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Only 26 minutes left of work this year. I can make it!
I think I can, I think I can...
Christy got back from South Africa a few days ago. Last night I got to see her pictures. While I am not interested in seeing the abject poverty and the racial injustice that still exists, I must visit South Africa before I die. I guess I'll just add it to my list.
She actually had pictures of herself petting full grown cheetahs and tiger cubs. And hanging out with elephants and little monkeys on preserves. And sunning with giraffes and penguins that just sort of wandered up to her.
I would not classify myself as a full on animal nut. I hate PETA and think most animal rights groups are a bit too freaky. But I love animals. I lived on a farm for the first few years of my life, and I've always had pets and I totally dig Animal Planet. Sure I can milk a cow, shear a sheep, and herd goats. Just call me Jane of the Jungle.
I have a weak spot for cats. The idea of getting to give a cheetah or tiger a good scratch behind the ears is so appealling to me. Of course, I really am not a big fan of zoos. I don't like seeing animals all couped up, and it generally just makes me sad. The reserves that Christy went to are, she says, rescued animals preserves. I'd like to believe that. And I think it's cool that there are so many animals just wandering freely. She said the guy from the restaurant they were at came out and shooed the giraffe away like it was a stray dog.
I don't get to see too much wildlife living in the city. City-fied squirrels and birds don't really count. At my mom's house in my hometown I do get to see the occasional wild animal -- wolves, fox, and deer are often in the backyard. Even a bear every once in a great while. Of course, the farm animals are still close by even though the farm when I was small.
Craig likes animals, but he's slightly afraid of anything not domesticated and smaller than him. He's deathly afraid of horses. He refuses to go riding with me -- I guess he's afraid of getting trampled.
I wonder if he'd be freaked out by a freely roaming giraffe?
Happy New Years Eve Day!
Yeah, so after a horrible catastrophic start with my own domain and Moveable Type and the corruption of MT after only a week, I'm finally on my way to fixing the problem. I signed up with a new service provider and I signed up with MT to get an installation. I thought about trying to install MT myself but I am a total moron when it comes to that kind of thing. Hopefully the queue for an install isn't horribly long because I'm dying to get everything back up and running. Of course, if any MT wiz kids need something to keep them occupied for a few minutes, I will gladly accept the gift that keeps on giving: the gift of MT installation! *evil grin*
New Years Eve is always a weird thing. One of my earliest memories of New Years Eve is when I was about ten years old. My brother and I were allowed to stay up with my mom and my aunts, who were all gathered at my house. I specifically remember feeling like I was getting away with something -- we were watching Wayland Flowers and Madame on TV. Madame flashed TVland, showing us all that the curtains don't match the carpet, if you know what I mean. I was alternately grossed out and fascinated.
I'm always amazed at what passed for entertainment when I was a kid.
My next memory of New Years Eve is when I was 14. My friend Anna decided she wanted to have a rockin' New Years Eve party -- good food, loud music, hundreds of people. So I immediately set out to find an appropriate outfit. It being 1986, I found the perfect ensemble: gold lame pants with a gold lame long blouse with a keyhole neck. Oh, and gold penny loafers. I was the height of fashion.
I walked into the party only to discover that only ten people had shown up. Anna's parents looked at me like I was insane, and I spent the rest of the party fielding cracks about looking like C3PO.
The next New Years Eve I remember is my freshman year of college. I came home from college and my best friend from high school, Dani, invited me to attend a party at King's College, a small private University in Scranton, PA. It's like everyone was socially retarded -- people kept asking me if I minded being around so many people who aren't white, and if I minded being around so much filth. By 10pm I basically offended everyone there by calling them small minded racists and left the party.
Yeah, I have never really had a good New Years Eve out in public, so Craig and I make our own fun at home. This year we broke the bank to collect a feast of seafood and booze and we'll be living it up hermit-style. The same as it ever was, I suppose.
I'll be thinking of all of you later on, and I will toast to your good fortune in 2003. Best of luck to you all!
We're having a baby shower for Brooke in a few weeks, so I finally got my shit together and knitted a baby sweater. I am pretty impressed with the way the sweater came out -- and I'm thrilled that I have my first paying knitting gig. Someone in the office saw my finished sweater and said she'd pay me to make one for her. Who knew?
Anyway, the colors are off in the photo of the sweater. Instead of blue and black, it's more blue, purple, and green, and it has little tiny fish buttons. Cute! It's a shame I don't like children.
Since I'm ruminating about dating today, perhaps I should shed a little light on my first and only blind date. It was 1988 so you know the fashion, at least, is entertaining.
I used to be friends with a girl named Christine. She was one of those girls that mothers didn't like because she was just a bit too mature, and kind of dangerous looking. I was endlessly fascinated by her -- she was incredibly smart, but she was kind of a floozy. All of her friends were a little bit older, and she smoked and liked to party. So when Chris said she wanted to fix me up with a friend, I was amenable.
"He's gorgeous," Christine purred to me. "His name is Evan and he's 23. Dark hair, hot car. You'll love him."
'Evan,' I thought to myself. I was sure he'd be a wonderful person and we'd make a great connection and then he'd sweep me off my 16 year old feet and take me away from all that I had come to hate.
Of course, it never occured to me to question why a 23 year old would want to date a 16 year old and why this 23 year old guy was still hanging out in Berwick. Most normal people graduate from high school and run far, far away.
So the day of the date arrives. Evan pulls up in a red Camaro. And I thought it was cool because it was 1988. And then he stepped out of the car. I recoiled in horror. The guy wasn't Quasimodo or anything, but he was wearing acid wash Z Cavaricci jeans, a black leather jacket that resembled a Members Only jacket, and about 10 pounds worth of gold chains. Oh, and did I mention he was sporting a curly mullet and tiny mustache? Oh yeah.
I instinctively knew that in his car were a slew of tapes by Loverboy, Journey, and REO Speedwagon. I was sure he really liked club music. I knew this date was doomed.
My mother's eyes almost bugged out of her head when she answered the door. I couldn't tell if she was pissed that I had dared to agree to date someone so much older, or if she was trying not to laugh at this guido monstrosity that was darkening our doorstep.
Evan, despite being a total dork, was a gentlemanly type. He opened the door to his lovely red Camaro for me, and escorted me to the movie theater. And that's where he lost points -- he took me to the Berwick movie theater.
The Berwick movie theater is where all the local delinquents hang out. Walking on the floor of the theater is difficult because of how sticky it is. And it's scary to consider what that stick might be. Sitting in a seat was like taking a major chance -- who knew what dangerous germs might be lurking that would turn you into a braindead townie? If he cared about my health and well being, Evan would have taken me to the Bloomsburg theater. At least there I wouldn't have to sanitize myself afterwards.
The movie was Throw Momma from the Train. Yes, a classic date movie. He tried to hold my hand in his sweaty, clammy palm. I eventually faked a hand cramp. He tried to kiss me, but I started to laugh when his cheesy little mustache tickled my nose. He tried to feed me some crappy pick up lines and I just stared at him.
I'm certain he knew the date was a bust. He took me directly home after the movie and I never heard from him again.
I imagine Evan from time to time. He's about 38 by now, and probably still living the good life in Berwick. I'm sure he's sort of like Disco Stu, longing for the days when hair metal was king.
I wasn't allowed to date until I was almost 16. My mother was convinced Very Bad Things would happen if I were to be left alone with a boy, regardless of whether or not said boy was a friend or a boyfriend. That's right -- I wasn't even allowed to go hang out with my male friends. Because, you know, all boys have urges.
