dealt with it. I didn’t stop eating whipped cream because the first spray of whipped cream, afte
r a few days of sitting uncapped in the refrigerator, was a little discolored, a little hard, kind of gross. It didn’t kill me. I grew up with those faux caps. They were apart of my childhood memories. They were a part of me. And now Cool Whip was trying to take all of that away?
Who asked them to lead the revolution of change? Certainly not I. I wasn’t invited to attend any focus groups. Had I been, I would have told them to leave things well enough alone. Shouldn’t they have bigger and better things to worry about?! Will changing the caps increase marketshare by that much? I don’t think so Kraft. I think you’re going to find that many of us will not take this lying down.
I snatched the Cool Whip off the shelf and threw it angrily into my cart. After all I was still a poor student and it was on sale. I saw little alternative. But as soon as I got home I threw away the cap. Take that Kraft!
But as soon as you broke the seal by snapping off that little piece of plastic, you were left with something that looked like a cap, but by no means functioned as a cap. It sat atop the can but didn’t seal it, so the slightest movement would send that little red piece flying. And within a couple of days of opening the can a dried yellowish whipped cream encrustation would form on the top. I remember looking at that as a child and thinking, "That can’t be sanitary." I griped about it every time I had to run that grimy tip under hot water.
Then about a month ago, I went to replenish my stock of whipped cream and I noticed something different about one brand of cans. It didn’t look like the others. There was… a cap on top. No little piece of plastic to be broken off. No, this was a real cap... one that would actually seal and keep the tip of my precious whipped cream safe from oxygen and free of dust and dirt. Cool Whip. Oh Cool Whip you…
Bastards…
What the hell?! What is this?! Is nothing sacred? Granted the old caps weren’t the best design, but I dealt with it. I didn’t stop eating whipped cream because the first spray of whipped cream, afte
r a few days of sitting uncapped in the refrigerator, was a little discolored, a little hard, kind of gross. It didn’t kill me. I grew up with those faux caps. They were apart of my childhood memories. They were a part of me. And now Cool Whip was trying to take all of that away?Who asked them to lead the revolution of change? Certainly not I. I wasn’t invited to attend any focus groups. Had I been, I would have told them to leave things well enough alone. Shouldn’t they have bigger and better things to worry about?! Will changing the caps increase marketshare by that much? I don’t think so Kraft. I think you’re going to find that many of us will not take this lying down.
I snatched the Cool Whip off the shelf and threw it angrily into my cart. After all I was still a poor student and it was on sale. I saw little alternative. But as soon as I got home I threw away the cap. Take that Kraft!
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Give me Plaid or Give me Death!
From the time I started middle school, picking out clothes for school was a source of serious anxiety. Before then I'd had it easy. My choices: I could wear the plaid overall skirt, white collared shirt, white socks with black Mary Jane flats or I could wear all of that and swap out the Mary Jane flats for penny loafers… Or I could wear all of that and trade in the penny loafers for my personal favorites, my Charlie Brown shoes. Back then life was so simple. I didn’t have to worry about fads and matching because I always matched. Everything went with plaid…
And then came middle school. My crutch of a standardized dress code was kicked out from under me and I fell headfirst into the scary world of fashion. Kids today, they just don’t realize just how fortunate they are. I’ve looked at clothes for middleschoolers and highschoolers and I have to say, it’s pretty difficult to mess up an outfit these days. Fashion today is relatively tame compared to the fashion from the 80s and early 90s. Our fashionistas were Punky Brewster, Blossom and the crew from Saved by the Bell for goodness sake. When I looked into my closet there was a world of possibility: Tie-dye, neon, leggings, stirrup pants, body suits, alternating different color socks, striped jeans, tapered jeans, pegged jeans, high water jeans (okay those were never cool, but unfortunately unavoidable if you were a rapidly growing teen)… You name it and it was in my closet.
And my parents were no help either. Tired of hearing, "But that’s what everyone’s wearing!!!" they’d long since abandoned the idea of trying to follow the latest out of YM and Teen Beat.
Everyday for me was a crapshoot. Some days were good, others well, not so good. The problem with the not so good days however was that I was stuck at school all day forced to ensure the shame of my fashion faux pas until my parents came to pick me up. I mean I was 13, so it wasn’t as if I could run home and change.
One thing that always baffled me though, was that most times I remember giving myself the once over in a full-length mirror before leaving the house. Then I'd get into the family Volvo and sit happily chattering away with my brother Evan until I stepped out into the light of day only to realize…
"What the heck?!"
My jeans were too short! Brilliant... cause I was looking for a way to accent my missmatched socks. Problem solved. Oh and LA Gears with a dressy blouse? That was a logical pairing...
There's only one thing I want to say here:
"Really Mom? Really Dad? "
You had to have known that didn’t look right. In which case… shame on you.
And double shame on you for allowing Evan to leave the house in multicolored MC Hammer pants and Doc Martins…
We were not pawns placed in your lives for your amusement. We were your children. You just wait until you can't dress yourselves. Just you wait. Then we'll see who has the last laugh...
And then came middle school. My crutch of a standardized dress code was kicked out from under me and I fell headfirst into the scary world of fashion. Kids today, they just don’t realize just how fortunate they are. I’ve looked at clothes for middleschoolers and highschoolers and I have to say, it’s pretty difficult to mess up an outfit these days. Fashion today is relatively tame compared to the fashion from the 80s and early 90s. Our fashionistas were Punky Brewster, Blossom and the crew from Saved by the Bell for goodness sake. When I looked into my closet there was a world of possibility: Tie-dye, neon, leggings, stirrup pants, body suits, alternating different color socks, striped jeans, tapered jeans, pegged jeans, high water jeans (okay those were never cool, but unfortunately unavoidable if you were a rapidly growing teen)… You name it and it was in my closet.
And my parents were no help either. Tired of hearing, "But that’s what everyone’s wearing!!!" they’d long since abandoned the idea of trying to follow the latest out of YM and Teen Beat.
Everyday for me was a crapshoot. Some days were good, others well, not so good. The problem with the not so good days however was that I was stuck at school all day forced to ensure the shame of my fashion faux pas until my parents came to pick me up. I mean I was 13, so it wasn’t as if I could run home and change.
One thing that always baffled me though, was that most times I remember giving myself the once over in a full-length mirror before leaving the house. Then I'd get into the family Volvo and sit happily chattering away with my brother Evan until I stepped out into the light of day only to realize…
"What the heck?!"
My jeans were too short! Brilliant... cause I was looking for a way to accent my missmatched socks. Problem solved. Oh and LA Gears with a dressy blouse? That was a logical pairing...
There's only one thing I want to say here:
"Really Mom? Really Dad? "
You had to have known that didn’t look right. In which case… shame on you.
And double shame on you for allowing Evan to leave the house in multicolored MC Hammer pants and Doc Martins…
We were not pawns placed in your lives for your amusement. We were your children. You just wait until you can't dress yourselves. Just you wait. Then we'll see who has the last laugh...
Monday, August 4, 2008
Oh How the Mighty Have Fallen...
When I was little and my parents would take me to the fair, they always tried to carefully steer me through the crowd, past all of the carnival games, straight to the rides. Why? Goldfish. Oh how I loved them. Actually I didn’t so much love goldfish as I loved winning goldfish. It gave me some kind of rush. I must have brought home hundreds of those little guys, which is why my parents weren't too eager to encourage my habit.
Initially my parents would just throw my little swimming prizes into one of those glass bowls and set them on the kitchen counter. But they soon realized goldfish didn’t survive that long when we did that. I guess that's what we got for turning to cartoons for tips on how to take care of fish. Who knew Tom and Jerry was such an unreliable source?
No, they needed a tank, complete with faux shrubbery, a water filtration system, a heater, and a light. Thanks mom & dad.
So yeah, it was the craziest thing you ever saw. I was an absolute master at getting those ping pong balls into those fish bowls. If you gave me three chances that just meant I was coming home with three gold fish. It was a sight to behold. You’ve never seen an eight year old with such accuracy, such form.
************
Flash forward twenty years… Replace the fishbowls with blue cups, and the fish with beer. Keep the ping pong balls. What do we get? Beer pong, or Beruit to those who went to school at one of the many obscure northeast colleges.
Perhaps it’s because I was forced into early retirement when my mother finally grew tired of finding fish floating lifelessly at the top of the tank, or on the floor, and having to dispose of them.Yes we found one on the floor. It was Wendal's second suicide attempt, and that time around he succeeded. Rather disturbing.
Or maybe over the years my aim and depth perception had deteriorated. That happens with age right?
OR it could very well be that I simply preferred the taste of beer peppered with with whatever the ball managed to collect during its journey across the filthy floor, and I preferred to drink said beer from a cup that twenty of my closest acquaintances and/or strangers have already drank from.
I have no clue what it is? Or why it is, but now, I seriously SUCK at beer pong. I mean really suck. I’m the fat kid with glasses and asthma and one leg shorter than the other standing on the playground watching as each of my classmates around me is picked to join a side for kickball. That’s me but for beer pong. Only my handicap isn’t so apparent.
For the most part, my friends know not to ask me to be their partner, but people who don't know just how bad I am, always ask. And though I try to tell them that I suck, they never listen.
“I don’t care how bad you are,” They say.
Oh but they do care. They always care.
Every time I see people setting up for a game of beer pong, I ask myself, What happened to that little eight year old? The little girl who would stand waiting for her fish to be bagged, smirking at the pathetic kids who had to rely on their parents to win theirs. In your FACE! she would be saying in her head.
I guess that's what I get. I got cocky and then sloppy. I bet its those same kids, the ones I once mocked, and wrote off as losers... who are now forcing me to chug cup after cup after cup of cheap filthy beer. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
Karma... really is a b!tch.
Initially my parents would just throw my little swimming prizes into one of those glass bowls and set them on the kitchen counter. But they soon realized goldfish didn’t survive that long when we did that. I guess that's what we got for turning to cartoons for tips on how to take care of fish. Who knew Tom and Jerry was such an unreliable source?
No, they needed a tank, complete with faux shrubbery, a water filtration system, a heater, and a light. Thanks mom & dad.
