*Hmph!*

I am annoyed. I am irritated. I want to roll my eyes, but I am a tiny bit concerned that my eyes will get stuck that way, thus changing my field of vision forever. I imagine myself constantly tripping over things on the ground, because I am unable to see them. That would be even more annoying. But I digress.

Why am I annoyed? Irritated? Valiantly trying not to roll my eyes?

Well, you know the answer to the last question. But as to the first two . . . does it really matter? Are you truly interested to know why I am annoyed? By my writing this, are you becoming annoyed when you previously were not? Have I served to spread my annoyance like an air-borne computer virus?

Perhaps you are now trying valiantly not to roll your eyes. If you do not have the fortitude to control yourself, do not blame me if they get stuck that way. I explained why it might be dangerous. Are you, at this moment having to tuck your chin into your neck to continue to read this drivel? Or have you already given up and I am writing into empty space (as empty as it can be with all these words all over it).

If I write it and nobody reads it, have I written anything at all? Like the tree falling in the forest or the one hand clapping. Such are the deep, philosophical questions of our day. Frankly, pondering all this is giving me a headache.

Now, I’m really annoyed.

Exercising for Dummies

Recently, several friends shared that they have begun exercising regularly. I guess my friends and I are at the age when regular exercise becomes more of a “must” instead of an “it’ll be nice if I can find the time” type of activity.

One friend said her husband used to exercise three days a week, but once he increased to five days a week, he managed to lower his cholesterol. Another friend said she walks around her neighborhood a couple of times a week and that if she misses too many days, she is really able to feel the difference. She feels “so much better” when she walks and “sluggish” when she does not. Another friend does two cardio classes a week at the gym, plus other exercising and yoga on top of that. She too, insists exercising makes her feel noticeably better.

Well, taking stories like these to heart, as well as a heavily suggestive conversation with my doctor about the glorious benefits of regular exercise, I have been brainwashed and bullied into exercising regularly. For about a month, I have been exercising about 30-minutes five times a week. Thirty continuous minutes, mind you. Not five minutes of walking here and there, but actually following an exercise DVD.

I do not feel different. If I skip a day or two, I do not miss the exercise, nor do I feel sluggish. I do not feel more energetic. My clothes do not fit better. I get no endorphin “high.” I am beginning to think I have been fooled. Bamboozled. Had.

Now, I did not expect results immediately, although that would have been nice. I have been at this for over a month. Shouldn’t I see or experience some beneficial gain by now?

I am hanging on by a thread, telling myself that while my outside may not show an improvement, surely my insides are reaping the benefits. I do not know if this is true . . . I guess I will have to wait until I go back to the doctor or take lab tests or whatever. In the meantime, I will continue trying to convince myself that exercising is good.

Will this exercise kick last or will I soon revert to my couch potato ways? Perhaps some of us just were not meant to be exercise enthusiasts. Or maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe I need to see it as a challenge. I need to be stubborn and dig my heels in (I am rather good at that). Play to my strengths, so to speak.

I don’t need no stinkin’ results. I don’t need to “feel good.” I will continue to subject myself to this thing called “regular exercise,” because no one and no thing will tell me otherwise. I can stop any time I want to . . . I just don’t want to.

Not much of a pep talk, I know. Unfortunately, that’s the best that I have right now.

We shall see, honeybee . . . we shall see.

Achy Breaky Everything

I ache.

Pretty much all over my body.

Getting old sucks. Being out of shape sucks. Being old and out of shape really sucks.

I played tennis with some friends last night, hence my currently sorry state. I suppose getting older is not as bad as forgetting the reality of being older. I did not realize how much more effort is required when one is older. It means those balls you would chase down (and get to) on a regular basis take more effort. It means those knees you relied upon to spring into action are more rusty and creakey than springy. It means the supple wrist you relied upon to make last minute changes need extra support (sports tape) and feel the brunt of no longer being supple.

I realize I am whining and that whining is not attractive. I do not care right now. All I want to do is sit in a hot tub with super-powerful jets and soak my achy breaky body. Then I would like a full-body, therapeutic massage by someone with strong hands. *sigh* That would be awesome. My mouth is now slack and my eyes unfocused as I contemplate fantasy becoming reality. Excuse any spelling or grammatical errors as I drift off into my pain-induced haze.

Great, I'm back. Well, it was nice while it lasted.

I currently have many types of pain. Perhaps I will get some perverse pleasure out of identifying the different types. First, there is the sharp jab that startles you (my shoulder when I move it a certain way). Then there is the slow achy throb that just underlies daily life. There is also the pain in which your muscles are constantly tight (my neck). There is also the shooting pain that starts at one part of the body, but ends up at another, like when my lower back hurts, then shoots down to my butt, leaving a trail of wincing pain in its wake.

I'm walking funny, I'm wincing at odd times and must look somewhat odder than usual shuffling around. Although I looked a lot more awkward last night trying to get out of bed and use the bathroom (drank lots of water to avoid leg cramps). Quasimodo would've looked like Fred Astaire next to me. Not to mention what I must look like walking down stairs (note aforementioned creaky knees). Makes me walk bow-legged in an uneven gait clutching the handrail in case those knees decide to give out.

All right, even I am getting irritated with my whiney self. I could have avoided all this if I did not play tennis and spent the evening on my couch watching Project Runway like I had originally intended. Of course, the other option would be to exercise (at least a little) every day so I would not feel this intensity of pain. Maybe then, I wouldn't lumber to the ball and be huffing and puffing after every point. At one point during the set, I actually said, "lumber, lumber, lumber" aloud as I moved toward the ball. Nothing like creating your own disparaging commentary while on the court.

Hot Child In The City

Hot Child in the City.

That would be me. Except I'm not running wild or looking pretty. I may be smelling a bit funky, but that is always something that is difficult to determine objectively about oneself.

Anyway, about a week ago it was horribly humid and hatefully hot. I had the fan blowing full blast on me and I would still get up in the early morning (around 2 or 3 a.m.) and have to jump in the shower to make the sticky sweat go away and feel clean enough to go back to sleep. Several days last week I broke down and turned on the air conditioner in my living room and slept on the couch. I really need to start saving money to purchase an air conditioner for my bedroom.

Perhaps I should start a collection. Donations would be much appreciated. I should definitely hit up my co-workers and family first. My spiel would include how I will be less grouchy and more perky if I can get a great night's sleep. I will be even more of a joy to be around (if that is humanly possible) and more productive (definitely possible). I will also have to get approval of our apartment management board. I live in a building that has nothing sticking out of it. No lanais. No air conditioners. Nada. If I want an air conditioner in my room, I will have to purchase a special one that does not stick out of the wall and sends the water condensation somewhere it won't cause any damage. So, you can see it is not as easy as traipsing down to CostCo and picking up an air conditioner. I gotta get a special one specially installed. *sigh*

In the meantime, I have given up trying to use my air conditioner sparingly. I am all into comfort. Me, me, me. How easily I have given up my "green" principles in favor of relief in the form of cool air. I tell myself it is worth $40+ extra a month in electricity bills to have an uninterrupted night's sleep.

