Picture this.
No, wait. You don't have to picture it.
Thanks to the glory that is YouTube, you too can share my pain:
Ninja maxipads. I have no words.
09 March 2007
shame is for pussies
A few years ago, I went to visit my friend Gina at her home in DC. A former Lit Major, feminist, and self-proclaimed lover of all things Dickensian, Gina's bookcases were filled with what you might expect. Atwood, Friedan, Dickens (of course), Davies, Robbins...all the best lined up neatly on shelves.
The bookcase in the guest room, though...that was another story. In here, I found numerous travel guides, some trade fiction and--to my horror--at least three romance novels. When confronted, Gina ducked her head and said "Yes, those are my shameful books."
I don't have any shameful books (though there are, at this point, three shelves of travel guides in my study). Instead, I present you with a list of my five most shameful songs.
All are on my ipod. All get played on repeat when the mood strikes.
5. "My Humps"- Black Eyed Peas
This song has extremely stupid and insulting lyrics. It's a black mark on the feminist cause. And yet...and yet I cannot help but rock out to it (on headphones, of course).
4. "Spice Up Your Life" -The Spice Girls
Insipid. The entire first verse is nothing but "La la la la la la la la la", for god's sake. But it's got a samba thing going on in the percussion and, again, I cannot help but shake my booty.
3. "Independent Women, Pt. 1"- Destiny's Child
All the honeys who makin' money
Throw your hands up at me
'nuff said.
2. "Temperature" -Sean Paul
Insipid AND insulting. Sexist. And written in, what...some sort of cobbed together English that might be rastafarian or might just demonstrate that my man Sean never made it past the second grade.
Again with the booty shaking.
1. You Should Hear How She Talks" -Melissa Manchester
I. I. I have no words.
But I do have a headband and some spankin leg warmers.
The bookcase in the guest room, though...that was another story. In here, I found numerous travel guides, some trade fiction and--to my horror--at least three romance novels. When confronted, Gina ducked her head and said "Yes, those are my shameful books."
I don't have any shameful books (though there are, at this point, three shelves of travel guides in my study). Instead, I present you with a list of my five most shameful songs.
All are on my ipod. All get played on repeat when the mood strikes.
5. "My Humps"- Black Eyed Peas
This song has extremely stupid and insulting lyrics. It's a black mark on the feminist cause. And yet...and yet I cannot help but rock out to it (on headphones, of course).
4. "Spice Up Your Life" -The Spice Girls
Insipid. The entire first verse is nothing but "La la la la la la la la la", for god's sake. But it's got a samba thing going on in the percussion and, again, I cannot help but shake my booty.
3. "Independent Women, Pt. 1"- Destiny's Child
All the honeys who makin' money
Throw your hands up at me
'nuff said.
2. "Temperature" -Sean Paul
Insipid AND insulting. Sexist. And written in, what...some sort of cobbed together English that might be rastafarian or might just demonstrate that my man Sean never made it past the second grade.
Again with the booty shaking.
1. You Should Hear How She Talks" -Melissa Manchester
I. I. I have no words.
But I do have a headband and some spankin leg warmers.
19 February 2007
Sure. But does he get an immunity idol?
Have you seen Man Vs. Wild?
This guy? Bear Grylls? He's INSANE.
And it's kind of addictive.
From their website, linked above:
In each episode of Man vs. Wild Bear strands himself in popular wilderness destinations where tourists often find themselves lost or in danger. As he finds his way back to civilization, he demonstrates local survival techniques, including escaping quicksand in the Moab Desert, navigating dangerous jungle rivers in Costa Rica, crossing ravines in the Alps and surviving sharks off Hawaii.
What they don't tell you is that he goes into these crazy situations with only the clothes on his back, a big ass knife, and a flint. Sometimes. Sometimes he doesn't even have the flint. And he did get mostly naked in an episode about the Alaskan glaciers (which he charmingly pronounces "glass-yurs")(oh, how I love the Brits).