So yeah, it was the craziest thing you ever saw. I was an absolute master at getting those ping pong balls into those fish bowls. If you gave me three chances that just meant I was coming home with three gold fish. It was a sight to behold. You’ve never seen an eight year old with such accuracy, such form.
************
Flash forward twenty years… Replace the fishbowls with blue cups, and the fish with beer. Keep the ping pong balls. What do we get? Beer pong, or Beruit to those who went to school at one of the many obscure northeast colleges.
Perhaps it’s because I was forced into early retirement when my mother finally grew tired of finding fish floating lifelessly at the top of the tank, or on the floor, and having to dispose of them.Yes we found one on the floor. It was Wendal's second suicide attempt, and that time around he succeeded. Rather disturbing.
Or maybe over the years my aim and depth perception had deteriorated. That happens with age right?
OR it could very well be that I simply preferred the taste of beer peppered with with whatever the ball managed to collect during its journey across the filthy floor, and I preferred to drink said beer from a cup that twenty of my closest acquaintances and/or strangers have already drank from.
I have no clue what it is? Or why it is, but now, I seriously SUCK at beer pong. I mean really suck. I’m the fat kid with glasses and asthma and one leg shorter than the other standing on the playground watching as each of my classmates around me is picked to join a side for kickball. That’s me but for beer pong. Only my handicap isn’t so apparent.
For the most part, my friends know not to ask me to be their partner, but people who don't know just how bad I am, always ask. And though I try to tell them that I suck, they never listen.
“I don’t care how bad you are,” They say.
Oh but they do care. They always care.
Every time I see people setting up for a game of beer pong, I ask myself, What happened to that little eight year old? The little girl who would stand waiting for her fish to be bagged, smirking at the pathetic kids who had to rely on their parents to win theirs. In your FACE! she would be saying in her head.
I guess that's what I get. I got cocky and then sloppy. I bet its those same kids, the ones I once mocked, and wrote off as losers... who are now forcing me to chug cup after cup after cup of cheap filthy beer. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
Karma... really is a b!tch.
Ode to Section 3 - I'm lovin' it!!
For those of you who don't know what Sections are (not naming names... Alice Huang) I'll tell you... In a business school class there are about 430 people. We are further subdivided into 6 sections, roughly 70 people per section. Your sectionmates are the people you will spend the most time with in your first year of business school because you take all of your core business school courses together.
In order to help the sections quickly bond early on in the year, there are a series of events that the school puts on such as the Section Olympics, a Ropes course where you spend a whole day in the woods in 100 degree weather "team building" aka being made to feel like you're going to die at every turn, and a couple of other events. The Section Olympics however is not only a team building activity, but one that establishes your order within the sections. Now many might disagree with that statement. Those are the people who are often heard throwing out these cliches:
"Its just for fun."
"We bonded just by being together as a team."
"Who cares if we win or lose."
Who cares? I do.
Last year I walked away from the Section Olympics, sweating profusely and head hung in shame. Section 3, Class of ’09 suffered a humiliating defeat and I, raised to be competitive in even the most trivial of games – called my aunt a filthy cheater last spring during a "friendly" game of Disney’s Scene It - was greatly displeased. Our abysmal performance didn’t even merit a "How you played the game" award. That’s how bad it was.
As section leader of the new Section 3, I vowed that this year would be different. I would accept nothing less than first place.
Section 3, Class of ’10, brought their A game, and then some. A section of people after my own heart. I watched with pride as they passed around the burnt wine cork to mark up their faces, preparing for battle. When we got out onto the field, I watched as most of the other sections sat around idly watching the events... "supporting" if you will. Not my team. Oh no. While everyone else was out there kicking back, my team was strategizing, plotting. They weren’t just out there to win it, they were out for blood. Vengeance. And vengeance they got. It was a thing of beauty. They absolutely DESTROYED the other sections.
And quite honestly, there wasn’t a group of individuals who deserved that win more – 10% skill, 100% heart.
************************
I’m expecting great things from this group. I think they are all amazing and I wish them all the best of luck in their first year!!!
Section 3… Kickin’ ass and taking names
In order to help the sections quickly bond early on in the year, there are a series of events that the school puts on such as the Section Olympics, a Ropes course where you spend a whole day in the woods in 100 degree weather "team building" aka being made to feel like you're going to die at every turn, and a couple of other events. The Section Olympics however is not only a team building activity, but one that establishes your order within the sections. Now many might disagree with that statement. Those are the people who are often heard throwing out these cliches:
"Its just for fun."
"We bonded just by being together as a team."
"Who cares if we win or lose."
Who cares? I do.
Last year I walked away from the Section Olympics, sweating profusely and head hung in shame. Section 3, Class of ’09 suffered a humiliating defeat and I, raised to be competitive in even the most trivial of games – called my aunt a filthy cheater last spring during a "friendly" game of Disney’s Scene It - was greatly displeased. Our abysmal performance didn’t even merit a "How you played the game" award. That’s how bad it was.
As section leader of the new Section 3, I vowed that this year would be different. I would accept nothing less than first place.
Section 3, Class of ’10, brought their A game, and then some. A section of people after my own heart. I watched with pride as they passed around the burnt wine cork to mark up their faces, preparing for battle. When we got out onto the field, I watched as most of the other sections sat around idly watching the events... "supporting" if you will. Not my team. Oh no. While everyone else was out there kicking back, my team was strategizing, plotting. They weren’t just out there to win it, they were out for blood. Vengeance. And vengeance they got. It was a thing of beauty. They absolutely DESTROYED the other sections.
And quite honestly, there wasn’t a group of individuals who deserved that win more – 10% skill, 100% heart.
************************
I’m expecting great things from this group. I think they are all amazing and I wish them all the best of luck in their first year!!!
Section 3… Kickin’ ass and taking names
80s Party = Mayhem
"What are you making?" I asked the coffee shop woman as she poured Dr. Pepper into a cup.
She looked up at my strangely, then said slowly, "I'm pouring Dr. Pepper into a cup."
And just like that, my cover was blown. Not that she probably couldn't tell from my bloodshot eyes, hoarse voice, "wind blown" hair and the traces of last night's 80's makeup on my face, but just in case there was any doubt in her mind, I confirmed her suspicions.
"Rough night?" she asked.
*****************
Rought night... Well let's see. I woke up this morning at 8:28am. Which would have been ok if I'd slept in the clothes I was planning to wear to work and if I my office was 2 minutes away. But in fact, I was still in my 80s garb and the office was 45 mins away.
F*ck.
Twenty-eight years old and none the wiser. I'd really thought I'd left these days behind me. At first I was able to rationalize the heavy drinking on a "work" night. In 2003 when Syracuse won the NCAA championship, I thought, what kind of Syracuse fan would I be if I didn't show up to work still drunk from the night before? In subsequent years however, Syracuse never won another NCAA championship so it became:
- What kind of friend would I be if I didn't stay and celebrate a birthday till last call on Tuesday night/Wednesdsay morning?
- What kind of person would I be if I didn't take advantage of $1 drink wednesdays?
- What kind of... you get the jist
So I just stopped offering up excuses. It became common knowledge that after any major holiday/event, St. Patricks Day, Cinco de Mayo, Halloween Thursdays at Union Cattle and Mardi Gras, a birthday happy hour; I along with my cohorts, the Cattle Crew were going to show up late to work, still drunk and often times in the same clothes from the night before or clothes we borrowed from eachother.
Them were the days. But I was a business school student now and interning at a multi-billion dollar corporation. I needed to step up my game prove that I was mature enough to enjoy an evening at a sketchy dance club without aid of alcohol. And that I could make it home at a decent hour so that I didn't find myself sitting at my desk the next morning hating life.
That's what I needed to do... but did I do it? Sure, for about 10 weeks, until Orientation Weekend, more specifically, the 80s party, which was conveniently scheduled on a Sunday evening.
Think about it... Men in short shorts and tube socks, neon aplenty, smurfs and a guy dressed up as teen wolf... Is there really any other option other than to get completely inebriated?
Nope. And so I did. And now here I sit with my bottle of water, ice coffee, half eaten bagel, Ricola and rewetting eye drops. Hating life.
But the question remains. Would I do it again?
Hell yes. These are the days.
She looked up at my strangely, then said slowly, "I'm pouring Dr. Pepper into a cup."
And just like that, my cover was blown. Not that she probably couldn't tell from my bloodshot eyes, hoarse voice, "wind blown" hair and the traces of last night's 80's makeup on my face, but just in case there was any doubt in her mind, I confirmed her suspicions.
"Rough night?" she asked.
*****************
Rought night... Well let's see. I woke up this morning at 8:28am. Which would have been ok if I'd slept in the clothes I was planning to wear to work and if I my office was 2 minutes away. But in fact, I was still in my 80s garb and the office was 45 mins away.
F*ck.
Twenty-eight years old and none the wiser. I'd really thought I'd left these days behind me. At first I was able to rationalize the heavy drinking on a "work" night. In 2003 when Syracuse won the NCAA championship, I thought, what kind of Syracuse fan would I be if I didn't show up to work still drunk from the night before? In subsequent years however, Syracuse never won another NCAA championship so it became:
- What kind of friend would I be if I didn't stay and celebrate a birthday till last call on Tuesday night/Wednesdsay morning?
- What kind of person would I be if I didn't take advantage of $1 drink wednesdays?
- What kind of... you get the jist
So I just stopped offering up excuses. It became common knowledge that after any major holiday/event, St. Patricks Day, Cinco de Mayo, Halloween Thursdays at Union Cattle and Mardi Gras, a birthday happy hour; I along with my cohorts, the Cattle Crew were going to show up late to work, still drunk and often times in the same clothes from the night before or clothes we borrowed from eachother.
Them were the days. But I was a business school student now and interning at a multi-billion dollar corporation. I needed to step up my game prove that I was mature enough to enjoy an evening at a sketchy dance club without aid of alcohol. And that I could make it home at a decent hour so that I didn't find myself sitting at my desk the next morning hating life.
That's what I needed to do... but did I do it? Sure, for about 10 weeks, until Orientation Weekend, more specifically, the 80s party, which was conveniently scheduled on a Sunday evening.