One would think that I would not have such an aversion to heat and humidity having grown up in Hawai'i. Yes, we generally have tradewinds that keep it cooler, but still, it's not the Arctic Circle here, either. That's why I love San Francisco. Even though the air may be "wet" at least it's a cool wet and not a steamy wet like it is here. You can always put more clothes on if you are cold. In fact, there are a lot of cute winter outfits. When you're hot, there is only so much you can take off and still be allowed to roam around in public. Even if you choose to remain at home, you can take off everything and still be hot. I'm just trying to make a point, not gross everyone out. In that spirit, I will move on...

So the weather has eased up a bit and it is not so horrifically hot and humid. I feel less grouchy. My temper is more easily leashed. I do not feel as aggravated or irritable. I bet there is a correlation between heat and acts of violence. I certainly feel more peaceful when cool and dry. Literally.

Mutual Hate Society

I hate going to the dentist. And I am sure the feeling is mutual. When my dentist sees my name in his appointment book, I am sure he groans inwardly, as he is too much of a professional to outwardly groan.

My intense dislike has nothing to do with my dentist as a person. He is a nice guy and thoughtfully asks about how my parents are doing and if I have been on any trips lately. I, too, am a nice enough person. I politely answer his questions and ask after his health. It is when I sit in that dental chair and he puts on his mask and eye shield that the mutual hate society begins.

It stems from the fact that I have a small mouth. (Hey, no snickers or nasty comments from the peanut gallery!) I do! My jaw can only open so wide and my teeth are all sort of close together. Suffice it to say, it is not only my sensitive gag reflex that would prevent me from being a successful gay guy. Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, small mouth.

Many times I wish I could unhinge my jaw, leave it there for the dentist work on and come back later and pick it up. At the very least, I wish the dentist would knock me out with some high-grade anesthesia. I think it would make life easier for both of us.

I understand that his goal is to get in there and get his work done; however, I cannot keep my mouth open or wide enough for him to accomplish that. It's neither of our faults, but it leads to a frustrating situation. The pain gets so bad if I try to keep my mouth open "wide" that tears seep out of my eyes, I get a monster headache and it takes everything that is within me not to leap out of that chair.

Luckily I have not had a cavity for several years...until my last visit. I had two small cavities in my molar. One word: excruciating.

At the end of the ordeal, my dentist pats me on the shoulder and says, "Good job." (See, he is nice.) I respond feelingly, "You, too." He laughed and said, "Good team work."

We are both glad that we won't have to see each other for another six months.

Head Sweating

I am a head-sweater.

TMI?

I don't know why I am a head-sweater. I do not think my parents are head-sweaters, but I should ask and find out for sure. I mean, maybe it's genetic.

For those unfamiliar with the term head-sweater, it simply means that I sweat from my head. It always begins with the head. Perhaps this makes sense because heat is supposed to rise upwards and people are always talking about the importance of keeping your head warm.

Some people sweat from their feet. Others may have damp palms. Some people sweat from their underarms or elsewhere. For me, it is my head.

I do not even need to be particularly hot, when I notice a little drip maneuvering its way from my scalp, past my hairline, down my brow, and into my eye. (Ouch, it stings!) Or perhaps if I tip my head just so, gravity will work her magic and it will slide down my cheek. A meandering tear. If I'm hot, eating spicy food, etc. hand me a towel to apply to my fevered brow (or wet head).

At its most innocuous, it is inconvenient. At its worst, quite embarrassing. You see, when my head sweats, I do not only have to worry about combating the actual sweat coming down my head (rivulets), but my head gets hot, too. (It looks like I'm blushing or have a bad case of rosaca). And I wear glasses. The result? My glasses fog up. And if the unobservant (or forgiving) of you may not notice the sweat, you will definitely notice my glasses fogging up when you can no longer see my eyes. Like walking out of Ice Palace on a humid day. Voosh! Instant fog.

So, not only do I have to worry about discretely sopping up the immense amount of liquid pouring off of my head (is this the price I pay for being well-hydrated?), but I also need to be cognizant of wiping my glasses so I can actually see. Sometimes I just take off my glasses and squint. I prefer semi-blindness over having to wipe my glasses and my forehead every 5 seconds or so. This way I can focus on my sweat and I get the bonus of not being able to see clearly the expressions of those around me...or where they may be focusing their attention (perhaps on the girl who is sweatting profusely from her head and has the foggy glasses?)

You will rarely see me wearing a hat. Perhaps a visor on occasion, but not a hat or cap. Not just because I tend to look silly in hats, but they also trap all the heat in, which creates a sauna-effect on my head. Not pleasant.

I do not tend to sweat profusely from anywhere else (except if I'm really hot or exerting myself like a challenging doubles game at noon). It makes me wonder, are there other head-sweaters out there? Are you the bandana or sweat-band wearing among us? Do we have our own support group? Does someone out there understand why I can be completely dry everywhere else, but my head will be raining sweat down like I was hanging out on deck with Noah on day 20?

I can go about my business, then suddenly I feel the tell-tale trickle along my hairline before even registering that I may be hot. Perhaps I should carry a hankie around with me like the Southern Belles did (or do...I don't know much about Southern Belles). A perfumed handkerchief which I can use to delicately daub my glistening forehead, in the most demurest of fashions, of course! Yup, that's me. I'm not in the corner, but maybe if the spotlight is on me, you will see a hanky (or more likely my sleeve) lift gingerly to my temple to absorb my head sweat. Ahh...so lovely!

Drips and Dribbles and Spills, Oh My!

I have a problem. Well technically, I have several problems, I suppose, but there is one in particular I wish to discuss. For some unfathomable reason, I am unable to remain clean while I eat. I could understand this if I was careless or lacked decorum, but I am generally a polite and conscientious eater. All right, in full disclosure, I may occasionally talk with food in my mouth. Oh, and I also eat off of other people’s plates, but only with an invitation and just to steal a couple of french fries or something like that.

But other than that, very polite and conscientious. I mean, I do not chew with my mouth open. I ask my fellow diners to pass me things rather than reaching over them. I do my best to avoid drips and dribbles. I tend to use the correct silverware for its intended purpose. Most people would find me a decorous, non-embarrassing dining partner.

Despite all this, I almost always manage to get food on me. Usually my blouse and/or my hair. Of course, if I drip sauce on my hair, it eventually touches my blouse leaving a stain. I am baffled, because I honestly make a conscientious effort to eat neatly (ever since I noticed my propensity to stain my blouses). I try not to splatter sauce if eating noodles; I endeavor not to drip soup or some ooey, gooey dip; and I am focused when eating salad with dressing.

It has made me paranoid and distracted. When eating out, I continually look at my shirt and hair to see if I made a mess. One minute I am fine, clean and pristine. The next minute . . . glop. Pass me a napkin and an individually packaged “Shout” towelette. So, if we ever happen to eat together, please do not be offended if I seem to be looking down my shirt rather than listening to your scintillating conversation. It’s me, not you.

I saw a Japanese movie recently called, “Gu-Gu the Cat.” The main character kept getting rice in her hair. I could totally relate. I remember eating a teishoku meal at Sushi King (teri chicken and shrimp tempura with sauce, of course). I had to ask my friend to drop me off at home before going to the movie so I could change my shirt! I had speckles of sauce and other debris on me and did not want to go to the movie theatre (aka out in public) like that. Yesterday, as I was hanging up my blouse I noticed some red/pinkish dust near my top button and lapels. It was remnants of my lunch which included Flaming Hot Cheetos.