Discovery was running a marathon last night and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I watched four hours of Bear working his way out of danger. He's kind of like MacGyver. Only he eats raw fish and doesn't carry duct tape. (Mac, as we all know, would use the flint to start a fire, over which he would cook the salmon in a sauce pan made from bark and lined with that omnipresent tape.)(In this respect, I find MacGyver to be a much saner individual.)(I was right with Bear until he bit into that still squirming salmon.)(EW. With a capital EW.)
Right. So the point of the show is allegedly to help wayward tourists like you and me survive being trapped in the wilderness and, along the way, Mr. Grylls gives hints and tips. Things like "Don't grab at branches in the jungle. They might be snakes." and "Test the snow on the mountain side with your ski pole so you know when you're about to die in an avalanche." And some more specific things--like the name of a tree in the Costa Rican jungle whose sap will allegedly cure an upset stomach. (Unfortunately, I forgot said name and now I will be forced to carry Rolaids when I parachute out of a helicopter into the wilds of South America.)
What shocked me most about the show was how very cavalier he is about getting wet. Even on an Alaskan glacier, the intrepid Bear had no compunctions about dousing himself by jumping into waterfalls or sliding down ice tunnels. Me? I get hypothermia if I spend too much time reading in the bathtub. And in Costa Rica? Same thing. He's wading through tributaries and splashing about in mangroves and I'm on my couch shouting OMG. CARNIVOROUS SNAKES. AND CROCS. AND PIRANHA. Not to mention the leeches. The jungle rot. Or those wee little fishies that like to swim up into your private parts.
After four episodes, my husband put his foot down and forced me to change the channel. I think he got tired of listening to me saying "Oh my god! This man is CRAZY!" But, secretly, I am so going to find out the regular air time of this show and record it. Crack like this is best held for Sunday afternoon binges.
This guy? Bear Grylls? He's INSANE.
And it's kind of addictive.
From their website, linked above:
In each episode of Man vs. Wild Bear strands himself in popular wilderness destinations where tourists often find themselves lost or in danger. As he finds his way back to civilization, he demonstrates local survival techniques, including escaping quicksand in the Moab Desert, navigating dangerous jungle rivers in Costa Rica, crossing ravines in the Alps and surviving sharks off Hawaii.
What they don't tell you is that he goes into these crazy situations with only the clothes on his back, a big ass knife, and a flint. Sometimes. Sometimes he doesn't even have the flint. And he did get mostly naked in an episode about the Alaskan glaciers (which he charmingly pronounces "glass-yurs")(oh, how I love the Brits).
Discovery was running a marathon last night and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I watched four hours of Bear working his way out of danger. He's kind of like MacGyver. Only he eats raw fish and doesn't carry duct tape. (Mac, as we all know, would use the flint to start a fire, over which he would cook the salmon in a sauce pan made from bark and lined with that omnipresent tape.)(In this respect, I find MacGyver to be a much saner individual.)(I was right with Bear until he bit into that still squirming salmon.)(EW. With a capital EW.)
Right. So the point of the show is allegedly to help wayward tourists like you and me survive being trapped in the wilderness and, along the way, Mr. Grylls gives hints and tips. Things like "Don't grab at branches in the jungle. They might be snakes." and "Test the snow on the mountain side with your ski pole so you know when you're about to die in an avalanche." And some more specific things--like the name of a tree in the Costa Rican jungle whose sap will allegedly cure an upset stomach. (Unfortunately, I forgot said name and now I will be forced to carry Rolaids when I parachute out of a helicopter into the wilds of South America.)
What shocked me most about the show was how very cavalier he is about getting wet. Even on an Alaskan glacier, the intrepid Bear had no compunctions about dousing himself by jumping into waterfalls or sliding down ice tunnels. Me? I get hypothermia if I spend too much time reading in the bathtub. And in Costa Rica? Same thing. He's wading through tributaries and splashing about in mangroves and I'm on my couch shouting OMG. CARNIVOROUS SNAKES. AND CROCS. AND PIRANHA. Not to mention the leeches. The jungle rot. Or those wee little fishies that like to swim up into your private parts.
After four episodes, my husband put his foot down and forced me to change the channel. I think he got tired of listening to me saying "Oh my god! This man is CRAZY!" But, secretly, I am so going to find out the regular air time of this show and record it. Crack like this is best held for Sunday afternoon binges.