Yeah, and I'm a gentle flower who can't defend herself against a boy. My best friend at the time was named Jeff -- he was a tall, scrawny guy who couldn't even beat me at arm wrestling. Uh huh, that's a real threat.
But I digress. One day my mom came to me, it was about a month before my 16th birthday, and said, "I've decided that you can date if you want to. But I have some ground rules. I must meet and approve any boy you go out with."
I was thrilled. I had been practicing for my first date since I was 13 years old. My first date ensemble was picked out. My hair and make up strategy was set in stone. I practiced the good night kiss with my teddy bear. The only kink in my plan was that I currently was sans boyfriend and no one would ask me out on dates anymore because the answer was always no, accompanied by a spastic fit of anger at my mother.
My fevered brain pitched in agony. Finally, I formulated a plan. Now, I had to have a date. After complaining to my mother for 4 years that I couldn't date or hang out with my friends it was imperative that I have an immediate date so my mother would see that I had boys lying in wait to date me. So I asked a former boyfriend named John to take me to the movies Friday night. It was perfect.
Friday night came. My mother has known John for as long as I have, and still made him come in and sit down so she could glower at him for a while before we left for our date. I remember that we went to a movie at the Wyoming Valley Mall in Wilkes-Barre, PA, but I don't remember what we saw. And I remember that the idea of smooching him goodnight gave me the willies, so there was no goodnight kiss.
I recently received a Christmas card from John and his wife. They have a four year old daughter. I will admit that it makes me feel a little old to know that one of my first boyfriends is 35 and has a child, but probably the majority of my ex-boyfriends are now married with children. I am, after all, almost 31 years old. But still, on some level, I fully expect all former boyfriends to yearn for me until their deaths.
Why do people insist on blowing each other up? I'm sickened by the latest bombing in Chechnya. Sickened.
People go about their business every day. I come to work everyday. Do I deserve to die because my government does stupid things? I didn't vote the current government into office and I don't support most of the ridiculous things they do in my name as an American. So do I still deserve to die? Do Chechnyans or Russians deserve to die because someone doesn't agree with a government's policies? Does anyone?
What kind of sense does it make? I want people to snap out of it -- religion shouldn't be about killing people.
Like an ass, I ventured out shopping yesterday. I should know better. There are two days when I generally don't go anywhere near a store -- the day after Thanksgiving and the day after Christmas. I was obviously delusional yesterday.
Or maybe I was just schnookered by all the doomsday reports of this shopping season being the Worst In Thirty Years! Big huge sales, all the news reporters screamed in glee! No one in the stores, they shrieked!
Ha.
Within two minutes I could tell I had made a huge error in judgement. But I was already out of the house, so I forged ahead. I don't know where all these great sales are, but I really didn't see any. And normally gentle souls turned into ravenous dogs in their attempts to push in front of me to make sure they searched a rack before I did. Sometimes my self-defense training really does come in handy.
I did, however, manage to gift myself with a couple of things. What more can I ask for?
During our travels, Craig and I stopped by his brother's house to give gifts to the kids. Everytime I'm around those three monsters I am reminded of why I don't want children. The annoyance level was enough to render me insane within a few seconds. And here is a tip for anyone considering gifting me: don't even think about giving me anything made in your ceramics class, OK? I'm not a cutesy chotckie kind of girl. While I appreciate the effort and the thought behind the gift, save your handiwork for someone who would proudly display such an ugly thing.
Now that I've got that out of my system, I've been thinking about reviewing lately. I mean, my side gig reviewing for The Weblog Review and other review sites. I read a lot of them because I like to see how other people are reviewing, and I even submit go fish to be reviewed because I like to see the difference in reviewing criteria.
When I review a site, my main thing is that I want to be entertained. I don't really care how you do that, what your write about, etc., but I really want to be entertained. There are some reviewers that maintain that a blog should be all about your day-to-day activities. As in, your entries should say "I did [insert activity here] this today." Period. They don't want ruminations on how you feel about what other people did today [you know, like current events] and they don't want to hear how things relate to your past. Do people really want to read blogs like that? Just curious.
Eh. Anyway.
There's something really funky going on over at my new blog so I'm going to hang out here until it's fixed. Merry Christmas to me, right?
Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it really was a Merry Christmas for me. What's a little MT corruption? Heh.
I hope you [for those who celebrate] are having a wonderful Christmas. And for those who don't celebrate, happy Wednesday.
It was really a perfect Christmas for me. Craig and I woke up around 9am and raced downstairs to open presents. He loved everything I bought him, including the kind of funny gifts I bought him, like the paper shredder and the crepe pan. I loved everything he gave me too.
It rained all day, but then turned to snow later on and we haven't left the house all day. That's excellent because I didn't have to spend half of my day with the in-laws and the bratty kids of his brother. Yay!
Here's my haul for Christmas: winter coat, 4 DVDs [The Cook The Thief His Wife and Her Lover, Buffy, Memento, and The Nightmare Before Christmas], the latest Anne Rice book, a book about learning French, a guide to Paris, a French dictionary, a stick blender, a bread board with a dipping bowl, and an excellent set of Nightmare Before Christmas wine opener and stopper. Oh, and a phone card to use in France. Isn't that a great idea?
I know this will come as a huge surprise, but I was not always the domestic goddess you see before you. Yes, yes, it's very shocking.
As a kid, I was deathly afraid of falling into the trap of traditional female roles -- wife, mother, housefrau, maid, pushover. I rejected most things that could lead to that kind of a lifestyle. I wanted to become a strong, powerful woman. I wanted to use sex as a weapon and win [because at the age of 13 I thought that was an excellent ideal]. I wanted to bring grown men to their knees with my stellar personality and wit, and take over the world! [insert maniacal laughter here]
Pinky, are you thinking what I'm thinking?
My mother tried her hardest to lure me into the dark side of housework. Oh yes, she tried! But I resisted. I would rather not get an allowance than clean windows to a glowing shine. The very scent of furniture polish was enough to send me into hiding. Vacuum cleaners still give me the willies. I knew that when I grew up, there would be no housework for me. I'd have a maid! I'd be rich! Housework? Feh.
And then there was the cooking. We were fairly poor when I was growing up, so there wasn't much to cook up. It was a lot of Tuna Helper and Hamburger Helper and potatoes cooked a zillion ways. I refused to learn to make Tuna Helper. The potatoes went untouched by my cold hands. I couldn't even be trusted to make sure stuff didn't burn. I was grounded for two weeks once because my mother asked me to keep an eye on the sausage she was frying while she hung out a load of clothes. Of course, by the time she got back the sausage was nothing more than burnt cinders.
I didn't learn to work a washing machine until I got to college and ran out of money to buy new socks and underwear. I still don't understand what fabric softener is.
In college none of my roommates would let me near the stove because one night it was my turn to cook and I made some horrible casserole using all the leftover and old vegetables in the kitchen combined with only tomato paste. It was gross.
I didn't truly learn to cook and enjoy cooking until I lived by myself. And that's when I found out I'm a really good cook, and an excellent baker. Who knew?
Of course, I still refuse to do housework. Luckily, Craig doesn't mind doing the cleaning, providing I keep him well fed.
I still want to take over the world.
I know I promised not to get all verklempt over politics. And I'm trying hard. Luckily, with excellent things like this to warm the cockles of my heart, getting verklempt becomes unnecessary.
My grandmother started making ornaments for me the year I was born. Because she had a stroke and never regained use of her left side, I only have 12 of them. They are my most treasured Christmas ornaments.