So what is wrong with me? I could understand if I was a total slob or unconscious of any of the social graces related to eating. (Makes me think of the Friends episode in which Ross is dating a well-put together woman whose apartment is disgustingly slovenly). It is to the point where I am putting off cutting my hair (to donate it), because a part of me fears losing my ability to cover my uncomely splotches and splooches.

I am seriously thinking of creating some kind of quasi-fashionable bib to wear when I go out to eat. It’s either that or only eat at lobster shaks. Of course, I have no idea what this quasi-fashionable bib would look like. I am even calling it quasi-fashionable, because I already recognize the impossibility of wearing any type of bib while I eat and calling it fashionable.

Has it come to this? A plastic parka as my signature fashion statement? *Sigh* Guess I better go to Longs and stock up on Shout towelettes.

Movie Popcorn Amnesia

Like a siren’s call to unsuspecting sailors, so is movie popcorn to me. That roasty, toasty smell of freshly popped corn. The bag, overflowing in its bounty. The “butter” coating each kernel so it catches and reflects the light just so. The satisfying crunchy texture. The salty goodness tantalizing my taste buds. Yes, it is difficult to resist movie popcorn.

So I eat it. I munch and I devour. My fingers become slick with oil, with a touch of traction provided by the salt. My lips glossy with butter-flavored goodness. Somehow it is easy to lose track of how much I am eating while I am being entertained by the action and dialog on the big screen in front of me. Watch, grab, chew, swallow . . . repeat.

Unfortunately, by the time the credits are rolling, so is my previously happy belly. Somehow, the light, fluffy kernels have turned into rusty lead pellets working their way through my intestines – and not in a nice, orderly way, but in a not nice, disorderly way. The unholy combination of fibrous popcorn absorbing liquid and butter-flavored product greasing my insides serve to disrupt the delicate balance of my gastro-intestinal tract.

I will groan tonight. I shall toss and turn, in a vain attempt to find some comfortable position. A position that will quiet the quite-irritated-on-the-verge-of-being-quite-angry stomach of mine that is rebelling against my movie popcorn indulgence. But alas, alack! No position exists and as I lie curled in a fetal position at the mercy of my aging innards, I will ponder how they no longer possess the ability to take the abuse it would literally have sucked up in its younger years. That is, if I am able to ponder anything at all.

One would think that an intelligent, well-educated individual such as myself would spare myself the agony and skip the movie popcorn. But no, like the true siren’s call, it bids me to chomp anew. Each time, like the first time, I am compelled to answer the call. I settle into my seat in the cool, dark room, snuggling my bag of popcorn close to my heart. I smell the familiar smell and I happily begin stuffing my face . . . four, even five kernels at a time. Like movie popcorn had never upset my stomach before. Movie popcorn amnesia. I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.

Sick of Being Sick

I hate being sick.

There is nothing good about being sick, except perhaps being able to better appreciate one’s health. Other than that, nothing.

My usual cold progresses like this:

Day 1: A very sore throat. Other than that, I usually feel fine. Well, perhaps a little tired. But my throat is so sore, swallowing is difficult and the thought of talking is painful. So I sit in silence trying not to swallow, which is next to impossible (the trying not to swallow part, not the sitting in silence). Somehow you swallow more often when you are consciously trying not to swallow. Coupled with my sore throat is the sinking realization that I am going to be sick for the next week or so. All in all, Day 1 is quite depressing.

Day 2: My incredibly sore throat is gone; however, sinus congestion settles in for the long haul and I begin running a low-grade fever. Just enough to make me loopy. This is the time I do not like to get out of bed. Watching television or reading is too much of an effort. The few times I am conscious, my Brain will argue with my Body.

Brain: Get up and drink some fluid.
Body: I don’t want to.
Brain: You will get dehydrated and feel even worse.
Body: I can’t feel worse than this.
Brain: Yes you can. Get up and drink!
Body: You get up and drink. I’m staying in bed. Bed comfy . . . bed good.
Brain: You’ll regret this tomorrow.
Body: I just want to die already (goes back to sleep and is non-responsive).

Sometimes the brain wins, but not too often. Sometimes I do not even manage to take any medicine, because I can’t drag my sorry carcass out of bed to do that.

Day 3: Fever is gone (hurray!), but is replaced by body aches (boo!) Day 3 is very uncomfortable because of the body aches. No position feels comfortable for more than a few minutes. Sinus congestion is in full stop-up mode (worse than LA traffic during “rush” hour) and makes me continuously blow my nose and breathe through my mouth. Breathing through my mouth makes my throat mildly sore (but nothing like Day 1).

At least during Day 3 I am able to watch television and read, but only a little, because I am exhausted. Still, my Brain begins to win more arguments, so I drink more liquids, take medicine and eat. Speaking of eating, I noticed that while I was sick I ate more quickly than normal. I mean, I was like a steam shovel going at it. Then, I realized my chest would get really tight so I would stop eating and inhale.

Ahh…the realization hit me: I cannot eat and breathe at the same time, since I can only breathe through my mouth! And since for me “eating” includes biting, chewing and swallowing, that’s a long time to go without breathing.

So, I end up hurriedly shoving food in my mouth, chewing, then gasping for air. Shovel food, chew, gasp; shovel food, chew, gasp in a bizarre rhythm. I swear, one time I was so hungry (shovel food, chew-chew, shovel more food, chew-chew-chew, big gasp, shovel food, chew-chew, shovel more food chew-chew-chew. . . well, you get the picture) that I found myself light-headed in the middle of my meal due to lack of oxygen. I am sure that is true and not just my imagination.

Day 4: Most of my body aches are gone (yay!), but the cough arrives. The congestion in my sinus insidiously begins moving to my chest. Coughing jags cause my chest to hurt and I am grouchy because I have not been able to breathe properly in three days. I mean, it’s difficult to sleep or do anything when one cannot breathe. No position or inventive pillow construction can truly help. Many times a good nose spray will help, but you have to use it sparingly and only for a few days or else it will begin constricting the sinus passages, having the exact opposite effect of what you’re using it for.

Also, by Day 4, that’s four days of not having a good, restful sleep. I am too sick to do anything except the most sedentary of activities; and my cough is the type that makes people shift away, because you sound contagious. Also, the nose-blowing/dripping and congestion has not stopped since Day 2. This means that I feel like I have been operating underwater during all this time and the tender skin under my nose is raw. See if you’re not irritable after all that.

Day 5 and 6: Congestion is not as bad, but still definitely sticking around, so to speak. Coughing comes in jags. Usually if I do not talk, I barely cough. Once I start coughing, I will continue coughing until a lung is about to pop out. It’s more of a cough that turns into a vicious hack. I am pretty sure I do not have TB, though.

One of the worst things about this time in my cold progression is that I have an appetite, but eating chocolate and cheese and other items of creamy goodness make me feel terrible. They make my throat itch and increase my already overwhelming amount of . . . er, mucus. Not good.