Think about it... Men in short shorts and tube socks, neon aplenty, smurfs and a guy dressed up as teen wolf... Is there really any other option other than to get completely inebriated?
Nope. And so I did. And now here I sit with my bottle of water, ice coffee, half eaten bagel, Ricola and rewetting eye drops. Hating life.
But the question remains. Would I do it again?
Hell yes. These are the days.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Says the girl with the SUV...
Apparently since I drive an SUV, it means I've surrendered my right to be environmentally conscious. I can be as environmentally desctructive as I so choose. Why? Because I'm polluting the earth so much, that no matter how much I reuse and recycle, it still won't counter the devestating effects of my Global Warming inducing machine. And those folks who drive more ozone friendly vehicles, well they can do whatever the heck they want.
Example:
"Whoa, give me that." I give my friend look of disgust. "What are you doing? That's plastic. You're supposed to recycle that."
"Oh right, says the girl with the SUV," he counters.
Does that even make sense as a comeback?
Really people?
Knock it off. And for the love of God recycle. Your hybrid isn't going to plant more trees and clean out landfills.
Example:
"Whoa, give me that." I give my friend look of disgust. "What are you doing? That's plastic. You're supposed to recycle that."
"Oh right, says the girl with the SUV," he counters.
Does that even make sense as a comeback?
Really people?
Knock it off. And for the love of God recycle. Your hybrid isn't going to plant more trees and clean out landfills.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
NPR... The jury is still out
Along with my "do unto others" kick I mentioned in the previous blog, I am also on a "become more informed" kick. I frankly don't mind that I've spend the last several years in blissful ignorance, but apparently to quote my best friend, "There really are SOME things you should know."
Like...
- That the fact that there was a war in Darfur
- That the NYPD officers who shot Sean Bell were acquitted, Giuliani's legacy lives on...
- Hillary withdrew from the race... Okay now I know, but there was about a week lapse from the time the general public knew and I found out.
And this is just a list of three out of hundreds of things I've been the last person to know about. So in an effort to better myself, I've decided to make a serious effort to stay in the know.
"NPR! Listen to NPR!!!" I could hear my mother's voice screaming in my ear.
Alright already, I'll listen to NPR.
*****************
My alarm radio woke me up this morning with the soothing sounds of...
"Three Israelis were killed and more than 40 people were wounded in Jerusalem on Wednesday when a Palestinian construction worker driving a bulldozer smashed into cars, buses and pedestrians in one of the busiest parts of the city. The driver of the bulldozer was then shot dead by an off-duty Israeli soldier."
HELLO WORLD!!
Depressing yes, but educational... And that's the whole point right? To become more educated. And in case I missed this news story the first time at 5am, they were sure to tell it again and again... and AGAIN about 7 times between 5 and 7am. Maybe I'm to be faulted for taking so long to get ready in the morning, or perhaps they should have more faith in their audience. Some of us are actually in it for the long haul, not just news junkies quickly tuning in for our quick news fix.
I promised myself I'd keep an open mind, but after this first NPR experience, I have to say I'm a little skeptical. I mean, aside from repeating the same news every five minutes, they really just don't seem to come across as hard-hitting journalists. You know? Its like they got a bunch of high school newspapers kids to run around and collect news stories and quotes.
Examples:
One interviewer is talking to a California couple whose home was destroyed by the wild fires. "All you see now is two fire places (oh the irony) and the remnants of what once was..." Then we get to hear from the husband and wife themselves. Mind you, he and his wife have just lost their home. I mean this has got to be really traumatic for them right? What do they say?
"There was about $1000 worth of meat in that freezer."
Really? Really? I don't mind that he said it so much as I mind it was aired. I feel like a credible journalist would have tried to get something a little more, I dunno, tug at your heart strings-ish. Like, "My whole life was in there. You just never realize..." Then he cuts off to sob uncontrollably. Doesn't that seem a little more fitting?
Next news story: "Latinos for McCain in Nevada." McCain was in Nevada meeting with his latino constituents. They interviewed Sal Ledesma, a longtime Republican, a member of the Republican National Hispanic Assembly and big McCain supporter. I got kind of lost on this one. I don't know whether he met with McCain at the Golden Nugget Casino, or wanted to meet with McCain at the Golden Nugget. All I know is that Sal said nothing about McCain and instead proceeded to talk for a solid 3 or 4 minutes about how much he enjoyed going to the Golden Nugget for their $1.99 breakfast. What the __ ? Did I miss something?
Last story, meant I suppose to be a light hearted piece, "Fun reading for travel!!" Harmless enough. They interviewed a librarian and let's just say, she was no Oprah. First book, Sunshine, a novel about vampires.
"What makes this author is so amazing is that she is able to weave together the real world and the fantastical so well. You don't even realize you've crossed over. One minute she's talking about baking cinnamon rolls and the next she's talking about Voodoo wars."
WOW!! That is amazing and how novel!! I think someone should come up with a name for this strange new radical form of writing...
Till then however I think I'll call it, "S-C-I-E-N-C-E F-I-C-T-I-O-N".
I won't go on to talk about the other books she reviewed. But just know that one of them was a picture book for adults. While an interesting concept, a tough sell.
******************
If I said that was two hours of my life I'll never get back, I'd be lying. After all I did learn about the Palestinian bulldozer incident, so 1 out of 4 news stories isn't bad. Oh and let's not forget I learned that the Golden Nugget serves breakfast for $1.99. I was just in Vegas last month too. I really wished I'd known about that then.
Will I keep listening to NPR? Yes.
Do I like NPR? I dunno... The jury is still out.
Like...
- That the fact that there was a war in Darfur
- That the NYPD officers who shot Sean Bell were acquitted, Giuliani's legacy lives on...
- Hillary withdrew from the race... Okay now I know, but there was about a week lapse from the time the general public knew and I found out.
And this is just a list of three out of hundreds of things I've been the last person to know about. So in an effort to better myself, I've decided to make a serious effort to stay in the know.
"NPR! Listen to NPR!!!" I could hear my mother's voice screaming in my ear.
Alright already, I'll listen to NPR.
*****************
My alarm radio woke me up this morning with the soothing sounds of...
"Three Israelis were killed and more than 40 people were wounded in Jerusalem on Wednesday when a Palestinian construction worker driving a bulldozer smashed into cars, buses and pedestrians in one of the busiest parts of the city. The driver of the bulldozer was then shot dead by an off-duty Israeli soldier."
HELLO WORLD!!
Depressing yes, but educational... And that's the whole point right? To become more educated. And in case I missed this news story the first time at 5am, they were sure to tell it again and again... and AGAIN about 7 times between 5 and 7am. Maybe I'm to be faulted for taking so long to get ready in the morning, or perhaps they should have more faith in their audience. Some of us are actually in it for the long haul, not just news junkies quickly tuning in for our quick news fix.
I promised myself I'd keep an open mind, but after this first NPR experience, I have to say I'm a little skeptical. I mean, aside from repeating the same news every five minutes, they really just don't seem to come across as hard-hitting journalists. You know? Its like they got a bunch of high school newspapers kids to run around and collect news stories and quotes.
Examples:
One interviewer is talking to a California couple whose home was destroyed by the wild fires. "All you see now is two fire places (oh the irony) and the remnants of what once was..." Then we get to hear from the husband and wife themselves. Mind you, he and his wife have just lost their home. I mean this has got to be really traumatic for them right? What do they say?
"There was about $1000 worth of meat in that freezer."
Really? Really? I don't mind that he said it so much as I mind it was aired. I feel like a credible journalist would have tried to get something a little more, I dunno, tug at your heart strings-ish. Like, "My whole life was in there. You just never realize..." Then he cuts off to sob uncontrollably. Doesn't that seem a little more fitting?
Next news story: "Latinos for McCain in Nevada." McCain was in Nevada meeting with his latino constituents. They interviewed Sal Ledesma, a longtime Republican, a member of the Republican National Hispanic Assembly and big McCain supporter. I got kind of lost on this one. I don't know whether he met with McCain at the Golden Nugget Casino, or wanted to meet with McCain at the Golden Nugget. All I know is that Sal said nothing about McCain and instead proceeded to talk for a solid 3 or 4 minutes about how much he enjoyed going to the Golden Nugget for their $1.99 breakfast. What the __ ? Did I miss something?
Last story, meant I suppose to be a light hearted piece, "Fun reading for travel!!" Harmless enough. They interviewed a librarian and let's just say, she was no Oprah. First book, Sunshine, a novel about vampires.
"What makes this author is so amazing is that she is able to weave together the real world and the fantastical so well. You don't even realize you've crossed over. One minute she's talking about baking cinnamon rolls and the next she's talking about Voodoo wars."
WOW!! That is amazing and how novel!! I think someone should come up with a name for this strange new radical form of writing...
Till then however I think I'll call it, "S-C-I-E-N-C-E F-I-C-T-I-O-N".
I won't go on to talk about the other books she reviewed. But just know that one of them was a picture book for adults. While an interesting concept, a tough sell.
******************
If I said that was two hours of my life I'll never get back, I'd be lying. After all I did learn about the Palestinian bulldozer incident, so 1 out of 4 news stories isn't bad. Oh and let's not forget I learned that the Golden Nugget serves breakfast for $1.99. I was just in Vegas last month too. I really wished I'd known about that then.
Will I keep listening to NPR? Yes.
Do I like NPR? I dunno... The jury is still out.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
She's a model now?!
A model citizen maybe... Nothing against this woman - I'm sure she's lovely - but as for her being a model now? Doubtful. First off, this picture looks like its been taken about 20 years ago, which means she'd be well past her prime.Secondly... Well I can't really go into my "secondly". I'm kind of on a "do unto others" kick. Just know that "secondly" would haved highlighted some of the more obvious indicators that this woman is not now, nor ever was a model...
Thirdly and well the only valid reason why I know this woman is not a model, is cause I looked her up. :)
Enjoy!