There are several dolls made of styrofoam and sequins. My favorite is named Polly -- her dress and bonnet are bright peacock blue and she has blonde hair, 'just like me' I thought when I was a kid. The other two are brides. I also have one styrofoam boot covered in red sequins.
I have four that are made of felt and are beaded. This is my favorite -- the Santa. It's the first ornament I remember receiving. The first one my grandmother made for me in 1972 is a felt ornament. It's a cute little rudolph with red glass bead nose.
I also have a bunch of ornaments covered in silk thread and decorated with pins and beads. My great grandmother also made several of those for me before she died.
This year when we decorated the tree I sat there with my homemade ornaments and cried my eyes out. Last year was my first Christmas without my grandmother but it didn't seem real since it happened so close to Christmas. This is the first year that I know it's true.
Before she had her stroke my brother and I used to spend a lot of weekends at her house, since my mom was working her third job on the weekends and my father was who knows where. There was a ritual involved. Saturday for lunch there would be a chicken roll roll sandwich on a hamburger roll, and a snack of saltines and cheddar cheese later on, right before our evening of watching The Love Boat and Fantasy Island. Sunday afternoon there would be a viewing of whatever old movie was on -- usually something with Shirley Temple or the Three Stooges. And somewhere during the weekend my grandmother would read me a story from her Edgar Allan Poe collection.
She used to do the neighbor woman's hair. She had a basket of those velcro rollers and a big jar of green Dippity Do. She smelled like powder and lavender.
I miss my grandmother.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times....
Sorry Charles.
It really was -- on the subway this morning, anyway. I believe that I witnessed the best of human nature and the worst of human nature.
There was a woman standing near the door, waiting for the train to stop so she could exit the train. Her hands were full and she was having trouble getting ahold of the handle of one of her bags. Some young guy slipped the loose handle of bag into her hand. A "thank you" and "you're welcome" were exchanged. Warm looks were exchanged.
It was a beautiful moment. It warmed the cockles of my heart.
Yes, it was simple and a total non-event. But most days on the subway no one would have taken the two seconds to help that woman. And, let me tell you, the instant that guy helped the woman he became hot. He wasn't bad looking to begin with and he was dressed really nice, but being nice and polite drives me wild with desire. My helpful hint to men looking to meet women: run around your city being considerate of others. Eventually you will notice some woman lusting after you because of your good deeds, and then you'll know you've met someone who appreciates niceness.
Of course, I encountered the worst of human nature portion of my morning about 2 minutes later.
I was exiting the platform, had just walked through the revolving grated door, when I beheld something I'd rather not see again.
There is a homeless man who sleeps in a little alcove in the concourse. I see him every morning. He's either sleeping or cursing at passersby. As I was walking into his section of the concourse, he pushed his pants down around his ankles, copped a squat, and took a dump in the middle of the concourse.
And then he threw it at a SEPTA cop.
I will admit for just a millisecond I cheered because we all know how I feel about SEPTA. But then I realized what I had just witnessed and am thoroughly grossed out and feeling like a need to bathe.
Maybe I'll take a different concourse route tomorrow.
I want you to think of the music from The Wizard of Oz when the witch is riding her bicycle. Got it? Now imagine that instead of the witch, it's me. Do you have it in your head?
Good.
Now imagine me [with the music] riding on a busy Philadelphia street at 8am, barely awake, fighting not to fall off my bike. And then, in an attempt to make it past the gridlock traffic, I get bike messenger-like courage and attempt to ride in between two cars that are really really close together.
Can you feel in your gut what's coming next?
I wedged my huge granny bike in between the two cars. I mean it. Literally wedged myself by catching one handlebar on one car and the other handlebar on the other. Both drivers, luckily enough, got out of their cars and started yelling at me.
It being early, and me not being quite awake, glared at both of them, wrenched my bike out of the spot with a mighty yank and a screech and took off the other way, leaving the yelling drivers screaming after me.
This is my typical experience during a SEPTA strike here in the city [which happens almost everytime contracts are up for renewal -- every three years]. It's a huge pain in the ass and everyone gets testy. Since Philadelphia's transit system and Philadelphia itself are so much smaller than NYC's transit system, I'm so glad for everyone potentially affected that the strike has been averted [at least temporarily].
People get nuts when they're left to their own ingenuity to get to work. It's all fine for bike messengers and other regular bike riders to laugh in the face of danger by braving the traffic. But stupid people like me on a bike are a menace. I have seen at least one person die on a bike during every single transit strike in Philadelphia. In the 12 years that I've lived here I've been through three of them. People forget basic safety rules, or people in cars refuse to "share the road."
So I'm really hoping that the transit strike doesn't happen -- remember, blood runs red on the road kids!
Most of you know the extent to which I will go to make a buck. While I've had other jobs I consider to be bottom of the barrel, being a Christmas elf was definitely not one of my better jobs.
I tend to block out the memory of those long six weeks at Strawbridge & Clothier at the Gallery Mall in Philadelphia. Perhaps it was the uniform -- not so much an elf, as a Mrs. Claus-type. I would have much preferred pointy shoes with bells and tights to wearing a floor length red gown designed to make me look matronly.
Or maybe it was the hordes of children [because you know how much I like children] that descended upon Santa, slobbering and drooling and acting like smacked asses.
I remember going to see Santa as a kid, and I was so overwhelmingly concerned that Santa would see me acting badly that I just sort of stood there like a statue, afraid to even so much as look cross-eyed at someone. These kids didn't seem to care at all -- they were like wild animals, raised by wolves maybe. Meanwhile, their parents stared adoringly [yet vacantly] at their demon seed offspring, unaware [or maybe unconcerned] that little six year old Johnny was attempting to sex me up.
There was a routine we Mrs. Clauslettes had to adhere to. We were stationed throughout the line to keep the peace. Sort of like bouncers for the kindergarten crowd. Our first line of defense was the kindly yet pointed stare and a quick and jolly "Santa is watching, you know!" But, like I said, most of these kids were too feral to care or take notice. The second line of defense was an unfettered glare of death and a request for the offending tykes name. And then I'd mock whisper into my walkie talkie, "Clausette to Mrs. Claus! We have a very naughty boy who won't stop beating the other kids senseless. Please let Santa know that Mikey's house should be skipped on Christmas Eve."
Of course, most of the time, that didn't work either. And we weren't permitted to physically harm the rotten kids, no matter what they did. There was really no third line of defense. Mostly I'd just give Damien or whatever his name was the evil eye and curse his future.
When the kids got the front of the line, the Clausette stationed at the front of the line made a big deal out of asking the kids names so we could have a record of who came to see Santa. When the front line Clausette would usher the current lap sitters away, she would whisper the names of the next kids to Santa. And then Santa would always strike the fear of no gifts into the next kids by yelling, "Ho ho ho! Ashley and Dante! Come see Santa! I haven't seen you since last year! Look how big you got!"
There were three different Santas the year I worked as an Elf/Clausette. One was the best Santa ever -- he had been Santa-ing at Strawbridge for 25 years and remembered the kids from year to year without needing to be told names. He was amazing! The second Santa was a hard of hearing old coot who always fucked up the names and struck me as slightly creepy. The third Santa was a 25 year old guy who had recently left his studies to become a priest. He was totally hot. Anytime Santa #3 was working I always made sure I was the front Clausette -- he was unused to dealing with women and it was easy to fluster him. I'd just give him a wicked, openly wanton stare and he'd start to stutter. Yes, I'm a horrible person.