Also by this time I begin getting quite restless. When I was younger, I would go out at this point and do something. When I was younger, I also relapsed more often than I do now. Hopefully this means I have matured – I am able to show more restraint, more impulse control and the ability to defer gratification . . . to some degree. Not perfect, but definitely a higher degree.

Day 7+: Getting ready to join the real world, even though I have picked up an upper repertory infection in the last couple of days. Somehow, overwhelming fatigue kicks in while I’m getting ready to go back to school or back to work, despite my desire to once again dwell in the land of the living. Coughing and blowing my nose slowly tapers off (hopefully).

Still, it may be a good idea to buy stocks in Ricola and Kleenex.

Chris Brown and Rihanna

This whole Chris Brown and Rihanna abuse incident is disturbing on several levels. Since the story broke, Oprah, Tyra and others have dedicated air time to discuss the serious issue of domestic violence. That is not what is disturbing me. From watching snipets of these shows, it seems the American public thinks that if the abuse is not physical, then it is not really abuse . . . or somehow it is not as bad.

Well, I posit that in general, the bruises, hurts and cuts we carry on the inside heal a lot slower and cause a lot more anguish than the buises, hurts and cuts we experience on the outside. I am by no means minimizing physical abuse, but rather trying to get others not to minimize abuse that is not physical.

Verbal, psychological, economic, emotional, sexual and financial abuse can be just as harmful as physical abuse. Many times an abuser will be abusive in more than one area. It is difficult to find physical abuse without verbal and emotional abuse accompanying it. Abuse is abuse and it should always be condemned, no matter what form it may take.

I think it was the Tyra Banks show that showed a clip of a teenaged couple (actors). The boyfriend called the girlfriend fat and said she was too stupid to stick to a simple diet; and in fact, he knew she was stupid when he met her. The women in the Tyra audience did not label that abuse: "What he said might have been mean, but at least he did not hit her or anything."

Aaaauuuuugggghhhh! That type of attitude makes me weep. He was breaking down her self-esteem, making her feel belittled and worthless. Less than. And he is supposed to be her boyfriend?

And people wonder why abused women do not simply leave their abuser!

Can you imagine being made to feel like you are worthless? That you are unable to accomplish anything on your own because you are too dumb and unskilled? In addition you may have (or at least felt like you have) burned all your relationship bridges, because abusers tend to isolate their partners so they must depend solely on the abuser and have no other avenue of support or escape. On top of that, you may have no money of your own. What would you do? Especially if you have children. If you leave, will you be able to take care of your kids, or will you be homeless? Will the State declare you unfit and take your kids away, or worse, give custody to the abuser? Not to mention that studies have shown the most dangerous time for a victim of abuse is after s/he leaves the relationship. That's when most of the deaths/physical harm occurs.

Another bothersome part to this story is that men (especially men in the music/rap industry) have not come out and boldly stated how that kind of behavior is unacceptable. I have heard comments like, "Well, we do not really know what went on between them" and "Even Rihanna's brother said she throws down hard." SO WHAT?

It does not matter if she was in his face or not. He had no right to beat her up. Until men start putting pressure on other men by stating (and believing and acting upon the fact that) abuse is uniquivocally unacceptable; there will be no real revolution in this area. It is not enough to not be an abuser. Men need to actively advocate for non-violence in relationships.

And if she is full of drama? Throwing things and hitting her man? Well, then she's the abuser and she is in the wrong and needs help. Or if she just loves pulling your strings, continually trying to evoke a reaction? Get out of that relationship! It's not an excuse to abuse.

Chris Brown needs help and support. He also needs to understand what he did was wrong and unacceptable and that ultimately the blame rests with him. The abusers in our community (male and female) need the same. If someone is supposed to love and support you, have your back, cherish you, then they should not systematically act in such a manner as to accomplish the exact opposite of all that. Whether it be a relationship between elder and caretaker, parent and child, husband and wife or any other combination.

Abuse is abuse, no matter in which form it may appear. And it is always wrong.

Medusa's Got Nothing on Me

My hair is getting to the point where it is difficult to manage. It is almost to my waist and that is long enough. My cousin’s hair is to her knees! I cannot imagine having to take care of hair that long. I would constantly worry if my hair was going somewhere it should not…for example, in the toilet or in my food or hanging out in the next room and picking fights with lesser hair.

My hair is thick and has a little wave in it (thanks, Dad); therefore, when my hair gets long, it does not fall straight and silky down my back. Nope, it twists and turns whichever way it wants at the moment, not taking into consideration that some of its neighbors are going in a completely different direction. It looks quasi-bushy because of all the fly-aways (as if I were a repository for static electricity…not quite as bad as the Bride of Frankenstein, but you get the idea). And it does not matter how often I brush my hair, it looks the same…messy.

Once, a stylist flat-ironed my hair after cutting it. I am sure it was because she saw how unwieldy it was when it was long. While my newly perfectly straight hair felt great, (silky soft as I easily ran my fingers through it, as opposed to getting my fingers stuck in snarls every few inches); unfortunately, it was not a good look for me. I looked like Professor Snape from the Harry Potter movies. I remember the stylist asking the requisite question, “Well, how do you like it?” I believe I smiled and made all the right noises, then as I walked back to my car, I began frantically shaking my hair out…desperately trying to create some kind of body so my hair would not look like it was crazy glued to my scalp.

Anyway, I know it is time to cut my hair for three main reasons: it is getting noticeably heavy; I am frequently slamming it in the car door and other inconvenient places (like while capping my highlighter!); and it is becoming more difficult to sling my bag over my shoulder, because my hair gets awkwardly stuck. Plus (okay, four reasons), when it sheds (as it is wont to do) it seems like there is a huge amount of hair in the tub, on the carpet, etc., simply due to its length. Kinda yucky, even for someone with as high a tolerance for messiness as I possess.

Of course, when I actually cut my hair I will miss it. Not the messiness or the heaviness or the way it would get stuck in things and yank and hurt; but rather, the protection it gave (for blouses with food drips on them), the ease of putting it up in a twist (once it’s shoulder length it will be too short to put up with a chopstick), and the security it provided (like a blanket, but less obvious).

Mourning Days

The past few days I was in mourning. Kind of.

Let me explain. Earlier in the week, a friend sent me an e-mail asking how I was coping due to recent events. Confused much? Absolutely! I quickly shot back an e-mail with one word: “Huh?” He replied: “Didn’t know? Haven’t you seen the newspaper or read your tennis magazine? mc got married.”

“Wha-a-a-a?” Dah-duh-dum…and there it was. The death knell on nearly two decades of on-again-off-again crushing. Michael Chang is married. And it’s not to me.

I had to pause to let the reality sink in, then I googled it. Sure enough…married. To someone with Hawaii roots! Seriously?!

(For more of my past feelings for Michael Chang, see my post dated, July 29, 2008, infra.)

The next two days I wore predominantly black dress in keeping with my mourning…the death of what could have been. As I spoke with friends that weekend, it seems a great many people knew about the wedding and did not tell me. They either assumed I knew or did not want to be the bearer of bad news.

I read a few of the articles about Michael tying the knot and I discovered I never stood a chance. First of all, he (and his mother!) were looking exclusively for a Chinese girl. My response: diversify and strengthen the gene pool! Add some Japanese into the mix. It could only be good for the families. Could I convince him to abandon this “qualification” in a bride? I guess we’ll never know.