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Vending Machine Anxiety
I visited the vending machine this past Friday, part of my new health kick where I bring my lunch to work everyday.... riiight. Anyways, I stood in front of the machine trying to decide which of the goodies I was going to choose, and wondering as I often did, why on earth the glass was so damn thick. I felt like I was in the Tower of London looking at the Crown Jewels. The only difference was that I couldn't expect to get a billion dollar necklace by depositing some change into a coin slot. Let's be realistic here. Bags of chips, Grandmother's cookies and some Wrigley's gum... Bulletproof glass? A little over the top.
At any rate, finally after a few minutes, I make my decision, which is the same decision I make every time I go to a vending machine, Cheetos. I deposit my 80 cents and carefully punch in the letter number sequence.
I say carefully because there was an incident about a year or so ago, in which there was a letter-number combo slip-up and I ended up with a package of those stale cracker sandwich things that no one in their right mind would ever voluntarily choose. With only 5 cents remaining, I had no choice but to go hungry. I vowed from that point onwards I would never find myself in that predicament ever again. The one thing I have no control over however, is what happens after I make my selection.
Am I the only one who stands there staring hard at those metal coily things willing them to relinquish from its death grip, my meal in a bag? I do. I stare. I stare hard. Anxiety builds up as I think about the havoc I plan to wreak on this demon machine if it doesn't give me my f&%king Cheetos. And anxious I remain until that final moment when I see my Cheetos drop, like a gift from the heavens.
Then just like that, I feel relaxed, elated, giddy even. It is a glorious feeling indeed, like you just dodged a bullet. I reach down, contort my hand awkwardly and retrieve my reward.
As wonderful as this victory is, I think next week I'll definitely be bringing my lunch.
At any rate, finally after a few minutes, I make my decision, which is the same decision I make every time I go to a vending machine, Cheetos. I deposit my 80 cents and carefully punch in the letter number sequence.
I say carefully because there was an incident about a year or so ago, in which there was a letter-number combo slip-up and I ended up with a package of those stale cracker sandwich things that no one in their right mind would ever voluntarily choose. With only 5 cents remaining, I had no choice but to go hungry. I vowed from that point onwards I would never find myself in that predicament ever again. The one thing I have no control over however, is what happens after I make my selection.
Am I the only one who stands there staring hard at those metal coily things willing them to relinquish from its death grip, my meal in a bag? I do. I stare. I stare hard. Anxiety builds up as I think about the havoc I plan to wreak on this demon machine if it doesn't give me my f&%king Cheetos. And anxious I remain until that final moment when I see my Cheetos drop, like a gift from the heavens.
Then just like that, I feel relaxed, elated, giddy even. It is a glorious feeling indeed, like you just dodged a bullet. I reach down, contort my hand awkwardly and retrieve my reward.
As wonderful as this victory is, I think next week I'll definitely be bringing my lunch.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Office Assistant
Why the heck does the Microsoft Office paper clip assistant look so skeevy? It seems like the only two default options are that pervy paper clip and a cute innocent puppy. And what does a puppy know?
But seriously, have you ever looked at that paper clip, with his slimy grin and large eyelids, just sitting at the bottom corner of your document pretending to be looking at your work. And you know as soon as you start typing he shifts his easily shiftable eyes to leer at you. Like a guy in a bar... after you've already told him that you're fine and don't want a drink he moves off into a corner and watches... just waiting for his big break, when you'll make some false move, say, you stumble or something there he is, "Hey, are you okay? Do you need another drink?" No I don't want a drink, I told you that when you first asked me.
Or in the paper clip's case, "It looks like you're writing a letter! Would you like help?" No I don't need your help writing my letter.
Maybe if you were taller, better looking and not so sketchy I'd gladly accept your help, but as it stands, not a chance. You make me uncomfortable. I didn't go through damn near 20 years of schooling only to have someone like YOU offer to help me write a letter. I'd like to think I could do better. Try that girl over there. She looks like she'd be willing to let any old random person help her with her letter writing.
At this point I usually decide I've had enough and promptly click on "hide assistant". And what does this pesky paper clip do? Winks at me. Winks! As if to say, "Alright sweet thang, but you'll be back. They always come back."
Oh I'll be back alright... only next time I'm picking the puppy.
But seriously, have you ever looked at that paper clip, with his slimy grin and large eyelids, just sitting at the bottom corner of your document pretending to be looking at your work. And you know as soon as you start typing he shifts his easily shiftable eyes to leer at you. Like a guy in a bar... after you've already told him that you're fine and don't want a drink he moves off into a corner and watches... just waiting for his big break, when you'll make some false move, say, you stumble or something there he is, "Hey, are you okay? Do you need another drink?" No I don't want a drink, I told you that when you first asked me.
Or in the paper clip's case, "It looks like you're writing a letter! Would you like help?" No I don't need your help writing my letter.
Maybe if you were taller, better looking and not so sketchy I'd gladly accept your help, but as it stands, not a chance. You make me uncomfortable. I didn't go through damn near 20 years of schooling only to have someone like YOU offer to help me write a letter. I'd like to think I could do better. Try that girl over there. She looks like she'd be willing to let any old random person help her with her letter writing.
At this point I usually decide I've had enough and promptly click on "hide assistant". And what does this pesky paper clip do? Winks at me. Winks! As if to say, "Alright sweet thang, but you'll be back. They always come back."Oh I'll be back alright... only next time I'm picking the puppy.
Monday, June 9, 2008
The Waiting Game
So why is it that whenever you're waiting for a friend in a public place, everyone starts to look like that person. Suddenly you feel like you're trapped in a Twilight Zone episode where everyone's wearing different clothes, but the faces are all the same.
And we all know what our friends look like. Its not like on a daily basis, as we go about our normal life's activities, we're constantly stopping ourselves from mistakenly calling out to strangers in the street. And yet, as we sit and wait, our insecurites get the better of us. Our minds begin to play tricks on us.
We sit, slowly sipping our coffees or teas, not too fast though, because if we finish then we'll have nothing to do whilst we wait... This is when we start to think, "Why didn't I bring something to read?" So inevitably what do we do? We snatch up a menu, and we read that menu like its the most fascinating piece of literature we've ever come across. "Coffee beans picked in South American and roasted in Turkey... I'll be damned."
Five minutes late. She's FIVE minutes late. That's it, next time I'm going to arrive late. She can wait for me and drink tea and exchange awkward smiles with the people sitting at the table directly across from her, who are for some reason are both positioned so that they are facing me instead of eachother... Are social norms dead?
Then, just as I'm contemplating getting up and leaving, I look up through the crowd and see my friend... Finally!
Wait... Why is she a man?
Damnit.
And we all know what our friends look like. Its not like on a daily basis, as we go about our normal life's activities, we're constantly stopping ourselves from mistakenly calling out to strangers in the street. And yet, as we sit and wait, our insecurites get the better of us. Our minds begin to play tricks on us.
We sit, slowly sipping our coffees or teas, not too fast though, because if we finish then we'll have nothing to do whilst we wait... This is when we start to think, "Why didn't I bring something to read?" So inevitably what do we do? We snatch up a menu, and we read that menu like its the most fascinating piece of literature we've ever come across. "Coffee beans picked in South American and roasted in Turkey... I'll be damned."
Five minutes late. She's FIVE minutes late. That's it, next time I'm going to arrive late. She can wait for me and drink tea and exchange awkward smiles with the people sitting at the table directly across from her, who are for some reason are both positioned so that they are facing me instead of eachother... Are social norms dead?
Then, just as I'm contemplating getting up and leaving, I look up through the crowd and see my friend... Finally!
Wait... Why is she a man?
Damnit.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Smallville - My Latest Guilty Pleasure
During my March trip to LA, as my mother and I were in the deeply engrossed in a cheesy Lifetime original movie, the television screen suddenly went fuzzy. We sat staring at nothingness for a while, hoping that when the glitch was fixed, we wouldn't have missed too much. After ten minutes of awkwardly staring ahead in anticipation, it finally occured to us that perhaps, this was no glitch. We decided to give it a couple of hours. Then we decided to wait till the morning. And finally when it was clear our cable was not going to come back on its own, we called in the master, my father. And even he, the ultimate handyman, was unable to bring back our cable. Please note that I use the word "our" losely because... well... for the last ten years, yes ten - we moved into this house in 1998 - The Franklin Family had been gladly reaping the benefits of the cable that had come complimentary with the purchase of our home.
I know what you're thinking, and I'm not proud, but damnit I'm not ashamed either. Truth be told, my parents are so old fashioned and cheap that had we not gotten cable through these means, we would never have gotten it at all and my brother and I would have remained "those kids" in school. You know the kids... they're Amish. We didn't get three way calling or call waiting till the late 90's. My friends would call me and say, "hey, I tried to call earlier, but your phone was off the hook." Yeah... off the hook... that's it.
Thinking all of these years of cable had spoiled my parents, I was expecting the situation to be rectified upon my return in May. Sadly, it was not and though I tried, I mean really tried to enjoy all free TV had to offer, it really couldn't measure up and so I turned to our movie collection. I watched everything on the shelf, "Muppets Take Manhattan", "House Party", and a few others not worth mentioning. I took one last look at my parents' sad collection and then as if it was calling me, my eyes were drawn back to the boxset I'd been avoiding, "Smallville" - The complete first season, 23 episodes. I really thought my days of WB sitcoms had ended with Dawson's Creek. At least I was hoping they had.
God, has it really come to this, I thought. It had. I popped in the first disc... Game Over.
Smallville is nothing short of genius. Some of the facts are skewed, characters meeting before they really met, serious discrepancies in age (ie. the age difference between Clark and Lex), that type of thing, but as I watch the story play out, this "prequel" to Superman the Movies, I am transported back to the family room of our old house, where my brother and I would watch Superman I, II and IV on VHS... Back when we believed that Christopher Reeves was, and would always be, the only Superman.
I am now coming to the end of Season II where Superman's true identity is starting to unfold. Each episode of Smallville leaves me with chills. I suppose because I am armed with the knowledge of how it all plays out in the end, the foreshadowing is both thrilling and saddening at the same time. The bond between Lex Luthor and Clark Kent appears impenetrable and with each passing episode I keep hoping they remain friends. I know... silly...
Spoke to my brother today on the phone. As he's seen every episode, he was able to let me in on things to come. Told me that by season seven Lex and Clark will finally sever ties and become mortal enemies.