The part of my job that was almost worse than dealing with the kids was taking care of the Santa. After every two hours the Santa would need a break. So the front Clausette would make a big deal of saying Santa needed to go feed the reindeer and we'd be back in 20 minutes. Santa #1 didn't need much help -- we'd have to help him out of his jacket and that would be the end of it. Santa #3 was sort of afraid of women all together, so he refused any help at all. But Santa #2, the slightly creepy one, demanded that we basically strip him to his boxers and undershirt during his break. And he smelled. Bad. I made sure I was never the front Clausette when Santa #2 was working.
Part of the experience of working as an Elf/Clausette at Strawbridge was mingling with the young actor wannabes working at the Dickens Village a few floors down. It was this half anamatronic, half live show of an English village, a la A Christmas Carol. Of course, I ended up dating one of them -- a scruffy boy named Chad. I had doubts that Chad was a serious actor: he had never seen Taxi Driver. Really, Chad was just funding his huge pot habit. You could tell when Chad was around by the aroma of burning rope wafting before him.
Good times.
I should have known by the way Sassy was headbutting me and walking on my face that it was way past her time to be fed. But the sound of the rain is soothing and it puts me right to sleep. So to my utter horror and dismay, when I finally woke up and got out of bed because my bladder couldn't take it anymore, I discovered that it was late, like almost 10am. My day is a-wastin'.
Not that I have so much planned for today. There will be knitting, followed by more knitting. A shower. Maybe dinner out later at Il Cantuccio [it's the siren call of that tiramisu, I tell ya!]. I don't know why I should be so concerned, but yet I am.
Maybe I'm just afraid I'll miss more of Trent Lott backpedalling.
Has anyone noticed how good I've been lately about ignoring what's going on? Nary a word has been said here or otherwise in public because I'm trying my best to pretend it's not happening. I haven't weaned myself off the news or newspapers yet, but I'm getting much better at only having fits inside my head. There have really been no impassioned outbursts at all.
I am slowly mastering the art of ignorance. Because ignorance really is bliss.
Something you may not know about me is that I am a published poet. I won't bore you with the details of how this came about and I won't post the poetry because poetry is incredibly subjective. What that means is that I generally skip over poetry on blogs because a lot of it sucks. It isn't to say that it's horrible poetry, but I have a very definitive style of what I like.
It's the literature geek in me.
Plus, I hate criticism. Constructive criticism on my writing doesn't exist for me. It all seems like a personal attack, and then I end up getting bent out of shape and stewing about it for years.
I'm totally serious.
When I was a sophomore in college I got brave enough to take a workshop in writing poetry. The whole class consisted of reading your own poetry in front of a class of about 15 students and the instructor, and then having your work picked apart.
It was totally mortifying. One of the poems that was eventually published is something that everyone in my class just fucking hated. My instructor was a joke -- she just lurved poetry that rhymed and had serious structure. She refused to acknowledge poetry that had no formal structure could be good.
I still have a copy of a poem I turned in for criticism that I just adored that has a bunch of nasty comments written on it by assorted people. Every once in a while I pull it out, read it, and get really good and pissed off.
I'm telling you: I cannot handle that kind of criticism. I barely made it through each class without bursting into melodramatic tears and fleeing the room in a huff. And I knew that the class was going to be all about criticism, I knew it! I have no idea why I took a class like that. If you ask for criticism of your writing, or a review of your blog, or ask someone "Does this make me look fat?" you should be prepared to handle the answer in a mature way.
Accept it, agree or disagree, and move on.
But because I can't seem to move on from it, it festers in me. Ten years later I can still remember what every single person in that class looks like, the tone of their voice, and the things that they said.
I often bitch about growing up without either of my parents taking the slightest interest in anything I was doing, but the truth is that now I'm kind of happy about it. Sure, it would have filled me with glee if my mother had been proud of my work with the choir, the yearbook, or the newspaper, or had come to see me cheer at a game even once. But having the freedom to do my own thing without parental involvement gave me a lot of independence and even helped with my decision-making skills. Being thrown to the wolves will do that for you. Heh.
No, really.
Parents who need to be intimately involved with every aspect of their kid's lives need help. I guess it's an issue of trust and control, but I would have been mortified if my mother had called my college professors to complain about my grades. Can you imagine? You spend the entire semester fucking around, getting drunk every night, skipping classes, and then mommy and daddy step in and try to exert pressure on your professor to give you a better grade. Yeah, because that's why people become college professors -- to counsel mom and dad through this difficult time of you not doing a speck of work.
This all can be brought back to the fact that we're building a society of people who refuse to take responsibility for their own actions. Nothing is ever their own fault. Bad grades? Why, it must be because I have a bad teacher! Fat? Well, who knew eating McDonald's every meal of every day could make me fat!? Went on a killing spree? It's those damn rock and roll records!
A few years ago I was contracted to run a cheerleading clinic for a peewee league group of cheerleaders. The age group was from 5 years old to 13 years old, and there were probably about 500 kids. Christy and I planned the whole thing, and she decided to teach dance, I was to teach stunting, and we hired another girl to teach cheers. At first I was really excited about it -- what could be a cooler job than to teach stunting? I spent hours designing stunts and pyramids that were appropriate for each age group. But the parents totally ruined it for me.
For the youngest age group I had planned these cute little pyramids that didn't involve anyone even really taking more than one foot off the ground. Some of the parents refused to let their children participate in something so dangerous. What? So, your kid can't be trusted to stand on one leg? Not even with a spotter? Does she have vertigo? Is she retarded?
My whole day was like that. The parents were rude, condescending, and completely bent on controlling every little thing. The kids were miserable because they weren't allowed to do anything. It convinced me that I would never be able to handle a job as a full-time cheerleading coach. I hate the parents.
A few of my friends are teachers. There is a job I would never want to have. What do teachers do? They teach kids the skills they're going to need in order to be successful in life. Without them, no one would ever learn to read, write, add, or subtract. They do the single most important job in the world. And yet parents are constantly bugging them that their kid shouldn't have gotten an F on that composition, despite the fact that the composition consisted of the words "Fuck you" 100 times. Somehow the teacher should be at fault for that.
There's a fine line between involvement and smothering craziness when it comes to kids. Yes, I believe that parents should be involved in what their kids are doing, but I also believe that sometimes too much a good thing is just, well, too much.
I don't want to use the term "mollycoddling" here, but if the shoe fits...
Everyone knows of my love for Henry Rollins, right? It is with great joy that I found out today that Rollins is doing a spoken word show at the TLA on February 6. I am so going to be there.
And it's even the month of my [and Henry's] birthday! I think I'll send Henry a little something this year...a specially made journal maybe, since I doubt he'd be too thrilled about a handmade scarf from me.
Did that come off a little stalkery? I guess I should dial that back a notch or two, eh? At least Henry's book will not be made out of my hair or fingernail clippings...
Attention shoppers:
I will run your ass over if you refuse to use your legs to move out of doorways around the city. I don't care if you're five years old or 105 years old. Move. Have courtesy. Don't just stand there, because I will hip check you into the window. Trust me.
As you might be able to tell, I have just returned from my foray into last minute Christmas shopping hell. Sometimes I forget why I do all of my shopping either online or before Thanksgiving. Holiday shopping seems to bring out all of the stupid people.
How simple is it to exit the store and continue walking so you don't completely block the exit? Isn't it common sense that when you are getting off an escalator to keep fucking walking, so you don't cause the people behind you to get eaten by the escalator? What's worse are those assholes from the tour buses who decide that, even thought it's 45 degrees today, it's way too cold to stand outside until their bus comes back to pick them up and so they stand in a huge clump just inside the store -- making it impossible to get in or out of the store.
I tell you, sometimes I understand the urge to murder.