Also, the woman he married is quite young. About 9 years younger than him. I think maturity has a lot to recommend it. I am definitely more grounded, more insightful and a tiny bit more patient than I was when I was in my twenties.

I was bemoaning the unfairness of it all to a friend while we were in the movie theatre watching previews for upcoming television shows. One preview came on for a new show called “Castle” starring Nathan Fillion. He was great in the movie “Waitress” as well as the cumbersomely named sitcom “Two Guys a Girl and a Pizza Parlor.” But I loved him as Captain Malcolm Reynolds in “Firefly.” (See previous entry dated: June 29, 2007, infra.)

In mid-whine, I said, “Wow, he is still hot!”

My friend (quick to follow my tangent) commented, “It looks like he’s gained some weight. His face looks fuller.”

I replied, “Yeah, I like it!”

And thus, the mourning period was over.

So congratulations and best wishes to Michael Chang and his young Chinese bride. May you both have many years of happiness and prosperity.

And Nathan, if you’re reading this…I’m available.

Christmas Song Rant

Well, Christmas has come and gone and it was pretty terrific.

As for shopping, I took one day to reconnaissance and get ideas and then 3 days of actual shopping and *poof* I was done! Well, not exactly, "poof," as my feet ached and my leg muscles tightened so I hobbled more than walked, but still, overall...good.

In the last post, I mentioned Christmas songs I wish they would play more frequently on the radio. This got me thinking of Christmas songs I wish they would take out of rotation...at least for a little while.

Feliz Navidad. No offense to my Spanish-speaking peeps, but ugh. What is it about this song that starts rubbing my nerves raw after the first chorus? The radio stations play this song way too much.

Do They Know It's Christmastime? Or whatever the title of this well-intentioned, but obnoxious song is. Something about the third or fourth time you hear it...it begins to sound self-indulgent and a tiny bit condescending...benevolent, but in a nauseating way. Ha! Sounds like a way to describe a wine. "It had an arrogant nose and no legs."

Santa, Baby. Call me old fashioned, but I do not think Christmas carols or any song about Santa should sound like or allude to sex. Don't get me wrong...in the right context it's fine (e.g., Fever...love that song). And I know she's not singing about the real Santa, as in the one who lives in the North Pole and has a penchant for cookies, but still...it kinda grosses me out.

That Christmas Shoes Song. They even made a tv movie out of it. Talk about emotional manipulation. "Please pull my strings, Puppetmaster!" Bleh. The fact that they use a little kid to sing part of it makes it even worse somehow. Adds to the manipulation factor, methinks. It's so blatant it should be funny; however, I just find it annoying (insert nose wrinkle here).

The Little Drummer Boy. This song is usually sung waaaayyyy too slow and something about the Pa-rup-a-pum-pum part makes my eyes start to roll to the back of my head. I can't control it. Weird, since this is one song in which I would do the "ding, ding" parts on the piano while my sister played the song (we didn't have a triangle). Somehow even the "ding, ding" has lost its luster.

One last general pet peeve...with all the remakes of Christmas classics, does every vocalist need to insert so many unnecessary runs in the song? Beyond the show-offy-ness of it all, it truly is an unwelcome distraction. Part of the joy and allure of Christmas Carols is that you can sing along. Who has fun singing along when the singer starts singing in different octives? Ugh.

Some may think I'd add the Chipmunk Song here, but I actually like it and still think it's cute. I also haven't reached my saturation point for "Merry Christmas, Darling" although some years the radio stations really push that one to the edge. Then, there are songs like "O Holy Night," "Ring Christmas Bells," "The Christmas Song" and "Do You Hear What I Hear?" that I can listen to repeatedly by different artists.

This started out as a nice post-Christmas post and ended up being a rant of sorts. Hmm...doesn't seem to bode well for the New Year!

Almost

Barak Obama is the President-Elect of the United States.

Wow.

Honestly though, it is not quite as great as, “Hillary Rodham Clinton is the President-Elect of the United States!” However, it is almost as great.

Listening to Obama’s galvanizing, gracious, and pragmatic acceptance speech, I can almost dismiss the ever-so-faint whiff of regret that America is not celebrating the election of its first female President. Almost. It remains, just a shadow of an aftertaste, but it remains. What if a woman had been elected President of the United States?

We came close…closer than we have ever come before and perhaps that is good enough…for now. Another rung placed on the top of the ladder…one step further. But it hurts, still, to have come so close; and yet that proverbial glass ceiling, for all its cracks, remains relatively intact. It functions as it always did: as a barrier.

Many people of color are thrilled with Obama’s win. They feel they can “really” tell their kids that in America, you can be anything you want to be. I am a person of color. I, too, feel a sense of pride and the hope that comes with newly open doors. But, then I think of the little girls. Will their eyes shine as bright? Will they inhale that confidence, the same way as little boys…so it becomes their truth? So intrinsic that it becomes part of their very being? Or will there be that tell-tale whiff (or did I just imagine it?) that intimates, “But maybe not you. You’re a girl.”

Why must I work harder, better and faster than my male counterparts to get to the same level they inhabit? Will it be all the sweeter to reach that level? To surpass it?

I realize these are not new questions. All minority groups have gone through and continue to go through this morass of questions. Women, people of color, people of a different religion, political party, of different abilities, that speak different languages, of different sexual orientation, people that hold on to a different value system than the majority of their neighbors.

Does the opening for one of us mean an opening for all? I wish…I yearn that this is true. That we can build on one another’s successes. The 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution gave black men the right to vote. The 19th Amendment gave women the right to vote. But then I see Proposition 8 passed in California, thus making it illegal for people of the same sex to be married. And I wonder, “Are we almost equal? One step forward, two steps back?” And it hurts my heart.

So this election victory of Barak Obama’s and the agents of change who envision a better world and have reached out to grab it with both hands…your victory…our victory…it is bittersweet to me.

And part of me wonders why I cannot enjoy the fruits of this victory? It means a great deal regarding how we see ourselves, how we identify ourselves as a nation. Why dwell on the negative? The “almost” of it all? Will there always be this sense of emptiness? This feeling that no matter how much is accomplished, that it is never enough? That does not sound healthy.

Then the other part of me argues that it is this part – the one that remains unsatisfied, that strives for more and for better, that will keep our nation and its people on the right track, moving forward. Progressing. So perhaps what is perceived as “negative” is not really negative at all. It is the refusal to rest, because we know we can do better. We can achieve more. It is the part that will ultimately crack that ceiling, made of glass but dense as concrete, into a million shards. And the daughters of the generations who follow will live as if it had never existed. But each will have her own shard, an heirloom reminder of what their grandmothers and great-grandmothers fought, sacrificed, and lived for.

Congratulations, Barak Obama. Congratulations, America.

We’re almost there.

Almost.

Palin Pain

Am I the only one who is worried about Sarah Palin? On the campaign trail, she has been attacking the Presidential candidate from the other party (which apparently is the job of the V.P. candidate), trying to tie him to terrorists and asking, “Who is this guy who does not think like us? Who does not share our values?”

Huh?