"Really," I asked shocked/sad.
"What do you mean 'really'? Don't you know the story of Superman??" he asked. "Not like I'm giving away a surprise ending."
This was very true. As much as I want to see Lex and Clark join forces and rule the world together, I knew that in the end, they were just going to travel back in time to the 80's where Lex will spend sequel after sequel, trying to rid the earth "once and for all" of Superman, who in case you couldn't tell without the glasses, was actually his old friend Clark Kent.
I know what you're thinking, and I'm not proud, but damnit I'm not ashamed either. Truth be told, my parents are so old fashioned and cheap that had we not gotten cable through these means, we would never have gotten it at all and my brother and I would have remained "those kids" in school. You know the kids... they're Amish. We didn't get three way calling or call waiting till the late 90's. My friends would call me and say, "hey, I tried to call earlier, but your phone was off the hook." Yeah... off the hook... that's it.
Thinking all of these years of cable had spoiled my parents, I was expecting the situation to be rectified upon my return in May. Sadly, it was not and though I tried, I mean really tried to enjoy all free TV had to offer, it really couldn't measure up and so I turned to our movie collection. I watched everything on the shelf, "Muppets Take Manhattan", "House Party", and a few others not worth mentioning. I took one last look at my parents' sad collection and then as if it was calling me, my eyes were drawn back to the boxset I'd been avoiding, "Smallville" - The complete first season, 23 episodes. I really thought my days of WB sitcoms had ended with Dawson's Creek. At least I was hoping they had.
God, has it really come to this, I thought. It had. I popped in the first disc... Game Over.
Smallville is nothing short of genius. Some of the facts are skewed, characters meeting before they really met, serious discrepancies in age (ie. the age difference between Clark and Lex), that type of thing, but as I watch the story play out, this "prequel" to Superman the Movies, I am transported back to the family room of our old house, where my brother and I would watch Superman I, II and IV on VHS... Back when we believed that Christopher Reeves was, and would always be, the only Superman.
I am now coming to the end of Season II where Superman's true identity is starting to unfold. Each episode of Smallville leaves me with chills. I suppose because I am armed with the knowledge of how it all plays out in the end, the foreshadowing is both thrilling and saddening at the same time. The bond between Lex Luthor and Clark Kent appears impenetrable and with each passing episode I keep hoping they remain friends. I know... silly...
Spoke to my brother today on the phone. As he's seen every episode, he was able to let me in on things to come. Told me that by season seven Lex and Clark will finally sever ties and become mortal enemies.
"Really," I asked shocked/sad.
"What do you mean 'really'? Don't you know the story of Superman??" he asked. "Not like I'm giving away a surprise ending."
This was very true. As much as I want to see Lex and Clark join forces and rule the world together, I knew that in the end, they were just going to travel back in time to the 80's where Lex will spend sequel after sequel, trying to rid the earth "once and for all" of Superman, who in case you couldn't tell without the glasses, was actually his old friend Clark Kent.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Traveling Woes Pt II
So, I'm sitting cramped in my little seat in the 26th row, letter F (the window) and on my mini screen I'm watching a prerecorded video going over the safety info. Then when it gets to the part where the flight attendant demonstrates use #2 of my dual purpose seat cushion, it dawns on me... I'm on a domestic flight! In the event of engine failure or an exposion, what exactly are the chances of the plane going down over a body of water, so big as to absorb the impact of a plane and leave all of us passengers floating safely around it? I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that the chances aren't that great. So basically if the plane were to go down, paramedics would find me lying dead embracing a seat cushion.
And then we come to another interesting safety feature. Oxygen masks. I'm thinking that limited oxygen is the least of my worries if something goes so horribly awry that cabin pressure is drastically altered. Considering that I can barely swim to the bottom of a pool in the "deep end", I can only imagine what would happen to my ears at 30,000 feet. But hey, Thank God for these oxygen masks!! Now I won't suffer from Hypoxia! Oh wait, but I'm bleeding from the ears... and plummeting to my imminent death.
And then we come to another interesting safety feature. Oxygen masks. I'm thinking that limited oxygen is the least of my worries if something goes so horribly awry that cabin pressure is drastically altered. Considering that I can barely swim to the bottom of a pool in the "deep end", I can only imagine what would happen to my ears at 30,000 feet. But hey, Thank God for these oxygen masks!! Now I won't suffer from Hypoxia! Oh wait, but I'm bleeding from the ears... and plummeting to my imminent death.
Monday, May 26, 2008
A Bugs Life
Evan, 9 and I, 11 stood armed with all of the cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink, and stared down at the mess we'd made on the carpet of our parents' new house. Kerry Franklin was not going to appreciate this. Somewhere beneath the pile of Ajax, dishwashing liquid, 409 and Pinesol was a very clean, very dead arachnid. It wasn’t until we snapped out of our spider attacking trance that we'd realized the full implications of what we'd done.
"Mommy is going to kill us," I say.
"Yep," he agrees.
"Why didn't you just use a tissue?" My father asked later after our beating and grounding. Yes, we in foreign families get both.
Of course, a tissue. Why hadn't we thought of that? Well dad, we were saving the extreme methods for a last resort, you know, in case the chemical warfare wasn't effective.
A tissue. That would require touching the spider, though not directly, per se, close enough. You see, though our parents grew up in countries with flying roaches, tarantulas, lizards, etc., Evan and I did not, and were deathly afraid of anything that moved but didn't speak, bark, meow or moo. Our public enemy number one: bugs. And no bug was exempt. I can't speak for Evan, but I myself, don't even like butterflies. I did however thoroughly enjoy A Bugs Life, but as mentioned above, those bugs satisfied my speaking criteria.
We never really learned our lesson after that day, but we did learn to be more discrete. The vacuum became our best friend; however, if a bug happened to find itself on an easily cleanable surface, all methods became fair game.
******
When my brother announced that he was going to join the Peace Corps, and spend two years in Morocco, it came as quite the shock.
"Evan, you do realize that there are bugs in Morocco right? The kind of bugs that laugh at our bugs. The kind of bugs that inhale Raid to get high?"
He said he was well aware and was okay with it. Okay. Well God speed brother. And after our first few conversations, he'd had me convinced. He didn't mention anything about the bugs in Morocco and so I had no choice but to assume I was the last remaining shame to the Franklin clan doomed to fear bugs for the rest of my days. Until last week that was...
"I just spent the last hour and a half shooing roaches from my room," he said.
"Eww," I said. "That's disgusting."
"I get no sleep cause I spend the whole night with one eye open. I don't know what to do. It’s not like my wicker door acts as much of a fortress. They just crawl right back through the holes."
I shuddered, and noting the obvious distress in his voice, repressed the urge to say, I told you so. Roaches. Though I think spiders are considerably worse, and Evan would agree, roaches are still way up there on the list. This was what he signed up for so I guess he would have to just deal. Still roaches. I couldn't shake the image.
The next day I spoke with him again.
"How's it going?"
"Remember when I said I couldn't sleep because I was scared of the roaches?"
"Yeah?"
"Well now I'm a little more afraid of the animal that ran into my room at 3 am, ate one of the roaches and ran out."
I was silent for a moment. "That's unfortunate," I said.
"Very," he agreed.
"What was it?" I asked.
Hmm. I'd have to check and see what we had under the kitchen sink because I'm pretty sure a tissue was not going to suffice.
***********************************
"Mommy is going to kill us," I say.
"Yep," he agrees.
"Why didn't you just use a tissue?" My father asked later after our beating and grounding. Yes, we in foreign families get both.
Of course, a tissue. Why hadn't we thought of that? Well dad, we were saving the extreme methods for a last resort, you know, in case the chemical warfare wasn't effective.
A tissue. That would require touching the spider, though not directly, per se, close enough. You see, though our parents grew up in countries with flying roaches, tarantulas, lizards, etc., Evan and I did not, and were deathly afraid of anything that moved but didn't speak, bark, meow or moo. Our public enemy number one: bugs. And no bug was exempt. I can't speak for Evan, but I myself, don't even like butterflies. I did however thoroughly enjoy A Bugs Life, but as mentioned above, those bugs satisfied my speaking criteria.
We never really learned our lesson after that day, but we did learn to be more discrete. The vacuum became our best friend; however, if a bug happened to find itself on an easily cleanable surface, all methods became fair game.
******
When my brother announced that he was going to join the Peace Corps, and spend two years in Morocco, it came as quite the shock.
"Evan, you do realize that there are bugs in Morocco right? The kind of bugs that laugh at our bugs. The kind of bugs that inhale Raid to get high?"
He said he was well aware and was okay with it. Okay. Well God speed brother. And after our first few conversations, he'd had me convinced. He didn't mention anything about the bugs in Morocco and so I had no choice but to assume I was the last remaining shame to the Franklin clan doomed to fear bugs for the rest of my days. Until last week that was...
"I just spent the last hour and a half shooing roaches from my room," he said.
"Eww," I said. "That's disgusting."
"I get no sleep cause I spend the whole night with one eye open. I don't know what to do. It’s not like my wicker door acts as much of a fortress. They just crawl right back through the holes."
I shuddered, and noting the obvious distress in his voice, repressed the urge to say, I told you so. Roaches. Though I think spiders are considerably worse, and Evan would agree, roaches are still way up there on the list. This was what he signed up for so I guess he would have to just deal. Still roaches. I couldn't shake the image.
The next day I spoke with him again.
"How's it going?"
"Remember when I said I couldn't sleep because I was scared of the roaches?"
"Yeah?"
"Well now I'm a little more afraid of the animal that ran into my room at 3 am, ate one of the roaches and ran out."
I was silent for a moment. "That's unfortunate," I said.
"Very," he agreed.
"What was it?" I asked.
"I described it to someone and they said it sounded like a hedgehog."
Hmm. I'd have to check and see what we had under the kitchen sink because I'm pretty sure a tissue was not going to suffice.
***********************************
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Last Day of Classes...
The meaning of "The Last Day of Classes" has really taken new meaning over the years...