Like an ass, I tried to navigate the new Kiehl's store at 19th & Chestnut. Of course, everyone in the world was in the tiny little store, so I said 'Fuck it' and attempted to exit. This absolutely ancient woman about the size of a Keebler elf picked that exact time to cut me off and shuffle in front of me at a snail's pace. After an exhaustive couple of minutes we reach the door. Immediately upon exiting she stops and fixes her scarf and digs through her massive handbag. I am left stuck in the doorway, holding the door open which pisses off the staff because I'm letting cold air in. I can't go anywhere. I say "Pardon me" about twelve times. She ignores me. Perhaps she forgot to wear her hearing aid. Finally, after five minutes of being trapped behind the old broad, I tap her on the spindly shoulder and ask if she could let me and the 80 people behind me go by her.
I think she cursed me. I don't mean that I think she told me to fuck off...I think she literally put a hex on my sorry ass. I guess if my skin turns green and my boobies fall off, we'll know why.
But yeah, the only reason I didn't push her out of the way is because it seemed like a lawsuit waiting to happen. I did, however, have some contact with other inconsiderate fucktards today.
Sometimes I think I shouldn't be allowed out of the house.
Last night when Craig Santa brought me my new coat, it occurred to me that there were already a number of gifts underneath the tree with my name on them. Since I happen to know how much the coat cost, I knew that Craig had at least spent double what our gift dollar amount limit called for.
Far be it from me to complain when my husband spends money on me, but I like to keep things even or else I start to feel guilty. Our lives are all about parity. Ahem.
So now, even though I was sure my Christmas shopping had been finished for weeks, I am in the position of having to brave the hordes of last minute shoppers. Today during lunch I will buy Craig more stuff. Luckily it won't be so tough. I saw a couple of things at J. Crew that I think he'll dig.
Craig threatened to return my coat if I buy anything else to bring the gift giving madness to anywhere near equality, but I can't face my guilt at having bought him less. And I know he won't really return my coat. And so he's going to have more stuff to open Christmas morning, like it or not.
Do you set a dollar limit for yourself, or do you and your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/significant other set limits? Do you go over? Do you lie about how much you spend? I'm just curious, and secretly hoping that we're not the only morons who go through this every year!
Life would just be so much simpler if we exchanged livestock.
Despite years of training to correct it, I am a total klutz. And when weather threatens to take my life I tend to get a bit wussy-like about it. Because my klutziness+ice/snow=hospitalization.
It's true.
And so here I am at home [as opposed to being at work] because I refuse to take my chances with the elements. Hey man, I respect nature.
Let's review the stupid things that have happened to me when I have actually left the house in dangerous weather, shall we?
And so, since there's ample precedent, I try not to leave my house if it isn't absolutely necessary during potentially hazardous weather. You know, because I'm a menace to myself.
And who knows? Maybe even to others!
Because I'm a burdgeoning blogwhore, I was checking my statistics the other day and noticed a hit or two from the Blogging Ecosystem. And guess what? go fish is listed as the 427th most linked to online journal in the blogosphere.
I should be thrilled that I'm in the top 500, considering there are thousands of blogs. But I'm not that excited about it -- in fact, I'm rather depressed that I am not more beloved. Watch me pout about this for a few seconds.
And now I'm moving on.
My day off yesterday was prolific for me -- I wrapped presents, I finished a pair of socks for a Christmas present, finished one half of a pair of mittens for a Christmas present, and started on a scarf for Craig. And I didn't feel even the slightest bit guilty for not being at work.
I definitely need to find a new occupation. Maybe I should become a teacher. If my students shower me with bags of weed it could be a very excellent choice for me! And very lucrative. Of course, that would mean I'd have to be around kids for long periods of time, and I don't think I would like that very much. You know, because I'm not a big fan of children.
How about that The Amazing Race last night? If you haven't seen it yet, avert your eyes now. How surprised was I that the twins got eliminated, leaving that whiny-ass Flo and the abusive husband to lose against the brothers? At the beginning of the Race, my favorites were the brothers and the team with the gay cheerleader [well, duh]. I was heartbroken when the cheerleader was tossed out, but I'm deliriously happy that the brothers are still in it. For the last show, I'd like to see the abusive husband and Flo get into a fist fight, while Zack and the abused wife come to their senses and walk away. That will leave the brothers to win it all.
Speaking of fondest wishes, apparently Santa received my letter from the other day and thought I actually had been a pretty good girl all year. What arrived at my house last night, but the coat I wanted!! That Craig makes a really good Santa! Of course, I can't wear it until Christmas....
Now I can be a very bad girl until Christmas!
After Teri stripped down to her paper undies last week on The Amazing Race, I have had underwear on my mind. I never want to hear about Teri's [or anyone else's] undies ever again. I sure as hell don't want to see Teri in her paper undies.
After that trauma, I think I've finally hit the mother load of disturbing undies: undies and bras made from human hair. Does it get much more Silence of the Lambs than that?
I was thinking of an art project where I make underwear out of things they obviously shouldn't be made of -- soy nuts, soda can tops, rubber bands. I bet it would sell for thousands. That's still in the planning stages though.
I wonder if the crotch in the human hair undies are cotton-lined. If they're not, that's just a yeast infection waiting to happen. Not to mention that the hair from the undies is bound to get mixed in with your own hair, and then how does one explain how hairs of a different color migrated into one's own bush? Perplexing, to be sure.
When I was growing up writing a letter to Santa meant that I'd have to brave the Berwick Christmas Boulevard and be forced to eat a bag of Weis potato chips, so I stopped writing letters to Santa. Because no one wants to eat a bag of frozen solid Weis potato chips on a cold and windy night inside of a car with no heat in Berwick, especially me.
But, because I'm such a sucker for what's hip and happening, I decided to write one this year to see how I'd come out on the scale of "I've been good" and "I've been bad." Heh.
Dear Santa,
Hey there Santa, how are you? I hope you and Mrs. Claus are doing well, and keeping warm. I sent you a batch of all-natural biscuits for the reindeer about a week ago -- I hope they arrive before Christmas.
I'm doing pretty well. It's been a year filled with happiness for me, and I think I've been a fairly good girl.
Now, you may not think so because I've done some things you may not think are very nice. Please give me the opportunity to explain.
I'm well aware that I helped chase out those lovely young kids out of my neighborhood. It weighs conscious on my heart that I made one of those poor boys cry. But my heart was in the right place! Those misguided youths were wreaking havoc in my neighborhood, and I really only wanted to make the neighborhood a nice place to live again. Honest, it wasn't purely a selfish thing. Sure, I like to sleep, but so do other people!
I know that the military is very important to our country. And I know that breaking that nice soldier's finger wasn't particularly polite. But my body is not public property, and isn't meant to be groped by a stranger. I reserve the right to defend my honor as I see fit. And hey, he started it!
Over the last year I have cursed people and given them the evil eye, wished for a horrible accident to befall several members of the U.S. government, and hoped for very bad things to happen to the Deeply Religious. It's true. But it's only because those kinds of people can't be rehabilitated into nice and upstanding citizens.
Like I said, overall, I've been fairly good. I raised lots of money for good causes this year, gave up my seat to older and disabled people on the subway and bus, freely gave directions to tourists, and was generally polite to the majority of people I came in contact with.
Please take this into consideration when deciding on whether or not to leave me a lump of coal in my stocking. And if you decide that I've been good enough to deserve a gift, I'd really like that fabulous camel colored wool coat with the lamb's fur collar and cuffs.
Thanks Santa! Have a great ride on Christmas Eve!