That “guy” has been on the campaign trail for almost two years now. That “guy” has gone through a highly competitive primary election process to win the nomination of his party. He has been screened and vetted and has weathered scandal (i.e., Reverend Wright among others). He has written two books and numerous books have been written about him.

I’ve got a better question the American people should be asking. Who the heck is Sarah Palin?

Is she a hockey mom who happened to have the grit, charisma and intelligence to hold the highest office in the State of Alaska as she appeared to be at the Republican Convention? Or is she the fumbling, seemingly clueless and in-over-her-head neophyte as she appeared in her interviews with Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric? Or perhaps she is a one-issue (energy) Republican automaton spouting canned answers to unrelated questions and a bit snarky when feeling defensive, as she appeared in the V.P. debate with Joe Biden.

Will the real Sarah Palin please stand up? Please stand up! (My humble apologies to Eminiem). A bit ironic as McCain is currently getting flak for not securing permission by the Foo Fighters and other artists to use their songs in his campaign.

And if permitted, a follow-up question. Why is it that when transparency through media access is being courted by everyone else involved in this election, Ms. Palin has been tucked away? Her media and public appearances carefully vetted? Inaccessible when everyone else is begging for media attention? (At this point, I picture The Rock with his signature well-groomed eyebrow raised in askance.)

Then there is the conclusion of the recent investigation by the Alaskan bi-partisan commission that began before McCain announced Palin as his V.P. pick. They determined Palin violated an Alaska’s ethics law by abusing her Executive power by firing a State official for personal (familial) reasons, although there were no recommendations for sanctions or criminal prosecution. There are also the stories coming out of Alaska about how Palin’s modus operandi when stepping into a new position seems to be getting rid of those she perceives (accurately or not) as threats and hiring people loyal and grateful to her, although they may not have been as qualified.

I am also concerned about her naked ambition. I think her nickname is “Sarah Barracuda” for a good reason (as I am SweetlyDemure for a good reason). It was pointed out to me that all politicians are ambitious. But, I hope most people go into politics because they want to make a difference, to make changes to improve the lives of their constituents; and their aspiration for higher office is to be in a better position to affect those changes. This may seem naïve, but I am hoping they at least start out this way.

Here’s something I wrote in a “comment” section about Palin after watching the V.P. debate:

It was sooooo irritating and frustrating watching that VP debate! Palin could have been in a room talking to herself and it would have looked exactly the same. They could have just spliced Biden and Ifill in later. Ugh. Let’s talk about economics and the candidates’ plan in this time of crisis…then we get Palin’s canned lecture on energy. Whaaat? It was literally painful.
And the response of the American people? A higher percentage of them think she’s ready to lead. Huh? Were they listening to the same debate? I think people heard her tone of voice, a few folksy platitudes and her canned, rehearsed rhetoric and did not realize that she was not answering the questions put to her.
The worry for the Dems was that Biden would come across too bulldog-ish and if anything, he was too soft. He should have put a little more pressure on her, it might have rattled her a bit. In fact, Palin came across as confrontational and kind of snarky when she made the “white flag” comment in response to Biden’s call for a timetable to get the troops out of Iraq. (One of the few times she actually responded to something!) And also when she corrected Biden on the mantra “Drill Baby, Drill” or whatever. Hello, she couldn’t even get the name of the General leading our troops in Afghanistan correct and Biden didn’t rub her face in it…he didn’t even mention it. I think she called him “McClennan” when it’s “McKiernan.” Bleh. And after some fact checking, he (McKiernan) did say that the surge tactics used in Iraq would not work in Afghanistan (like Biden pointed out and Palin contradicted).
Another telling moment occurred when the candidates answered the question about the (Constitutional) role of the V.P. I seriously wonder (I’m not being facetious) if Sarah Palin has read the Constitution in its entirety. Cheney’s attempt to “expand” the VP position to the Legislative Branch and still maintain Executive Branch privileges is ridiculous and clearly contrary to the whole idea of separation/balance of powers. Ugh. (For those who didn’t see the debate, Palin was for Cheney’s unconstitutional and self-aggrandizing illogic and Biden answered quite correctly that the VP role in the Senate is clearly drawn in the Constitution and that the role of VP is firmly situated in the Executive Branch).
A final thing worth noting was Palin’s answer to Katie Couric about what VP she admires the most. She said George HW Bush because he learned as VP and “moved on up” (or something like that). No matter what happens in this election, she’s in it for 2012, I’m sure. That woman is ambitious. Ambitious and inexperienced and (perhaps?) too ignorant to know she doesn’t know enough. Either that or her ambition far outweighs any concern about that. No matter which way it is, it’s scary for us, the American people. (FYI, Biden’s answer was Lyndon Johnson).

Sarah Palin concerns me. I think Matt Damon likened her nomination as a Disney movie gone absurdly bad. Let’s keep the movies in Hollywood (and Alaska) where they belong and out of Washington, D.C. There is enough absurdity going on there already.

Writing Woes

What is it about writing that makes it so personal even when the content itself is not remotely personal?

I understand the feelings of ownership and protectiveness when writing something that involves some kind of intimate insight, experience or feeling, like poetry or a story, or the authorship of anything that took a lot of time, resources and creative effort. But what about writing something as impersonal and mundane as committee minutes, an audit report or policies and procedures?

I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, who welcomes, nay embraces, constructive criticism, and uses it to grow and improve. I do not like to think of myself as the kind of person who becomes protective when challenged, and automatically (i.e., unthinkingly) becomes defensive upon any hint of others correcting my writing.

Notice I said this is the way I would like to think of myself, rather than this is the way I actually am. Just when I am buying into the delusion that I am sincerely open to critical suggestions, something happens to remind me that I have yet to reach that pinnacle of self-actualization.

One example is a script I wrote for a church cantata. Some kind of narration was needed to tie the seven or eight chosen songs together and I was asked to do it. I spent some time writing a script to make the flow of songs cohesive and meaningful. While I did generate effort to write this script, it was not like this was my life’s work and that I sweat blood and poured all my artistic juices into crafting it. I probably wrote two or three hurried drafts before handing it over.

In most cases, I realize that once a script is “handed over,” the writer ceases to have even a modicum of control over it. Various people can change your words, your stage directions and your meaning without your consent, much less consulting you. I thought I was okay with that. I thought I would be fine even if there were massive changes to the script. I was fooling myself. When I actually saw the performance, I mentally noted every change. Some characters were lumped together; lines were deleted, modified or added; blocking, stage direction and other nuances were altered. I realized that for the most part, I did not like these changes.

Then, I realized I liked it even less when one of the people in charge of the cantata mentioned offhandedly to me, “I hope you don’t mind, but the Director made some changes to improve the flow of the skit.”

“Oh no,” I replied gritting my mental teeth, “as long as it makes a better performance.” What a big faker I am. I desperately wanted to mean those words as I felt them leave my mouth. Alas! Alack! I hope wishing to be a better person counts for something.

More recently, I was the lead writer for a Report at work. My co-workers contributed, but I did a significant amount of the writing. Today my boss wants one of my co-workers to “tighten up the language;” and the way he made it sound (and from his expression), I do not think these will be minute changes. I said that was fine, but I preferred the changes be made on the side (as comments) rather than to just change the text, so I would know what parts did not work for them. I may be paranoid, but from their furtive glances to one another, I think they want to do some major over-hauling.