For eight years in fact, it was actually "the last day of class." Then we made the major transition from "class" to "classes" once we hit junior high. That was great. No longer were we forced to stare at the same face hour after hour of every day. We did however have one face that we had to stare at for a little longer, in "homeroom". Remember homeroom? Like home base. That conjures up an interesting image… What if in the middle of Ms. Simms’ science class I jumped up from my seat and sprinted out the door towards Mrs. Fraziers’ class, my beloved homeroom. Then if Mrs. Simms tried to take me back to class I would stand behind that invisible shield of protection, both feet planted firmly inside the classroom and just shake my head. “Sorry Mrs. Simms, I’m at homeroom now.” Chances are I wouldn’t do that though. Mrs. Frazier and I weren’t exactly on the up and up. She lived for giving me detention and I lived for goading her into giving me detention. That’s like playing a game of tag, where the home base was some kid standing ready to punch you in the face.
But I digress.
“The last day of classes.” From the moment it became classes, the last day of classes became associated with fun and frolic. First off, the last day of classes was usually a half day of classes, preceding often times by many half days. These final days were filled with movies, class field trips, and parties where you could eat and chat idly with classmates. Them were the days.
Now that I’m in business school, I find that the last day of class for each of my courses, is very different. Before starting business school I’d been out of school for five years. I didn’t realize that in all of the years I was in school, I’d actually been hardened to the world. I could spend 55 minutes a day with a teacher, five days a week, nine months a year, and at the end of that year say, “Bye, Have a nice summer!” and not once look back. In all of the years since leaving academia, if one could call K – 12 academia, I’ve only paid two visits to my old high school and one to my junior high. It was a little sad moving on from one teacher to the next, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Now five years later, my fierce spirit crushed by the “real world”, I’d convinced myself that the people spent the most time with, I’d probably know for the rest of my life. I could finally let down my guard and invite people in. For six weeks, four hours a week I’d sit staring at my professor of [insert course name here], often times with interest, other times with feigned interest, sometimes with your average run-of-the-mill blank stare. During those short 6 weeks however, somehow a bond was formed. And on that last day, was actually sad. During the “it has been a pleasure teaching you” speech, I’d find myself actually fighting off the tears. Some professors have even gone into lengthy explanations of why they decided to pursue teaching… I’m talking really touching and heartfelt these last classes. The class length wasn’t shortened; there was no fanfare, no hullabaloo, just a standard two hour class and yet, that end speech at the end seemed to tie everything together.
In those final minutes of the class, I truly loved my professors. I had the utmost respect for them and really valued all of their hard work and their passion for their respective subjects. All of the reading, the quizzes, group work… it was suddenly all worth the struggle, knowing that I’d studied under such masters. A “half day” would have cheapened the whole experience. If anything I wish I’d had more time to learn from them and to grow.
And then in the midst of my adoration, as I am making the mental note to name my first child, next dog, or gold fish after this amazing person standing before me, I hear them utter those horrible words:
“See you at the final.”
And by the change in my demeanor you’d think I’d heard, “See you in hell.”
Oh the final… the dreaded final. I wish I could somehow bottle up my feelings just before the word “final” is muttered and send it to each professor. Just so they know. Because maybe then, they could derive some sense of satisfaction for a job well done. I certainly don’t give them that pleasure, at the end of a 3 hour final, or in the case of Decision Models a 24 hr take home final, when I walk up, hands trembling and clothes covered in eraser shavings, and hand in all I was able to learn (out of 6 weeks of material) in one night. At this point, I usually don’t even have the heart to look them in the eye, let alone the gall to tell them how much I really enjoyed their class. They would take one look at my grade on the final and see right through that lie. Or they would believe that I was one of few who truly enjoyed being made to feel stupid and inadequate, lived for it in fact.
I could do without all of the emotional turmoil. My message to my professors: On that last class, I’m all for the speeches, but so I don’t have to hang my head down in shame every time I see you for the duration of my academic life at Duke, please forego the final. Trust that you’ve taught me well, and let’s part ways on good terms.
****************
My message to my three favorite teachers from junior high and high school, Mrs. K, Mr. Quigley and Mrs. Fredricks – I wish there never was a “last day of classes” with you.
For eight years in fact, it was actually "the last day of class." Then we made the major transition from "class" to "classes" once we hit junior high. That was great. No longer were we forced to stare at the same face hour after hour of every day. We did however have one face that we had to stare at for a little longer, in "homeroom". Remember homeroom? Like home base. That conjures up an interesting image… What if in the middle of Ms. Simms’ science class I jumped up from my seat and sprinted out the door towards Mrs. Fraziers’ class, my beloved homeroom. Then if Mrs. Simms tried to take me back to class I would stand behind that invisible shield of protection, both feet planted firmly inside the classroom and just shake my head. “Sorry Mrs. Simms, I’m at homeroom now.” Chances are I wouldn’t do that though. Mrs. Frazier and I weren’t exactly on the up and up. She lived for giving me detention and I lived for goading her into giving me detention. That’s like playing a game of tag, where the home base was some kid standing ready to punch you in the face.
But I digress.
“The last day of classes.” From the moment it became classes, the last day of classes became associated with fun and frolic. First off, the last day of classes was usually a half day of classes, preceding often times by many half days. These final days were filled with movies, class field trips, and parties where you could eat and chat idly with classmates. Them were the days.
Now that I’m in business school, I find that the last day of class for each of my courses, is very different. Before starting business school I’d been out of school for five years. I didn’t realize that in all of the years I was in school, I’d actually been hardened to the world. I could spend 55 minutes a day with a teacher, five days a week, nine months a year, and at the end of that year say, “Bye, Have a nice summer!” and not once look back. In all of the years since leaving academia, if one could call K – 12 academia, I’ve only paid two visits to my old high school and one to my junior high. It was a little sad moving on from one teacher to the next, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Now five years later, my fierce spirit crushed by the “real world”, I’d convinced myself that the people spent the most time with, I’d probably know for the rest of my life. I could finally let down my guard and invite people in. For six weeks, four hours a week I’d sit staring at my professor of [insert course name here], often times with interest, other times with feigned interest, sometimes with your average run-of-the-mill blank stare. During those short 6 weeks however, somehow a bond was formed. And on that last day, was actually sad. During the “it has been a pleasure teaching you” speech, I’d find myself actually fighting off the tears. Some professors have even gone into lengthy explanations of why they decided to pursue teaching… I’m talking really touching and heartfelt these last classes. The class length wasn’t shortened; there was no fanfare, no hullabaloo, just a standard two hour class and yet, that end speech at the end seemed to tie everything together.
In those final minutes of the class, I truly loved my professors. I had the utmost respect for them and really valued all of their hard work and their passion for their respective subjects. All of the reading, the quizzes, group work… it was suddenly all worth the struggle, knowing that I’d studied under such masters. A “half day” would have cheapened the whole experience. If anything I wish I’d had more time to learn from them and to grow.
And then in the midst of my adoration, as I am making the mental note to name my first child, next dog, or gold fish after this amazing person standing before me, I hear them utter those horrible words:
“See you at the final.”
And by the change in my demeanor you’d think I’d heard, “See you in hell.”
Oh the final… the dreaded final. I wish I could somehow bottle up my feelings just before the word “final” is muttered and send it to each professor. Just so they know. Because maybe then, they could derive some sense of satisfaction for a job well done. I certainly don’t give them that pleasure, at the end of a 3 hour final, or in the case of Decision Models a 24 hr take home final, when I walk up, hands trembling and clothes covered in eraser shavings, and hand in all I was able to learn (out of 6 weeks of material) in one night. At this point, I usually don’t even have the heart to look them in the eye, let alone the gall to tell them how much I really enjoyed their class. They would take one look at my grade on the final and see right through that lie. Or they would believe that I was one of few who truly enjoyed being made to feel stupid and inadequate, lived for it in fact.
I could do without all of the emotional turmoil. My message to my professors: On that last class, I’m all for the speeches, but so I don’t have to hang my head down in shame every time I see you for the duration of my academic life at Duke, please forego the final. Trust that you’ve taught me well, and let’s part ways on good terms.
****************
My message to my three favorite teachers from junior high and high school, Mrs. K, Mr. Quigley and Mrs. Fredricks – I wish there never was a “last day of classes” with you.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Welcome to Business School
"Hey Kara, do you want to be on the cheering squad to welcome the admits??"
Umm... No.
Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering... No problem. Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering at age 28... Absurd. So I passed on that and decided I would try my best to offset the cheesy welcome by showing the admits that some of us had indeed moved beyond the "glory days" of high school pep rallies.
We were given a list of the dos and don't for the weekend. Don't say anything about having to walk miles to get to school from the Green Lot, which as most of you may or may not know, is the neighboring city to Durham. Be positive about the workload, life in the "city" of Durham, and everything in general. Keep PDA to a minimum if you are part of the crew. The list went on. So, in an effort to obey the rules, I tried to strike up the right balance between maturity and fun loving. I talked about the rigorous academic curriculum, the life lessons one could expect to gain from working in teams, the many opportunities to develop leadership skills... I was also sure to mention that beyond the walls of the Fox Center, we really knew how to cut a rug, let our hair down, party hardy. I highlighted my 36 hour Campout experience, the 80's party, the Halloween party (still can't find my gloves), the dress like a Fuquan party, the Fuqua Fridays that we turned into Fuqua Saturdays. "We love to drink here at Fuqua," *chuckle chuckle* And I really thought I was doing a pretty good job of convincing the admits that Fuqua was a work hard, play hard environment, the right place for them.
At the end of our evening of wooing and wowing them at school, we decided it was time to show them a good time. The spot chosen: Shooters, a local joint here in Durham, with a mechanical bull, a dancing cage, and a whole lotta cheap liquor. This was my first time going to Shooters. Let me set the scene, Shooters is one of those spots where you walk in and immediately feel compelled to yell, "Let's do shots! Who wants to do shots?!" Not the Lemon Drop shots you'd normally do, in celebration of a co-workers birthday, just to prove to yourself, and everyone else in your business casual clad group that "you could still hang" with the best of them. No, this place brought you back to 21, when Adios' and Long Island Ice Teas were the drinks of choice, and where only one of three shots would do. Patron. Jager. Goldschläger. I was surrounded by a mass of my classmates, and future classmates, all of us rehashing our youth, licking salt from our filthy hands, slamming shots of tequila, and then shoving limes into our mouths, limes that were passed to us with the same hands that wiped down the bar, touched our money, and other things...