15 February 2007
file under S for "SHHHHHHH"
For reasons having to do with the weather and meetings being cancelled, I find myself up on campus with a lot of time on my hands. Too cold to wander around aimlessly, so I plunked myself down in the ILR Library and set up shop. I feel so...cosmopolitan. All wirelessly enabled and stuff.
But here's the thing. Kids these days? They have no library manners. None. Nada. Zip.
When I was in school, you were QUIET in the library. And if you weren't, the librarian came and fed you to the herds of dinosaurs that were roaming freely on the quad. Uphill. In the snow. Both ways.
Now? Well...let's just say that I have been here for close to two hours and someone's cell phone rings on average of twice every 15 minutes. Full scale rings. Like...the first six bars to Beyonce's latest hit at high volume. And, between these little forays into the glory of mp3 enabled personal communication devices, we have a chorus of beeps, chirps, and chimes to announce the arrival of text messages.
I have a cell phone. It's sitting by my elbow. It's even turned on. But, you know what? It's set to vibrate so that I won't disturb anyone else if my husband texts to say that his flight is delayed.
These kids? These ivy-leaguers who can probably make a super computer out of some duct tape, an ipod, and three rubber bands? Can the concept of changing the ringer on their phone REALLY be beyond them?
And the talking! I now know the complete social calendars of three young women, as well as where all of the good parties are going to be this weekend. Also, someone named Sophie thinks that the 210 homework was "way hard", while her friend Zach disagrees and would gladly trade her for his Econ quiz tomorrow.
Where, I ask you, are the librarians? I think I am the only person in this room who is over the age of 25. Shouldn't there be thick-ankled, bespectacled women strolling around the place with yard sticks at the ready? What ever happened to the dulcet tones of QUIET PLEASE being blasted through the library when you sneeze or drop a book?
Somewhere, Mrs. Sipser is quaking in anger. Either that, or my beloved elementary school librarian has had a stroke as a direct result of her inability to insure that this particular library is a quiet, ponderous place that is conducive to learning and the worship of books.
But here's the thing. Kids these days? They have no library manners. None. Nada. Zip.
When I was in school, you were QUIET in the library. And if you weren't, the librarian came and fed you to the herds of dinosaurs that were roaming freely on the quad. Uphill. In the snow. Both ways.
Now? Well...let's just say that I have been here for close to two hours and someone's cell phone rings on average of twice every 15 minutes. Full scale rings. Like...the first six bars to Beyonce's latest hit at high volume. And, between these little forays into the glory of mp3 enabled personal communication devices, we have a chorus of beeps, chirps, and chimes to announce the arrival of text messages.
I have a cell phone. It's sitting by my elbow. It's even turned on. But, you know what? It's set to vibrate so that I won't disturb anyone else if my husband texts to say that his flight is delayed.
These kids? These ivy-leaguers who can probably make a super computer out of some duct tape, an ipod, and three rubber bands? Can the concept of changing the ringer on their phone REALLY be beyond them?
And the talking! I now know the complete social calendars of three young women, as well as where all of the good parties are going to be this weekend. Also, someone named Sophie thinks that the 210 homework was "way hard", while her friend Zach disagrees and would gladly trade her for his Econ quiz tomorrow.
Where, I ask you, are the librarians? I think I am the only person in this room who is over the age of 25. Shouldn't there be thick-ankled, bespectacled women strolling around the place with yard sticks at the ready? What ever happened to the dulcet tones of QUIET PLEASE being blasted through the library when you sneeze or drop a book?
Somewhere, Mrs. Sipser is quaking in anger. Either that, or my beloved elementary school librarian has had a stroke as a direct result of her inability to insure that this particular library is a quiet, ponderous place that is conducive to learning and the worship of books.
10 January 2007
and i will always have gum!
On Christmas, my brother-in-law approached me asking if my husband and I would be one of the sets of godparents for his son (aged 2). I said yes. (Because, really, what else can you say, right?)(But also because I am fond of the little germ factory, too.)