Love and kisses,
Nicole
P.S. If it helps my case, I'll even give you a 'go fish' thong for Christmas!
Last night Craig picked me up from class and, as I sat down to finish knitting my current sweater project, we decided to order burgers from down the street. Craig hands me the menu, and he gets a paper cut as I slide it from his hands.
What happens next is still giving me the giggles this morning.
Craig lets out this sort half-squeak, half-little girl squeal scream, and then he cradles his injured hand against his chest with a freaked out look on his face.
It was so funny and weird that I couldn't help myself: I started laughing. And the more I thought about it, the funnier it got. So within five minutes I was laughing so hard at Craig that no sound was coming out of me, and tears were just streaming down my face. I couldn't even catch my breath. I was just in total hysterics.
Craig thought I was insane, of course. I mean, what normal person laughs really hard at another person's pain, right? Well, apparently I am. But it was just so funny! And I totally needed a good laugh like that -- it's one of those things that I don't do every day. I'm just glad that I wasn't drinking anything at the time, because it would have been spit out through my nose!
And yes, you read correctly -- I finished my sweater! This isn't a great picture, but it gives you some idea of what it looks like, and this is how excited I am that I have finished my biggest Christmas gift project.
It was a banner day! How sad is that?
I totally need to move to Germany.
I saw a link on Fark about a German woman who condones a no fun work atmosphere. She blames America for creating the fun workplace, which a) decreases productivity and b) blurs the line between work and home. She says that her first job was in a company run the American way -- "[t]his meant that we started work at around midday and drank beer in the office."
OK, where do I sign up? I don't know any offices in the U.S. run that way, but I definitely want to be a part of it! I have long dreamt of hooking up a keg of Guinness underneath my desk and passing the tap hose up through the hole in the desk meant for the computer wires, and now is my chance -- with those damned American ideas of a fun workplace that are playing out in Germany! Woohoo!
I understand the need to blame the U.S. for everything wrong with the world. Hell, I can even agree with a few things because I'm well aware that the U.S. is not an ideal society. But to blame the U.S. for a work ethic that doesn't even exist in the U.S. seems a bit, well, paranoid.
Who comes in at noon and gets tanked on the job?
Hey, I'll be sending out Christmas cards within the next few days. Want one? They aren't handmade or even sacrilegeous [as was my all time favorite Christmas card -- the sweet baby Jeebus with the face of Elvis, the greeting of which proclaimed "The King is Come!"] this year, but I'd be happy to send you one if you'd like be a recipient.
Just email me your mailing address within the next day or two!
Speaking of Christmas, I am now even happier that I was not present for the office Winter Celebration. Um, there was line dancing and karaoke. *shudder*
To the lady on the subway this morning making a huge show of acting all exasperated that the train wasn't moving fast enough to suit you -- dial it back a few notches, eh? I can see why you are some poor working schlub instead of a famous actress...your play acting is a bit too over the top.
Yep, I was checking people out on the subway again this morning. Normally I don't get completely fixated on one person, but the woman was acting like such an ass that I felt like booting her ass out the door at the wrong stop just before the doors closed.
I'm so easily irritated in the morning.
The funny thing is that I am a morning person. As much as I adore sleeping, I don't like to get up very late in the morning because I feel like I'm wasting time. During the work week I'm up at 6:15 am, but not because I'm getting anything accomplished -- I'm just going to work. On the weekend I'm usually up by 7 or 8 am. It's not to say that I am out shoveling snow or building houses at that hour, but I'm up and I'm enjoying the day.
It's a concern to me that I will miss something by wasting time. Perhaps it's the farmer genes in me rearing their ugly heads, screaming at me that "Late to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise!" My grandfather was a farmer for most of his life, and he and my grandmother rarely sleep. It must be a hard habit to break.
Speaking of my grandfather, he is in the hospital. Craig and I went to see the light show at Wanamakers Lord & Taylor's yesterday afternoon and then stopped for a late lunch at Monk's [I love that place -- excellent mussels, fabulous burgers, and a huge beer selection!], and when I got home there was a message from my mother. Here's the thing: it's nothing serious but he's totally making it out to be life-threatening.
From being around all that hay for all those years, my grandfather has a sort of chronic lung infection. If he takes antibiotics, it's all fine. He can breathe fine, his lungs don't feel like dirt. Now, maybe I have more confidence in doctors, but my grandfather has decided that he knows better than the doctors. He stopped taking his antibiotics without consulting his doctor because he is positive that the antibiotics are making his legs hurt. To this I can only say, "Whhhaaaaaaaa?" So now he's having problems breathing. But instead of reaching the obvious conclusion [i.e., no antibiotics+chronic lung infection=breathing problems] my grandfather has convinced himself he needs open heart surgery.
What is it about getting older than transforms normally normal people into stubborn old coots who are bent on drama? It's not like he needs the attention -- he and my grandmother live not five minutes away from my mother, my two aunts, and my uncle, plus assorted other relatives and friends. Someone is at the house to visit them probably every day. I don't understand why anyone would be so intent on incapacitating themselves, instead of enjoying life.
My grandmother [the one who died a year ago] went through the same thing. She had a stroke when I was about 13 years old [so, about 1985]. She immediately went to the best rehab hospital in the state, but refused to do any of her rehab. She wasn't very old -- I think she was about 56 when she had her stroke, but she spent the rest of her life in a nursing home because she just wouldn't work to get better. And I know, had she done her rehab, that she would have been just fine.
I get so angry at people who do things to themselves that are counterproductive. My grandmother robbed herself of what should have been the best years of her life. My grandfather is refusing to listen to his doctors, which is probably going to decrease the number of years he has left. But it's hard to be angry at someone you love so much. And it's next to impossible to lay it down to someone that you care about -- what am I going to do, walk up to my grandfather and tell him he's being a smacked ass for not listening to the doctors? Tell him I think he's acting like a child?
I guess it's no wonder I'm irritated this morning.
I'm sure no one noticed this small addition to the go fish plethora of links, but I added the go fish market a few days ago. I certainly wouldn't expect anyone to order a tshirt with the go fish logo on it, but I was so entertained by the idea of putting my logo on stuff that I created a little store of logo items anyway.
What hee-larious is the go fish thong. The photo is too small to read it, but the front of the thong has part of my logo and the words "go fish wants some bush." Heh. I'm so 10 years old.
Even though we all know I think thongs are the most uncomfortable piece of clothing in the world, I may just have to purchase one for myself. And even though I still haven't really gotten serious about the next go fish contest, I'm thinking that the one after that I may just buy a bunch of go fish thongs and give those away. Because what's funnier than people running around with my logo on their crotch?
The boxer shorts just don't really seem as funny. What would really make my life complete is if the store started offering banana hammock undies for boys, or mesh thongs for boys like in the American Male catalog. And then I could make some raunchy logo for them.
Male lingerie is always comedy gold. It is rare to see male lingerie that is actually attractive. Mostly it's just silly, and I spend my time trying not to snicker. Stripper outfits are the worst -- the prosthetics in their little banana hammocks with the shirred butt are the most hysterical thing in the world. Those things just flop around, hitting women in the face. I suppose it's all part of the weirdness, like we're just supposed to suspend belief that the guy built like a brick shithouse prancing around in his skivvies really has a 15 inch penis that's rock hard while he's doing the cabbage patch.
Feh. Hey, maybe I should send a thong to Strom....you know, as a birthday present.