It seems trivial things such as rules and regulations fell to the wayside after a few drinks, and what was left, was pure and utter debauchery. In the entire 8 months I've been here, I have NEVER witnessed such a debacle. The ONE weekend we were asked to be on best behavior, the ONE weekend, and suddenly we choose to honor Joe Francis with our own Fuqua Gone Wild. It was glorious.
The next morning as we stood around awkwardly, waiting to greet the admits in our beer stained t-shirts, infused with cigarette smoke, our eyes red and glassy from dehydration, I thought, our high school pep rally days may have been behind us, but as for our undergrad days... we've got a long way to go. I smiled to myself as I watched the admits head in our direction, "Welcome to Business School."
Umm... No.
Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering... No problem. Standing in front of over a hundred strangers in a Blue and White t-shirt screaming and cheering at age 28... Absurd. So I passed on that and decided I would try my best to offset the cheesy welcome by showing the admits that some of us had indeed moved beyond the "glory days" of high school pep rallies.
We were given a list of the dos and don't for the weekend. Don't say anything about having to walk miles to get to school from the Green Lot, which as most of you may or may not know, is the neighboring city to Durham. Be positive about the workload, life in the "city" of Durham, and everything in general. Keep PDA to a minimum if you are part of the crew. The list went on. So, in an effort to obey the rules, I tried to strike up the right balance between maturity and fun loving. I talked about the rigorous academic curriculum, the life lessons one could expect to gain from working in teams, the many opportunities to develop leadership skills... I was also sure to mention that beyond the walls of the Fox Center, we really knew how to cut a rug, let our hair down, party hardy. I highlighted my 36 hour Campout experience, the 80's party, the Halloween party (still can't find my gloves), the dress like a Fuquan party, the Fuqua Fridays that we turned into Fuqua Saturdays. "We love to drink here at Fuqua," *chuckle chuckle* And I really thought I was doing a pretty good job of convincing the admits that Fuqua was a work hard, play hard environment, the right place for them.
At the end of our evening of wooing and wowing them at school, we decided it was time to show them a good time. The spot chosen: Shooters, a local joint here in Durham, with a mechanical bull, a dancing cage, and a whole lotta cheap liquor. This was my first time going to Shooters. Let me set the scene, Shooters is one of those spots where you walk in and immediately feel compelled to yell, "Let's do shots! Who wants to do shots?!" Not the Lemon Drop shots you'd normally do, in celebration of a co-workers birthday, just to prove to yourself, and everyone else in your business casual clad group that "you could still hang" with the best of them. No, this place brought you back to 21, when Adios' and Long Island Ice Teas were the drinks of choice, and where only one of three shots would do. Patron. Jager. Goldschläger. I was surrounded by a mass of my classmates, and future classmates, all of us rehashing our youth, licking salt from our filthy hands, slamming shots of tequila, and then shoving limes into our mouths, limes that were passed to us with the same hands that wiped down the bar, touched our money, and other things...
It seems trivial things such as rules and regulations fell to the wayside after a few drinks, and what was left, was pure and utter debauchery. In the entire 8 months I've been here, I have NEVER witnessed such a debacle. The ONE weekend we were asked to be on best behavior, the ONE weekend, and suddenly we choose to honor Joe Francis with our own Fuqua Gone Wild. It was glorious.
The next morning as we stood around awkwardly, waiting to greet the admits in our beer stained t-shirts, infused with cigarette smoke, our eyes red and glassy from dehydration, I thought, our high school pep rally days may have been behind us, but as for our undergrad days... we've got a long way to go. I smiled to myself as I watched the admits head in our direction, "Welcome to Business School."
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Spring Break Ruminations
Every once in a while, when you least expect it, you get a taste of your past... not in the nostalgic sense, like that bittersweet feeling you get when you visit your old high school or when you order a happy meal from the McDonalds menu; but a real taste, in its true form, unadulterated, and just as you remember it. Of course we all want to feel like over the months and years, we've grown and matured. I know I would like to think that I've moved on to bigger and better things, and yet sometimes I look back at my past and think, what was so wrong with the way I was? I was happy. At some point in time, before abandoning my life in LA in search of the promise of new beginnings, I was truly happy.After my trip home during Christmas, I was convinced that my life, as I'd known it no longer existed. It felt as if everyone had moved on, and that I had too. So I returned to Durham ready to accept that I would never again hand a tardy slip to my 1st period teacher, and that a happy meal, despite its name, did not have the ability to elevate my mood, nor was it by any stretch of the imagination a "meal".
And then Spring Break happened. The stars aligned and what resulted was strangely compatible blend of my new life and my old life.
Recapping from notable moments, and though there were many, these stand out the most:
Going to watch In Bruges and Juno *a must see* with my mom… I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie in the theater with my mom, mainly attributed to her contempt for the rise in movie ticket prices. She would refuse to go watch movies in the theater as she noted, "The script isn't going to change in transition from the theater to DVD."
Breakfast with Gloria at Ocean Diner... Quite possibly one of the most embarrassing experiences of my life, which I blame solely on my brother who in moment of drunken clarity at a college frat party, thought it would be a great idea to take a puppy home; a puppy he was ill-equipped to care for. Five years later I'm still paying for his mistake, this time with my dignity. As other dogs sat outside enjoying the sun and the people, my canis familiaris apparently accustomed to French dining laws, spent the better part of our meal wailing to be let in, and would not be silenced despite our repeated attempts as well as those of the pitying passersby. Needless to say, our meal was cut short. "Check please!"
Catching up with an old friend... There are people who you meet in life, who you'd be okay with never seeing again. And then are those who, though you'd probably be okay with never seeing again, you'd like to see again. My last night in LA, I ran into someone from my "I'd like to see again" list, and that was pretty nice, except for the fact that now I have that Moldy Peaches song stuck in my head. "Here is the church, and here is the steeple..."
During my spring break, I had a taste of my past, and what I realized was that some of the things I loved the most aren't quite ready for "past" status yet. Which is good, cause as the pile up tardy slips from my high school years will show, I'm in no hurry. :)
Monday, March 17, 2008
Traveling Woes
"Hurry up," my dad called out to me. "American always leaves on time!"
"I'm hurrying," I yell back as I frantically look around my bedroom, correction, the "guest room" for anything I may have left behind. Nothing. Could it be? After ten years of travelling solo, I was going to actually leave with everything I'd arrived with? I quickly looked on the right side of the closet, empty, then I quickly looked on the left side of the closet... Of course. I start tearing clothes off the the hangers. Do I really need that 70s style turqoise dress that looks like its been bedazzled by a four year old?? Game time decision was "yes". Why? I don't know, actually. I made a similar game time decision back in the summer of 04 at a thrift shop in San Diego by buying this dress but as I've never worn it, logic should have told me that my game time decisions, well they suck.
I gather up my clothes and run downstairs. The dryer! I drop the pile of clothes on the floor and run back upstairs. I pull out the partially dried clothes and run back downstairs. I pick up each suitcase, because in addition to my many other talents, I know how to mentally calculate the weight of luggage... right. My shoes bag is definitely below 50 lbs. I shove the odd clothes into my shoes and cosmetics bag, and zip it up. I will definitely be rewashing when I arrive back in Durham.
I arrive at the airport with 10 minutes to check in. When I finally reach a machine, I have a minute left. I quickly swipe my card and check in. My flight is delayed by 15 minutes. I note the flight gods are with me today. I receive my boarding pass, check my luggage and head off to the security line. "Ma'am, outside and to the right," a woman tells me. That's weird, I think. Why would I need to go outside and... down to the next terminal? I panic because suddenly that 15 minute buffer isn't looking like much of a buffer. After 30 minutes in the security line, a TSA rep pulls me out of the the line, and I try to ignore the judging faces and dirty looks as I make my way to the front. I put my bags on the security belt fully aware of my unbagged gels, liquids, aerosols and prayed for the best. My faith in TSA restored, I race to my gate unhassled.
And sat on the plane... for an hour.
I came to 3 conclusions during that hour:
1. I really should have taken a second helping of my mother's delicious steak, potatoes and eggs
2. I don't need to have my cell phone switched off on a grounded plane.
3. I was not going to make my connection in St. Louis. So, no dad, American Airlines, does not always leave on time.
In the hours to follow, my life would take a turn for the worst. What should have been only 7 or 8 hours of travel, turned into a day and a half, two hours spent trying to locate missing luggage and an overnight stay at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in St. Louis. I can now empathize with those poor castaways of the Minnow. The only brightside to this nightmare was that I made a new friend, Lisa. We enjoyed dinner at TGIF Fridays, and a much needed St. Patty's Day shot. The great conversation and my medium/well done burger with onion rings was a great distraction, and I don't think I could have picked a better unintentional travelling buddy.
Finally arrived at RDU, a worn down bitter version of my former self, who you might only recognize if you'd seen me the day before as I was still wearing the same clothes. After retrieving my luggage, Lisa and I parted ways, and I was left to do this last leg on my own. I sat in front of the carosels and waited patiently for my roommate to pick me up. I used my hour and a half to read for class I wasn't attending... Why? Dunno. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
When my roommate pulled up, I was overcome with a warm feeling and happy to see a familiar face. I didn't want to leave LA, but after spending the past day and a half in limbo, seeing my roomie made me feel at home. On the way back to Durham we weighed my options, go to class late, don't go to class. Thankfully she helped me rationalize the situation. Game time decision: Go home and sleep. I think to myself, I really could have used her in the summer of 04.
"I'm hurrying," I yell back as I frantically look around my bedroom, correction, the "guest room" for anything I may have left behind. Nothing. Could it be? After ten years of travelling solo, I was going to actually leave with everything I'd arrived with? I quickly looked on the right side of the closet, empty, then I quickly looked on the left side of the closet... Of course. I start tearing clothes off the the hangers. Do I really need that 70s style turqoise dress that looks like its been bedazzled by a four year old?? Game time decision was "yes". Why? I don't know, actually. I made a similar game time decision back in the summer of 04 at a thrift shop in San Diego by buying this dress but as I've never worn it, logic should have told me that my game time decisions, well they suck.