Just now, I googled "god parent duties" and came across a host of sites that claim to tell me how to be the best gosh darn godparent ever.
eGodparent.com, tells me that the following items should be on my to-do list post Christening:
1. Pray for your godchild regularly
2. Set an example of Christian living
3. Help him/her to grow in the faith of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in which he was baptized
4. Give every encouragement to follow Christ and fight against evil
5. Help your godchild to look forward to confirmation.
Here, I feel the need to pause and apologize to both deb (who foolishly named me godmother to her firstborn) and to Matt (said first born), because I can quite honestly say that I have never once prayed for either of you.
Also. Me and Christian Living? Um. Not so much.
So, it seems that I will fail miserably at all five tasks above.
Instead, I do solemnly swear to provide BOTH of my god children with the following:
1. A ride home, whenever they need it and from wherever they might be--no questions asked. (This might prove tricky for Matt, but we'll work on it.)
2. As many amusing/embarassing stories about their parents as they would like to hear.
3. Support in all endeavors that are both legal and not stupid. (And maybe some of the stupid ones, providing they are not dangerously stupid)
4. Up to $100 in cash [one time use or accrued] when needed and denied by parental units. (Unless they plan to use it to buy drugs or alcohol, in which case I will lock them in my basement with the cat box and the Sleestaks.)
5. A chance to be taken seriously by someone who knew them while in diapers.
That's it, boys. That's the best I can do without actually hiring someone who is, you know, a churchgoer and stuff.
PS. I am totally down with the fighting evil bit. But only if we can wear capes.
Just now, I googled "god parent duties" and came across a host of sites that claim to tell me how to be the best gosh darn godparent ever.
eGodparent.com, tells me that the following items should be on my to-do list post Christening:
1. Pray for your godchild regularly
2. Set an example of Christian living
3. Help him/her to grow in the faith of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in which he was baptized
4. Give every encouragement to follow Christ and fight against evil
5. Help your godchild to look forward to confirmation.
Here, I feel the need to pause and apologize to both deb (who foolishly named me godmother to her firstborn) and to Matt (said first born), because I can quite honestly say that I have never once prayed for either of you.
Also. Me and Christian Living? Um. Not so much.
So, it seems that I will fail miserably at all five tasks above.
Instead, I do solemnly swear to provide BOTH of my god children with the following:
1. A ride home, whenever they need it and from wherever they might be--no questions asked. (This might prove tricky for Matt, but we'll work on it.)
2. As many amusing/embarassing stories about their parents as they would like to hear.
3. Support in all endeavors that are both legal and not stupid. (And maybe some of the stupid ones, providing they are not dangerously stupid)
4. Up to $100 in cash [one time use or accrued] when needed and denied by parental units. (Unless they plan to use it to buy drugs or alcohol, in which case I will lock them in my basement with the cat box and the Sleestaks.)
5. A chance to be taken seriously by someone who knew them while in diapers.
That's it, boys. That's the best I can do without actually hiring someone who is, you know, a churchgoer and stuff.
PS. I am totally down with the fighting evil bit. But only if we can wear capes.
28 December 2006
A Coward Has No Scar
Pinocchio had Jiminy Cricket to tap him on the shoulder and point out when he was about to do something wrong.
Me? I have a short(ish) Asian-American woman named Anna. Anna is my conscience. She reminds me (just about weekly, in fact) that I am a deadbeat loser and that my blog is in need of updating. I don't hold this against her, though. No. I hold it against my Catholic upbringing. Because, were it not for all those days at St. Paul's Church of the Perpetual Culpability, I would be able to give Anna the finger and get on with the business of eating chocolate chips out of the bag while watching Phil of the Future reruns on Disney.
Anyway. I am behind. I am behind and my life is boring as hell lately. But I am going to blog my way into Heaven if it's the last thing I do.
OMG, I SO just quoted the Goo-goo Dolls. Someone shoot me.
Maggie tells me that talking about my scars is good blog fodder. She even suggests having my readers name them for me if I am feeling adventurous. Problem is, I think Anna is my only reader and we're already WAY too close for comfort (today we ordered the same meal at Taco Bell)(Sweet Jesus).