I was thinking about Strom Thurmond all day yesterday. He is the biggest reason to institute term limits for Senate. How did Strom stay in office for so long? The man voted against civil rights! He was shlub who came up with the idea to deport John Lennon on drug charges during Nixon's administration in order to stop him from registering young people to vote! He's a menace!
Sometimes I think voters have their collective head up their ass.
That is all.
Despite my temporary adoration of snow yesterday, I really do hate snow. Here I am at work, early [as usual], hating the snow even more than usual.
Now, I don't drive. I have a license and do know how to drive. I just hate it. So I don't drive. And living here in Philly, I really don't have to. Today I am unusually happy about the fact that I don't own a car and don't drive. Digging out a car and attempting to drive on Fishtown streets that never get plowed would just be too much for me.
As it is, walking was hazardous. I'm sure it's like this in every town, but in Philadelphia we are responsible for shoveling our sidewalks [unless you live in an apartment, in which case your landlord is responsible]. Craig and I shovel the walk from the curb to the end of our house. The entire walk, not just a tiny little narrow walkway. You know, because it's common courtesy. Most of our neighbors either don't shovel at all or they shovel a path from their front door to their car. Bastards.
Traversing the three blocks from my house to the bus stop is certainly an exercise in survival on days like today. Aside from the unplowed roads and the unshoveled sidewalks, people in my neighborhood are drunk 24-7 and like to drive while intoxicated. I have always been glad that I developed a Frogger fixation early on in life, otherwise I might not have the necessary skills to cross the street around here.
Craig and I made a practice run last night. We walked about six blocks to hit Ho Sai Gai [home of the best steamed dumplings on the face of the planet, right Kathy?] in the snow, using guerilla tactics to avoid being pelted by snowballs or run over by drunken Fishtowners. We finally arrived at Ho Sai Gai after several tactical maneuvers, and the staff practically carried us to a table on their shoulders -- we were their first and only customer of the day.
Normally I would not venture out in the snow if I didn't have to, but the siren call of steamed dumplings was just too strong. Could. Not. Resist.
True Philadelphians lack intestinal fortitude when it comes to snow. Those of us who grew up with snow on the ground from November to February or March realize that it's a pain in the ass, but it isn't the End of The World. At the mere threat of even so much as a flake of snow, Philadelphians flock en masse to grocery stores, gas stations, and Home Depot and buy up everything in preparation for nuclear winter. Schools are closed. And then when the world doesn't end, they drive like assholes.
In my hometown there has to be at least three inches of snow on the ground before anyone even considers a delay. To cancel school for the day there better be a full on snow emergency of two feet of snow. Because, you know, they'd rather us die on the way to school then stay home and tip cows, fornicate, and create all sorts of other madness.
Aw, memories.
Officially Employer Sanctioned Snow Day, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways:
If I believed in god, I'd be tempted to say, "God bless us, every one!"
Warning: knitting-related post
OK, so I put the sweater I'm knitting aside temporarily so I could get some instant gratification in the form of socks.
I really like knitting socks. Knitting in the round is fun and socks knit up pretty quickly. And turning the heel is seriously exciting.
Yep, I'm a total dork.
The socks I'm currently knitting are for my mom. They are three different shades of blue and have blue furry stripes at the top. Last night I knitted just past the heel of the first sock, and tonight I'll finish the first sock. And then I'll work on the sweater a little.
So I have until January 3 to finish up two pairs of socks, and I have until Christmas to finish the sweater, and knit a scarf, a pair of mittens, and a wrap.
Think I can do it?
There is an art to cussing. I believe that I litter my normal conversation with just enough expletives, without going over the thin line into just plain vulgarity.
I like the word fuck. We've all seen the essays about the myriad of ways in which fuck can be used. I won't repeat it. It's a handy word though. There is one word that doesn't make it into my lexicon. The word is cunt. There's something so mean-spirited about it.
I can call someone a dumbfuck or a fucktard or a fucking idiot and still not say it with total malice. I can even mean it in an endearing way. However, I have never heard anyone call someone a cunt and get a nice fuzzy feeling from it.
Cunt is such an ugly word -- I mean it sounds ugly. And it's usually said in an ugly way. I don't use it and I hate to be called a cunt worse than anything else.
I don't mind being referred to as a vagina. I mean, I do have one and all. Vaginas are nice and well-designed and very helpful to have. They're generally much prettier than penises. I just don't like the word cunt.
Apparently it didn't always have such a negative connotation. It's derived from the Germanic root ku-, which means "hollow place." I know not everyone thinks cunt is such a horrible word. Maybe if my mother had lovingly referred to me as a cunt when I was a child [you know, term of endearment] maybe I'd feel different about it.
Nice. I think I just gave myself the heebie jeebies.
I refuse to believe that West Siders have the capacity to part-ay like us Old Skool East Siders. Do we get to make up gang signs? Can I get a gang name? Do I have to be jumped in?
I may not be partying with those crazy cats in Florida in January, but I'll be kickin' it Philly style [now imagine me saying that in my best white girl voice].
Solidarity, man! Aiiiiigggggghhhhhhht.
When I first moved to Philadelphia in 1990 I remember one thing very vividly -- a trip to South Street. Particularly, it was a trip into Zipperhead that is my first Philly memory. I was standing there gawking at the storefront. Zipperhead always has interesting window displays. The mannequin was wearing a pair of black pants that had "Fuck SEPTA" written all over them.
'What the hell is that about?' I thought to myself.
Yes, I knew SEPTA was the public transit system in Philadelphia, but I could not for the life of me understand why anyone would have a problem. Having just moved from one of the true armpits of Western Civilization where there was no public transportation, I adored SEPTA. I was thinking of naming my next goldfish SEPTA. SEPTA was my new best friend.
Of course, having lived here in the city for 12 years I now completely understand those pants. Furthermore, I wish I had bought them. Why?
Because SEPTA sucks.
I have spent more time waiting for trains and buses that never arrive than I can possibly imagine. I read a statistic somewhere about the amount of time the average person spends waiting. The average SEPTA customer probably spends double that amount. In addition to lying about their train and bus schedules, SEPTA drivers are known throughout the land for being possibly the most miserable, spiteful, and meanest people on the planet. I could be across the street waving madly to the bus driver to wait while I cross the street to catch the bus, the bus driver will see me, wave back, give an eerie grin, and take off. They do it on purpose because it's the only joy they get in their horrible existences.
In addition to the constant lying and driver conspiracy of terror, SEPTA is the most expensive public transit in the entire country. Hell, it might be the most expensive public transit in the known world. At this moment I pay $70 for a monthly Transpass, which allows me to travel within city limits as much as I want. That's not horrible, I suppose. But if you want to purchase fare on the bus or subway, forget it -- it's now $2.00. That is for one bus ride within one zone. If you have to transfer to another bus or the subway, or you have to cross into another zone, that's an additional 60 cents. Plus, the drivers won't give you change.
Now, I realize that I'm lucky to live in a city that has a public transit system. Since I don't drive, having a public transit system is a nice perk. But if I'm paying an outrageous amount of money to use SEPTA, wouldn't you think that Philadephia's public transit system would not only be the cleanest subway system, but also on time with courteous drivers?
I've taken public transit in New York City, Washington DC, San Francisco, Seattle, and London. The only transit system dirtier than Philadelphia's is NYC.
The reason I am so anti-SEPTA today is that I had to wait at the Spring Garden el stop this morning for, oh, about 30 minutes. Keep in mind the trains are scheduled to run every five minutes or less in the morning. Also keep in mind that it's about 2 degrees outside today and the el stop at Spring Garden is very very windy. I'm totally miserable.
Where is that Sharpie marker? I'll make my own damn pants.