The professional in me wants to be fine with all this, but rather I feel annoyed, irritated, somewhat insulted, and frankly, petty for feeling this way. Despite my best efforts to feel and be otherwise, I am taking this personally.

But why? Why am I taking this so personally? Maybe because this was the third draft and I really felt it was ready to go (albeit with some minor tweaking). I mean, if they wanted some major changes, then why did they not bring this up earlier? Or did they mention it and I failed to appropriately address it in the report?

Perhaps the root of this comes from my core belief that I am a good writer. I am self-aware enough to realize that I am a bad, even horrible speller, as well as a poor grammartarian and punctuationalist (I know they are not words, but I am taking some creative license here), but despite these handicaps, still a good writer. And when I say good writer, I know I am not great, but good, as in better than over half the population (which would be “average.”)

Now, an uncharitable (e.g., discriminating) reader may think at this point, “nothing I have read thus far convinces me that this person is as good a writer as she thinks she is.” Ahhh, therein lies the problem. Maybe that is where I have gone wrong. I have an inflated view of my abilities.

Well, some time has passed and the Report for work was finalized and distributed. The overhaul was as minor as an overhaul can be. I mean, by its very nature, an overhaul means to change much. All in all, it was not as bad as I had envisioned. To be honest, it still chafes a bit, though. Like thick thighs encased in corduroy. It chafes.

Enslaved by Blackberry (with apologies to Bob Tarte)

I just finished a great book by freelance writer and author Bob Tarte. “Enslaved by Ducks” documents Tarte’s adventurous journey into pet ownership, which winds up in his pets owning him. He was a city dude. Footloose and fancy-free. No pets. Then he got married and moved to the country. And what seminal event caused him to begin down this astonishingly slippery slope? Binky the bunny.

My downfall began similarly with Blackberry, the bunny of my co-worker’s daughter. You see, I once was Queen of my Universe…Mistress of all I surveyed. My apartment was my personal queendom and my sanctuary. I lived my life beholden to no one and I liked it. Then one day, one I would look back upon as dark and ominous although I had no idea at the time, somehow, through some kind of Jedi mind trick on my co-worker’s part combined with my own naiveté, she convinced me that a bunny would be a wonderful addition to my household.

That was the day my life changed…forever.

I have this half-baked theory about people generally being comfortable with animals or comfortable with babies. Since my siblings are sooooooo much older than I, I did a lot of free babysitting of my nieces and nephews growing up. Holding a newborn, changing dirty diapers, getting thrown-up or peed upon are all par for the course as far as I am concerned. But picking up and holding an animal? How does one do that? Correction: how does one do that without getting bitten? Or without hurting the animal. At least babies wear diapers and they don’t have teeth…the worst they could do to you is try to “gum” you to death. They won’t break skin and make you bleed. They won’t scratch you and leave huge welts on your tender skin.

Anyway, if it is not already obvious, I am much more comfortable around babies than animals, because I did not really grow up amongst animals (a dog I was too young to take care of and fish when I was older do not really count). And as mentioned above, I, much like the intrepid author, “fell into” pet ownership…with a bunny.

It always starts with the bunny. Cherchez le lapin.

A cute, adorable, furry, continuously pooping, ever digging and chewer-without-ceasing-of-everything-you-do-not-want-him-to-chew bunny. What those people (and by those people I mean the ones that encourage the unsuspecting to become bunny owners) fail to tell you is that bunnies are more like Bugs Bunny…sly, naughty and destructive.

Even in my novice fog, I knew it was important to set the tone early. I am the owner. I’m the human. I’m in charge. One way bunnies “mark” their territory is by rubbing their chins on things (males also spray, which is that funny scent you smell when you enter my apartment). Apparently there is some kind of gland there that leaves a scent, declaring: “Property of Blackberry the Bunny.” So what do I do? In order to establish my dominance in this relationship, I rub my gland-less chin on him, look deeply into his eyes and seriously and authoritatively intone, “I am the alpha bunny. I am the alpha bunny. I AM the alpha bunny!”

This has made as much difference as a lone raindrop in the Pacific, which is to say none. Blackberry still has run of the apartment, and if I do not pay attention he will: chew electrical cords down to the copper wire, hop onto my dining room table and eat whatever is on there or knock it off the table (one particularly bad incident starred a vase of flowers and some stagnant water I kept forgetting to freshen), or will dig and chew his way through my carpet or through the couch. When I use the preposition “through” I mean it literally. Blackberry can run in one end of my couch and out the other due to his toothy biting and incomparable scratching.

All this being said (as well as being true), I cannot imagine my life without the little bugger. I love him. Even though when he deigns to let me pet and quasi-cuddle him on the floor (he hates to be picked up and will start kicking and wiggling to leave the warm comfort of my hug), he will ruin the almost-tender moment by running away into a corner and grooming himself. I try to console myself that he just has OCD, but he always seems to suspiciously be licking only the places where I touched him. As if I had cooties or something. Very disheartening.

This is the mystery of pet ownership. Even when the animal shows little or no affection (and sometimes aggression…I’m only sticking my hand in your precious cage to get your bowl out to feed you. So stop growling and charging and pawing me with those wicked nails that I’ve let grow overlong because I am too scared of cutting them and hurting you and because you won’t sit still long enough for me to cut them anyway…oops, sorry, just a tiny tangential rant).

What was I saying? Something about the joys of pet ownership?

Seriously, though, even when the animal shows little or no affection for you, the provider of food, shelter and unrequited love, there is some (one-way) bond there. Those weird quirks like running away from you become endearing. The chewed up books on the bookcase are marks of affection. I think owning a pet does something mushy to your brain. It’s the only way I can explain an intelligent, independent individual who did not want to be a pet owner in the first place (me, in case it was not already obvious), continuing to make loving overtures to an arrogant, naughty, disdainful, rebuffing bunny.

Wanna snuggle, Blackberry?

Grumblings & Mumblings

Just call me Oscar, because I am a grouch.

I know, I know, it is so difficult to imagine one as sweet and demure as myself grouchy. One might even suggest it would stretch the limits of one's imagination. And yet, alas, it is true. During the past two weeks, I think I have been less patient, less understanding, less loving than my normal impatient, semi-understanding and somewhat loving self. Huh.

Things that have been getting on my nerves:

People that insist and/or whine about how busy they are at work, yet they always seem to be goofing off. I say, if you goof off, goof off. Everyone has times when it's difficult to concentrate and taking some time to play solitare, chat, read the newspaper, update your blog (heh), etc. can "cleanse the palate" so to speak and help you concentrate better...eventually. But please do not repeatedly tell me (or others) how incredibly busy you are when obviously you are not so busy that you can't spend half of every day not working! How is that possible? Bleh.

Spam. Not the bad-for-you mystery meat in a can, but the kind you get in your e-mail. I do not need to find a hottie, have money to invest in anything, want a bigger penis (I don't even have one, why would I want my non-existant penis to be bigger?), want to participate in a get-rich-quick scheme, etc. Why do I get Christian dating sites, Jewish dating sites, affair/fling sites, dating over 40 sites, finding young hottie/bootie call sites? They all contradict one another. Whatever happened to target marketing? Do these people actually think I will cull through their ads and check out the ones applicable to me rather than press "Delete All?"