Anyway. I have lots of scars. And each one of them has a story. Um. Except for the one on my left wrist. I have NO idea how that one got there. Or when it got there, for that matter.
It's funny. As I have been sitting here contemplating which scar stories to tell, I have come to the realization that all of my major scars involve a distinct lack of adult supervision. Well. Two of them do. The third is really more about my college roommate being unable to hold up her end of a gargantuan loft.
Case In Point
My oldest and most noticeable scar (to the casual observer) is the result of an ill-fated attempt to impersonate Stevie Nicks. I was...no older than four at the time and I remember it distinctly. My mother (who was coincidentally absent from ALL of these near-death incidents, I might note) was at karate class and I was home with my father. There was a gauzy scarf. And spinning. And more spinning. And more spinning. And then, there was a sudden collision with the corner of the bookshelf in the living room which resulted in an inch-long gash at the tail end of my left eyebrow.
Mom tells me that my father [the biological one] fainted and that she found me in the bathroom pressing a washcloth to my head. I remember being held down in the ER so that they could put a butterfly bandage on instead of stitches. And so began my life-long love affair with danger.
I bet Stevie never suffered so for her art.
Two Scars Are Better than One
Fast-forward three or four years. I am about seven and we are living with my grandmother in upstate NY. My mother's bike is parked in front of the china cabinet in the dining room and I am riding in the Tour de Scriba--even though I have been explicitly told by no less than three adults to stay the hell away from this bike.
I'm not sure what happened, exactly, but I suspect that the Swiss team threw some spikes out into the lane as we entered the mountainous phase of the race because, suddenly, I was ass over apple cart into the china.
Oh. Did I mention the fact that the cabinet had a glass pane for a front door?
Right. I emerge triumphant, but with a GIANT PIECE OF GLASS STICKING OUT OF MY ASS. And when I say "giant piece of glass" think...well...picture a turkey's tail. Big shard. BIG. And really, really close to my spine. Less than an inch.
Sidebar: Here, I would like to pause and say that I am reasonably sure that my guardian angel had no idea what she was signing on for when she agreed to watch over me for this incarnation. Poor kid.
You might assume that this incident warranted another trip to the ER. It's a reasonable assumption, after all. But you'd be wrong. My grandmother (who, for the record, had NO medical training what-so-ever) assessed the situation and...well...yanked out the shard. She then tenderly applied a cocktail of methialate and rubbing alcohol into the open wound, slapped a bandaid on there, and called it good to go.
The result is about a two inch long scar that has kept me from a lucrative career as an underwear model.
And Three for the Hat Trick?
This last story is actually my favorite, but it's also rather long. And, as such, I am reserving the right to tell it at some later point when Anna is bugging me again about not having updated in a month.
I'll tell you this much, though. The doctor who was supposed to stitch me up? He passed out in the early stages of the procedure and was replaced by a pregnant woman in the early stages of labor.
I shit you not.
Me? I have a short(ish) Asian-American woman named Anna. Anna is my conscience. She reminds me (just about weekly, in fact) that I am a deadbeat loser and that my blog is in need of updating. I don't hold this against her, though. No. I hold it against my Catholic upbringing. Because, were it not for all those days at St. Paul's Church of the Perpetual Culpability, I would be able to give Anna the finger and get on with the business of eating chocolate chips out of the bag while watching Phil of the Future reruns on Disney.
Anyway. I am behind. I am behind and my life is boring as hell lately. But I am going to blog my way into Heaven if it's the last thing I do.
Scars are souvenirs you never lose
OMG, I SO just quoted the Goo-goo Dolls. Someone shoot me.
Maggie tells me that talking about my scars is good blog fodder. She even suggests having my readers name them for me if I am feeling adventurous. Problem is, I think Anna is my only reader and we're already WAY too close for comfort (today we ordered the same meal at Taco Bell)(Sweet Jesus).
Anyway. I have lots of scars. And each one of them has a story. Um. Except for the one on my left wrist. I have NO idea how that one got there. Or when it got there, for that matter.