The White House needs to fire their decorator or idea man or whoever decides the theme of the White House Christmas tree. If it's the First Couple, you know I'm very behind firing them for more important things -- but choosing to decorate the tree in the "History of Pets" makes me seriously wonder for their sanity.
In all honesty, the theme is native U.S. birds, which doesn't quite seem as ludicrous as the "history of pets" but in comparison to past tree themes -- A Winter Wonderland, Mother Goose Christmas, and Nutcracker Suite -- the native birds theme seems a little unseasonal and kind of silly.
But hey, who am I to complain about the way the White House decorates? I'm sure the Shrub would hate my cheesy collection of Marilyn Monroe ornaments.
Decorating for holidays is such a subjective thing. I decorate for two holidays only -- Halloween and Christmas. I usually don't really go overboard. For Halloween this year we hung jointed resin skeletons in the five windows in the front of our house, and left it at that. For Christmas we usually put swags and bows in the front windows, have a Christmas tree and hang a little mistletoe.
Being a minimalist doesn't run in the family. My mother decorates for every imaginable holiday -- she loves taping cardboard ornaments to the windows and the mirrors in the house and putting out little holiday-related chotchkies. In my neighborhood it isn't overly popular to go crazy with the decorating, but there are some people who do. There is a neighbor down the street who has lined the front of his house with lights that he changes the color of to reflect the holiday. For Christmas he wires a full on flying Santa Claus with sleigh and all the reindeer to the front of his house. There's a woman around the corner who has lined the bottoms of her windows with cotton balls [you know, to simulate snow] and has positioned her creepy collection of dolls on a sled. Behind them she has hung these weird silver streamers.
Probably the neighborhood in Philadelphia most prone to decorating is South Philly. Those people decorate if they pass a kidney stone. Weddings and christenings and graduations and engagements all deserved swags of tulle wrapped around every available surface, along with huge banners. Other holidays involve full on plastic light up creche scenes that are chained to the house so no one can make off with the Sweet Baby Jeebus. Their cars are decorated. Their stoops are decorated. They probably have holiday toilet paper.
That right, in South Philly you can wipe your ass on the face of Santa. Step right up.
So I was totally dogged for a study date over the weekend.
I have oral exams for Spanish I on Wednesday [yes, I've heard all the jokes about "oral exams" so just quit it!]. The instructor paired us up and she's going to pick a topic and we're going to have to playact a scenario in Spanish. My partner's name is Mike, which works out great because he's from my neighborhood and his family still lives around the area. We made plans to meet at my house on Saturday or Sunday and practice our scenarios.
Right.
So the weekend passes and no word from Mike. I'm thinking he must be dead in a ditch or he had a family emergency or something. You know, positive thinking. Because if he just stood me up for the hell of it, I was not going to be pleased.
Last night he walks into Spanish class and I give him the mock evil eye. And then he tells me his excuse:
His wife wouldn't let him come out and play.
Yes, I'm totally serious. Apparently, despite having never met me, his wife perceives me to be a threat. And, despite the fact that Craig was going to be present, his wife seems to think that Mike and I were going to throw down and have a wild orgy of boundless passion on our Spanish I textbooks.
And so Mike wasn’t allowed out of the house.
I could not believe that a grown man was telling me that he needed permission from his wife to go study with a classmate. Now I know that there are married couples [and unmarried couples, for that matter] that are like that – one person sort of controls the other. But I often think of them as psychotic. Mike seems completely normal otherwise. I tried to imagine myself in the same situation, but I just started laughing. The day that I even asked Craig’s permission to do anything is the day that we would get a divorce.
That’s another part in the complicated reason why I have always been so frightened by marriage. I’ve seen what it does to people – my mother is now on her third marriage, and with each marriage she has sort of glommed on to the current husband’s interests. I have friends who got married and were never heard from again. Sometimes the couple becomes one entity, indistinguishable as separates.
That scared me to death, which is probably why Craig and I waited so long to get married – I had to be sure that I wouldn’t end up being sucked into that weird coupledom thing. So far, I have maintained my individuality – I do what I want, when I want. If I’m going out bar hopping with a friend I tell Craig I’m going and I go. I still have my own bank accounts [although we do have one joint checking account for our household bills], and I still take roadtrips with my friends. It’s completely freaky to think of myself in the kind of relationship where I would need permission.
I’m an adult, thanks.
So I'm sitting around talking to Christy about Africa and travelling in general this past weekend. Here is how our conversation went:
Christy: I think we're going somewhere, some big resort, I think it starts with an "S". I've never heard of it, but it's supposed to be famous.
me: [incredulously] Are you talking about Sun City?
Christy: [looking at me in amazement] Yeah, that's it! How do you know about Sun City?
me: [trying not to sound condescending] Um, well, do you know about Apartheid?
Christy: Kind of.
me: OK, well, in the mid 1980's there was this big brouhaha involving Sun City. The resort was paying beaucoup bucks to entertainers to come and perform at Sun City. The problem is that the South African government instituted Apartheid laws back around 1950, so by playing Sun City performers were feeding the economy which was oppressing many many people. It was a bad situation -- basically anyone non-white had no rights at all.
Christy: Oh.
me: Plus there was the whole protest video thing on MTV.
Christy: What? What are you talking about?
Craig: [starts singing the "I Ain't Gonna Play Sun City" song]
me: You know, Steve VanZandt, Kurtis Blow, Bono, George Clinton, blah blah blah....mid-80's....?
Christy: I don't think I know the song. Does this have anything to do with Nelson Mandela?
me: [channelling Conan O'Brien] Whaaaaaaaaaa?
Christy: I know Nelson Mandela has something to do with Apartheid, but I don't know what.
me: Uh, Christy, I think you need to get a book or something -- something that will tell you the short and dirty version of South African history. Maybe a travel guide.
Christy: Oh, I did buy a book!
me: Oh good! Which guide did you buy?
Christy: I didn't buy a guide -- I bought a novel.
me: Uh OK. Why did you buy a novel? It's fiction, right?
Christy: Well yeah. I thought it would be a better way to learn about what it's really like in South Africa than reading a travel guide.
me: Uh huh. Do you even have a map?
Christy: No. The touring company hired a tour guide for us. But I hope I don't have to stay with the guide the whole time -- I want to go off by myself.
me: Let me get this straight. You're reading a fiction book to get important facts about South Africa, like where the malaria zones are and what's good and interesting to see and do. You haven't bothered to learn the polite words in the local language, you don't know anything about the monetary system, and you don't have a map. You're refusing to take your malaria prevention medication. And you want to go exploring on your own?
Christy: Yep!
me: OK, good luck with that.
Again, I say, Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa?
Dear Spammer Fucktards and Popup/Popunder Ad Halfwits,
While I'm sure that what you do must produce revenue in some way, I'd like to assure that I a) do not care about your sister's stretched anus and b) will never have a need to purchase Popup ad zapping software from a Popup ad.
It has become my policy to delete all emails that don't pertain to me personally without even opening them. I shut popups and popunders before they even have a chance to load. I am not alone. There are an army of us who behave in exactly the same way. You're paying for advertisements that don't reach anyone.
Please take this opportunity to learn from your mistakes. While I'm sure that hoards of 11 year old boys find their way to porn sites every day from emails advertising a three way pig fuck, they do not possess credit cards to pay the entrance fee. Instead of attracting clientele, you are pissing us all off. Please cease and desist.
Perhaps you could take up knitting. It's very calming and good for the soul. And you, my poor, misguided friend, need to repair your karma.
Good luck with that.
Best wishes,
Nicole