People who worry about inconsequential things. At lunch the other week, someone kept mentioning how she was going out for dinner that night and was worried about not having an appetitie for dinner if she ate too much at this lunch. Does this even make sense? Please, woman! If that is your biggest worry, stop talking about it and enjoy your life! Even after lunch she was speculating if she ate enough or too much, because she was having dinner in 5 hours! Bleh.

Passive-aggressive people. I'm Asian. I can be passive-aggressive with the best of them. That doesn't mean I like it. I don't like it in me and I don't like it in others. Be passive or aggressive. Not both at the same time. Not attractive. Not cool. You know who you are! (Tee hee!)

People who cut you off on the road, then drive slow. This one may harken back to my natural impatience, but I dislike when someone speeds up to cut in front of you, then drives slow. If you are going to be impatient enough to cut in front of me, then be impatient enough to keep up with traffic and move it! The other people that are annoying are the ones that are driving leisurely, then when you want to cut in front of them, will speed up so you are unable to cut in.

Grouchy, irritable whiners. Yes, at this point I am beginning to irritate myself with all this negativity. None of these things are worth getting upset about, but here I am ranting and grousing away. How's that for attractive? I would never allow a guy to say this, but perhaps it has a bit to do with hormones. It's the time of the month that I'm craving red meat. Uh, too much information? Good thing nobody reads this anyway.

No more grumbling, no matter how cathartic it may be. The next post will be all sunshine and light, baby! Sunshine and light.

The New Yorker Cover Controversy

The cover of The New Yorker is causing quite a controversy. The cover shows a characature of Barak Obama in muslim dress and Michelle Obama looking like a member of the Black Panthers holding a machine gun. They are giving each other a fist bump. In the fireplace, the American flag is burning and above the fireplace is a portrait of Osama bin Laden. The title of this piece: "The Politics of Fear."

Now, I believe I understand where The New Yorker editorial board was coming from. They saw it as biting political humor. Satire. Poking fun at our absurdities. And they are correct.

How absurd to think that the presumptive Democratic nominee for President of the United States is a terrorist and hates America. How ridiculous to believe this Baptist church-going man is Muslim. How silly to think he was raised in a terrorist camp and/or is a terrorist sympathizer when he went to Punahou School in Hawaii.

How have the American people become so fearful? I thank the government for instigating it and the media gets the assist for perpetuating it. Make the people so afraid that they will not ask questions, demand reasons or think critically about the unsubtle erosion of their civil liberties. In attempting to protect the very ideals we cherish, we have allowed ourselves to be stripped of those same rights. After all, if we think, question or demand accountability from our government, WE WILL DIE!

The policies approved by our Legislature in the mis-named Patriot Act, the Administrative dictates from the Executive Branch and the capitulation by the Courts have all been a disservice to us, the American people. The people who are supposed to love freedom and liberty. As Tony Benn says, it is much easier to control a frightened, uneducated populace than a healthy, vibrant, knowledgable one (or something like that).

The news media is supposed to ask the tough questions and ferret out truths, rather feed their own capitalist hunger and flash provocative (and misleading) headlines, play overly dramatic music and basically scare us into listening to them. If we don't, WE WILL DIE! The New Yourker was poking fun at them...and at us...through publishing this cover. How easily the American public allows itself to be manipulated by a frowning leader and a few minor chords accompanying a scary headline.

The fist bump in the picture is obviously a reference to the "terrorist fist bump" controversy a few months ago. Some political pundit mused aloud if the fist bump referred to a terrorist message. Probably the same person who thought t.v. chef and talk show host Rachael Ray was giving a message to her terrorist peeps by wearing a printed scarf. Don't these people know that if they have these thoughts they should keep it to themselves? I believe it was Mark Twain said something like: it's one thing for people to think you're a fool, it's another to open your mouth and remove all uncertainty. But these people get paid to start these idiotic rumors. Bleh. Worse yet they're on "news" stations. Double bleh.

For these legitimate and thoughtful reasons, I believe The New Yorker ran its cover. To point out our absurdities when there is any mention of the Middle East. To highlight our knee-jerk reactions to the words "muslim" or "terrorism." The New Yorker probably sees it as their job, maybe even their mission to point this out to us.

But even though I understand all this, I still find the cover in poor taste. Perhaps satire needs to be biting and shocking, but my initial reaction when I saw the cover: Too soon. Too close. In proximity, emotionally and in time. Obama is the presumptive Democratic nominee for President. A part of our populace truly believe he is muslim or is tied to terrorists. No one makes 9-11 jokes in New York City. Because it is too soon.

In order for it to be witty and funny there needs to be some distance. We don't have that distance yet. But perhaps this cover has helped create some of that space. If that is the case, then perhaps it was the right call after all.

Dazed and Confused

I do not understand why Barak Obama has refused public campaign funds. Here are my issues:

1. Earlier in his campaign, Obama promised, if he became the Democratic nominee, he would use public funds and would encourage/challenge his Republican counterpart to follow suit. Now Obama is going back on this promise. Why?

The two main reasons I can think of are both unflattering.

One reason might be that he did not realize how "broken" the system was when he made the original promise. If this is the reason, it makes him look like a political neophyte. Inexperienced. A babe wandering in the woods versus a savvier more knowledgable opponent who knows the landscape. This reason also opens the door to all the questions about Obama's inexperience. Yes, Chicago local politics is not like Honolulu local politics, but c'mon...it's not like being seasoned on the national and international stage. Obama has not served a full term as a U.S. Senator, and most of that term has been spent campaigning.

The second reason may be that Obama did not realize how much more money he can raise if he refused to take the public funding and once he saw that fundraising power, he opted for what he felt would give him the edge over McCain (co-papa of some of the most significant campaign finance reform legislation of our time, even though much did not pass). If this is the reason, Obama looks opportunistic and willing to compromise his "beliefs."

2. I have listened to Obama's reasoning regarding this issue. If I understand him correctly, he is not taking public funding because it is a "broken" system. Well, this raises more questions for me than answers. Does taking private funding eliminate the corruption? Not necessarily. Big business, conglomerations and the like can contribute heavily to Obama's campaign. Will Obama feel less indebted to them because they gave him money directly rather than through the Democratice Party (aka soft monies and slush funds)? I do not think so. Does Obama think so?

And frankly, the only way he could probably get around that is to promise not to accept more than a politically "nominal" amount from any contributor like Ralph Nader or Jerry Brown have in past elections. I have not heard Obama say anything like that.

Furthermore, is Obama saying that public financing of elections is so irrevocably broken that he cannot function at all within its tenents? How does refusing public monies (and its subsequent restrictions) serve to fix or heal the "broken" system? Public campaign financing was supposed to be the great equalizer. Even the playing field. Why not agree to use only public air time? No "purchasing" tv time for political ads. Obama could have called for that and asked McCain to join him. It would have put McCain in a tough spot, because he has served as the champion for reform in this area. Why not do that? You see what I mean about more questions than answers.

I am confused. Someone who understands, please explain it to me, because I do not get it.