It's funny. As I have been sitting here contemplating which scar stories to tell, I have come to the realization that all of my major scars involve a distinct lack of adult supervision. Well. Two of them do. The third is really more about my college roommate being unable to hold up her end of a gargantuan loft.
Case In Point
My oldest and most noticeable scar (to the casual observer) is the result of an ill-fated attempt to impersonate Stevie Nicks. I was...no older than four at the time and I remember it distinctly. My mother (who was coincidentally absent from ALL of these near-death incidents, I might note) was at karate class and I was home with my father. There was a gauzy scarf. And spinning. And more spinning. And more spinning. And then, there was a sudden collision with the corner of the bookshelf in the living room which resulted in an inch-long gash at the tail end of my left eyebrow.
Mom tells me that my father [the biological one] fainted and that she found me in the bathroom pressing a washcloth to my head. I remember being held down in the ER so that they could put a butterfly bandage on instead of stitches. And so began my life-long love affair with danger.
I bet Stevie never suffered so for her art.
Two Scars Are Better than One
Fast-forward three or four years. I am about seven and we are living with my grandmother in upstate NY. My mother's bike is parked in front of the china cabinet in the dining room and I am riding in the Tour de Scriba--even though I have been explicitly told by no less than three adults to stay the hell away from this bike.
I'm not sure what happened, exactly, but I suspect that the Swiss team threw some spikes out into the lane as we entered the mountainous phase of the race because, suddenly, I was ass over apple cart into the china.
Oh. Did I mention the fact that the cabinet had a glass pane for a front door?
Right. I emerge triumphant, but with a GIANT PIECE OF GLASS STICKING OUT OF MY ASS. And when I say "giant piece of glass" think...well...picture a turkey's tail. Big shard. BIG. And really, really close to my spine. Less than an inch.
Sidebar: Here, I would like to pause and say that I am reasonably sure that my guardian angel had no idea what she was signing on for when she agreed to watch over me for this incarnation. Poor kid.
You might assume that this incident warranted another trip to the ER. It's a reasonable assumption, after all. But you'd be wrong. My grandmother (who, for the record, had NO medical training what-so-ever) assessed the situation and...well...yanked out the shard. She then tenderly applied a cocktail of methialate and rubbing alcohol into the open wound, slapped a bandaid on there, and called it good to go.
The result is about a two inch long scar that has kept me from a lucrative career as an underwear model.
And Three for the Hat Trick?
This last story is actually my favorite, but it's also rather long. And, as such, I am reserving the right to tell it at some later point when Anna is bugging me again about not having updated in a month.
I'll tell you this much, though. The doctor who was supposed to stitch me up? He passed out in the early stages of the procedure and was replaced by a pregnant woman in the early stages of labor.
I shit you not.
27 November 2006
out of the mouths of babes
I spent Thanksgiving weekend with two of my three neices and one of my three nephews.
Here's a brief list of quotes that I gathered from Julia, age four. (This kid cracks me up.)
Julia: You shouldn't talk about butts in front of people.
Julia: Is that supposed to be a pig? Because it looks like a duck.
Julia: I'm a funny kid. God made me that way. Do you know God?
Me: I haven't met him personally. Have you?
Julia: No. But I've seen him on video.
Julia: Daddy, you should eat fruit because it's healthy and good for you.
Daddy: I only eat fruit when you are watching me.
Julia: Then I'm going to watch you all the time!
Nana: I'm thinking that if we turn on the Christmas trees, we can't use the word stinky anymore.
Here's a brief list of quotes that I gathered from Julia, age four. (This kid cracks me up.)
Julia: You shouldn't talk about butts in front of people.
Julia: Is that supposed to be a pig? Because it looks like a duck.
Julia: I'm a funny kid. God made me that way. Do you know God?
Me: I haven't met him personally. Have you?
Julia: No. But I've seen him on video.
Julia: Daddy, you should eat fruit because it's healthy and good for you.
Daddy: I only eat fruit when you are watching me.
Julia: Then I'm going to watch you all the time!
Nana: I'm thinking that if we turn on the Christmas trees, we can't use the word stinky anymore.
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