I gather up my clothes and run downstairs. The dryer! I drop the pile of clothes on the floor and run back upstairs. I pull out the partially dried clothes and run back downstairs. I pick up each suitcase, because in addition to my many other talents, I know how to mentally calculate the weight of luggage... right. My shoes bag is definitely below 50 lbs. I shove the odd clothes into my shoes and cosmetics bag, and zip it up. I will definitely be rewashing when I arrive back in Durham.
I arrive at the airport with 10 minutes to check in. When I finally reach a machine, I have a minute left. I quickly swipe my card and check in. My flight is delayed by 15 minutes. I note the flight gods are with me today. I receive my boarding pass, check my luggage and head off to the security line. "Ma'am, outside and to the right," a woman tells me. That's weird, I think. Why would I need to go outside and... down to the next terminal? I panic because suddenly that 15 minute buffer isn't looking like much of a buffer. After 30 minutes in the security line, a TSA rep pulls me out of the the line, and I try to ignore the judging faces and dirty looks as I make my way to the front. I put my bags on the security belt fully aware of my unbagged gels, liquids, aerosols and prayed for the best. My faith in TSA restored, I race to my gate unhassled.
And sat on the plane... for an hour.
I came to 3 conclusions during that hour:
1. I really should have taken a second helping of my mother's delicious steak, potatoes and eggs
2. I don't need to have my cell phone switched off on a grounded plane.
3. I was not going to make my connection in St. Louis. So, no dad, American Airlines, does not always leave on time.
In the hours to follow, my life would take a turn for the worst. What should have been only 7 or 8 hours of travel, turned into a day and a half, two hours spent trying to locate missing luggage and an overnight stay at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in St. Louis. I can now empathize with those poor castaways of the Minnow. The only brightside to this nightmare was that I made a new friend, Lisa. We enjoyed dinner at TGIF Fridays, and a much needed St. Patty's Day shot. The great conversation and my medium/well done burger with onion rings was a great distraction, and I don't think I could have picked a better unintentional travelling buddy.
Finally arrived at RDU, a worn down bitter version of my former self, who you might only recognize if you'd seen me the day before as I was still wearing the same clothes. After retrieving my luggage, Lisa and I parted ways, and I was left to do this last leg on my own. I sat in front of the carosels and waited patiently for my roommate to pick me up. I used my hour and a half to read for class I wasn't attending... Why? Dunno. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
When my roommate pulled up, I was overcome with a warm feeling and happy to see a familiar face. I didn't want to leave LA, but after spending the past day and a half in limbo, seeing my roomie made me feel at home. On the way back to Durham we weighed my options, go to class late, don't go to class. Thankfully she helped me rationalize the situation. Game time decision: Go home and sleep. I think to myself, I really could have used her in the summer of 04.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
There's a first for everything... or in this case a second
And so it begins... My first virtual diary. Not nearly as exciting as when I received my first real diary. I was 8, and like most kids my age, all I wanted to do was write... or was it that most kids wanted to play outside... I forget. Anyways, it was a hardcover red book, with Lucy from The Peanuts on the cover screaming GET OUT! To reinforce the message there was a little lock on the side that could only be opened with a key... or a hair pin, a nail file, a toothpick, shear force... At any rate, it was mine to write whatever I wished, as long as it didn't extend beyond the allotted 25 lines lest I run the risk of spilling over to the next date. But I was 8 and fairly limited by my third grade education, so that wasn't really a problem.
Ahh, to be free of constraints. So liberating.
The meaning of my blog title, Little's Law – this is to remind me to finish my book, Personalities and Me, my documented observations of the many different personalities I've met throughout my life. I'm using this blog to give me inspiration so that I can finally call it a completed work. Of course had I known I could’ve gotten away with only writing about five people, I could have saved myself some time. Mitch Albom apparently had the right idea.
Little's Law is the fundamental long-term relationship between Work-In-Process (WIP), throughput and flow time of a production system in steady state. For those of you who are familiar with Operations Management feel free to skip to the next paragraph… For the rest of you - this law is basically saying that I need to increase my flow time (write more) and decrease my WIP (edit out the unneeded parts) which will ultimately increase my throughput (finish the damn book already).
About me (stolen from my MySpace profile)… You know when you're in the car and you look over at the car next you and there's some kid just staring back at you? Not smiling, not frowning but staring? That really creeps me out. I like eating peanut butter and jelly on crackers… I don't buy the phrase, "Doesn't matter if you win or lose, but how you play the game." Yeah, cause I have SO many "how I played the game" awards on my mantle. I love Indie bands, until they become main-stream that is. Then I claim to have liked them back in the day, before they sold out… even if they'd only come out with one album. I love my foreign parents and how my mom thinks I'm studying at Duke's Fuck-wa school of business and how my dad says that my More Cowbell shirt reminds him of what they used to put around the cows' necks back home in Guyana. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is the funniest show in the universe. I can't understand why it takes me 2-3 tries to turn off a ceiling fan. I hate being proved wrong, but love learning new things. I believe they call that a catch 22. I actually own that book but have never read it. I think Indian dresses are the most beautiful in the world. I can't bring myself to become a true Blue Devil after spending four years convincing myself that "Real Women Wear Orange". Sometimes I wish I could fly, then I think about those dreams where I'm flying and I can't figure out how to land and so I just fall. Monopolova Vodka from Trader Joe's is right up there with Vox. Let no one tell you otherwise. I wish people realized that whispering is actually pretty damn loud. Though I love to give, I'd never go so far as to say that it is BETTER to give than to receive. That's just absurd. I love working with kids. I find their candor refreshing, though often times very insulting. There is never a dull moment with me and I love to laugh. Smiling's my favorite… but I love to give the occasional dirty glare, not so occasional when I’m behind the wheel of a car. I find that the phrase “Love me, Love my dog”, doesn’t quite apply to me as more people like her than they do me. And finally, I miss my Commodore 64, taking turns playing Frogger with my brother… trying to sabotage his game so that he would drown or get touched/eaten(?) by an alligator sooner.
And on that note, my brother Evan leaves for Morocco on Friday. He’s joining the Peace Corps and will be gone for 2+ years. I wish him all the best in the world, but I’m a little heartbroken because I feel like I’m losing my partner in crime. And now I have no one to blame when I’m at home. “What do you mean Gally couldn't have moved your car keys? Dogs rescue babies from burning buildings...” Yeah… this is almost as bad as when Evan learned to talk. But, my selfish needs aside, I know he’s going to have an amazing experience, make many life-long friends, and come back ready to conquer the world. Evan, I love you. You are my favorite person in the world. I hope you find your way, and I hope it leads you back home. We can play Frogger, and I’ll even let you have two turns in a row. Please keep in touch. ~ Kara
Me and my brother.... and Gally.
Ahh, to be free of constraints. So liberating.
The meaning of my blog title, Little's Law – this is to remind me to finish my book, Personalities and Me, my documented observations of the many different personalities I've met throughout my life. I'm using this blog to give me inspiration so that I can finally call it a completed work. Of course had I known I could’ve gotten away with only writing about five people, I could have saved myself some time. Mitch Albom apparently had the right idea.
Little's Law is the fundamental long-term relationship between Work-In-Process (WIP), throughput and flow time of a production system in steady state. For those of you who are familiar with Operations Management feel free to skip to the next paragraph… For the rest of you - this law is basically saying that I need to increase my flow time (write more) and decrease my WIP (edit out the unneeded parts) which will ultimately increase my throughput (finish the damn book already).
About me (stolen from my MySpace profile)… You know when you're in the car and you look over at the car next you and there's some kid just staring back at you? Not smiling, not frowning but staring? That really creeps me out. I like eating peanut butter and jelly on crackers… I don't buy the phrase, "Doesn't matter if you win or lose, but how you play the game." Yeah, cause I have SO many "how I played the game" awards on my mantle. I love Indie bands, until they become main-stream that is. Then I claim to have liked them back in the day, before they sold out… even if they'd only come out with one album. I love my foreign parents and how my mom thinks I'm studying at Duke's Fuck-wa school of business and how my dad says that my More Cowbell shirt reminds him of what they used to put around the cows' necks back home in Guyana. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is the funniest show in the universe. I can't understand why it takes me 2-3 tries to turn off a ceiling fan. I hate being proved wrong, but love learning new things. I believe they call that a catch 22. I actually own that book but have never read it. I think Indian dresses are the most beautiful in the world. I can't bring myself to become a true Blue Devil after spending four years convincing myself that "Real Women Wear Orange". Sometimes I wish I could fly, then I think about those dreams where I'm flying and I can't figure out how to land and so I just fall. Monopolova Vodka from Trader Joe's is right up there with Vox. Let no one tell you otherwise. I wish people realized that whispering is actually pretty damn loud. Though I love to give, I'd never go so far as to say that it is BETTER to give than to receive. That's just absurd. I love working with kids. I find their candor refreshing, though often times very insulting. There is never a dull moment with me and I love to laugh. Smiling's my favorite… but I love to give the occasional dirty glare, not so occasional when I’m behind the wheel of a car. I find that the phrase “Love me, Love my dog”, doesn’t quite apply to me as more people like her than they do me. And finally, I miss my Commodore 64, taking turns playing Frogger with my brother… trying to sabotage his game so that he would drown or get touched/eaten(?) by an alligator sooner.
And on that note, my brother Evan leaves for Morocco on Friday. He’s joining the Peace Corps and will be gone for 2+ years. I wish him all the best in the world, but I’m a little heartbroken because I feel like I’m losing my partner in crime. And now I have no one to blame when I’m at home. “What do you mean Gally couldn't have moved your car keys? Dogs rescue babies from burning buildings...” Yeah… this is almost as bad as when Evan learned to talk. But, my selfish needs aside, I know he’s going to have an amazing experience, make many life-long friends, and come back ready to conquer the world. Evan, I love you. You are my favorite person in the world. I hope you find your way, and I hope it leads you back home. We can play Frogger, and I’ll even let you have two turns in a row. Please keep in touch. ~ Kara
Me and my brother.... and Gally.
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