Pollyannaish

Damned Balloon Animals!

2005-03-01T13:16:00.000-08:00

As a highschooler, I was an over-achiever. I made honor roll most of the time and ended up graduating 3rd in my class; which didn't say much because my highschool was clogged with a large number of lazy idiots. (I guess most schools are, though.) I joined just about every organization that I could. This was just as much a product of boredom as it was the determination to snag college scholarships (it accomplished both goals in the end). I was in everything from Acapella Choir to the Math Club (which is ironic because, after water-skiing, math is the thing that I'm least skilled at). I was even an officer in an athletic organization, and I didn't even play a sport. Not exactly sure how that one developed, either. The only thing that absolutely didn't appeal to me was cheerleading....it's an activity that just doesn't make room for bitterness and sarcasm. Not my bag. Even outside of school, I found multiple ways to reach out to "the community", if you will.

One activity I took part in is one that I've haven't told a large number of people about. I suppose I hadn't really concentrated on the absurdity of it until I recently mentioned it to coworkers. I was immediately serviced with depreciating laughter and rapid fire questions that illustrated their disbelief in the validity of it all. The fog over my past has evaporated to expose extreme embarrassment, but it's the kind of embarrassment that you're almost proud of....like scars from an idiotic, self-perpetuated accident. And, since the main purpose of this blogsite is to provide a service to you, my "community", it would be unmagnanimous for me to keep it from you.

I was a clown. Literally. I wore the goofy outfit and the makeup and everything. For some reason that I'm really not sure of, I joined a clowning troupe ( the "e" at the end meant it was super-fancy) in 10th grade. The force of a bizarre, backwards type of peer pressure must have been what prompted me. Everyone in the group had to go by a "clown name"...we weren't allowed to refer to each other or ourselves by our actual names when in costume. Mine was Star. I've since realized that that particular name is one used most commonly by strippers, but it seemed appropriate at the time. Although.......a clown stripper (or would it be "stripper clown"?) might be interesting. I've heard of clown porn, so I know that somebody has to be into it. I can't even begin to describe how disturbingly un-sexy I imagine that must be, by the way.

In case you are unfamiliar with costume makeup...it's really nasty. The only thing comparable I can imagine is Crisco mixed with food coloring. No matter how careful I was, it would inevitably get lodged in my ears and hair. I'd go through half a bag of cotton balls and still see white streaks in unusual places. My "character face" featured a greasy blue star that covered my right eye (hence the name Star, you see. cool, huh?). My costume was a red cordouroy jumper covered with giant pockets and striped knee-socks in a hideous rainbow of colors. Thank God I have no pictures in my possession that could serve as evidence. It was a site that only a mother would call cute; and mine probably did.

It's funny, but it's hard for me to remember what we actually did as a collective group of clowns. I recall various, painfully non-amusing skits in front of little kids and the elderly. Who else would tolerate our efforts to entertain, after all? I'm sure we did our best to spread joy and smiles in the typical clownish tradition, but no specific examples come to mind. I think I subconciously blocked it from my memory. That's what often happens when we experience horrific tragedy.

Needless to say, clowning didn't prove itself to be a lasting hobby for me. It was very short-lived....as well it should have been. Looking back, it was probably my failure at balloon skills that sunk my boat. We were trained in all things clown-like; including balloon-animal construction. I know it doesn't appear to be a difficult skill, but I'd like to see YOU try it! Anytime I managed to twist a balloon into a shape even somewhat resembling an animal, it would either pop or untwist itself. Ringling Bros. would have never wanted me, and that was just another potential rejection that I couldn't face up to.

No wonder I didn't have a boyfriend until senior year.

Dang...this water is freezing!!

2007-02-15T13:19:00.000-08:00

Okay. Deep breath. Inhale...exhale. I'm coming back, guys. Just give me some time to get used to it. This is like stepping into a cold pool for the first time in the Spring. My pasty white legs have yet to see the sun and I'm feeling a little self-concious. You'll see me again soon. Just be sure to bring your sunglasses.

On Mud and Its Radiance

2006-07-24T20:26:00.000-07:00

When the plane landed, I wasn't nervous. It hadn't occurred to me to be nervous. I felt excited and confident; eager to dive head first into what would be my new and temporary life. The airport was small and dimly lit as I recall, but surprisingly clean and well-managed. It took quite a while to get through customs, and I bit the tongue of my impatience despite my anxious desire to get outside. When we were finally allowed to gather our luggage and exit the facility, we didn't hesitate to do so.

We walked outside in a group, ready to find our ride. I stepped into the intense heat and before I could determine my direction, my senses overcame me with a disorienting flurry of stimuli. I think what hit me first was the noise. The muddled sound of human voice was almost deafening. I say it was muddled because I couldn't understand anything I was hearing. I was an infant in a strange world of developed human language. I could distinguish emotions in the voices, but that was where my knowledge ended. There were people everywhere, coming at us from all directions. We were swallowed up by a crowd of the unfamiliar. Pressing in on every side were people asking me questions that I was unable to answer. What hit me second was the smell. Repugnant body odor unlike any I had ever smelled before. Gaseous dirt and disease relentlessly invaded my nostrils and throat. The third hit was to my sight. I was swimming in a blur of faces and colors; lost in a Madhubani painting. The haze cleared and I was suddenly able to focus on individuals. I saw mostly young men. They were pulling on my bags, offering to carry them for 20 rupees...15 rupees...10. I felt hands on my arms and some pulling on my t-shirt and pants legs. I looked down to see that one hand was disfigured; missing several fingers. My heart skipped a beat when I realized it belonged to a leper.

We made our way through the chaos and began loading the shuttle that had been sent for us. The plastic seats were cracked and dirty, but I was thankful to be in a contained space. I sat silently, barely breathing through the stifling, musty heat. From my spot in the small bus, I had an elevated view of the city that would be my home for the next few months. Even from my perch on the hilltop, the devastating poverty was unmistakable.

...I can't recall the exact date of my arrival in Kathmandu, Nepal. We had been in Thailand for a week...so I think our arrival was on a Saturday afternoon. It was the very beginning of June (maybe the first or the second of) in 2000. (It's hard to believe that it was so long ago.)

As I mentioned, we had been in Thailand for a week. This week in the small coastal city of Pattaya (on the Indian Ocean) was our orientation...a time of learning about what we could expect to experience for the next 3 months. We talked mostly about Hindi/Buddhist culture, how to be safe, how to behave, etc. We spent quite a bit of time out in the city trying to acquaint ourselves with, well...everything. Pattaya was, by no means, a wealthy city, but its' modernity was not dramatically behind what we were used to in the states.

We talked extensively about the indigence we would encounter while living in Nepal. We were told that the average yearly income in Nepal (at the time) was equivalent to 200 American dollars. We were educated about the widespread disease, the unhealthy living conditions, the lack of food and clean water, the human trafficking rings, and the abandoned/homeless children that spent their days and nights on the streets. I wasn't suprised by anything I heard. I had done my research. I had watched movies and documentaries. And I certainly wasn't new to the concept of poverty. I had worked with impoverished people all over the United States. I was ready. I was prepared. Nothing was going to shake me.

As we drove from the airport to our hotel in the middle of the valley, none of us said much. We didn't know what to say. Words wouldn't have been helpful in expressing what was going through our minds at the time, anyway. The crowded streets, apparently governed by no traffic rules, were overridden by pedestrians carrying oversized loads on their heads and backs, slow moving rickshaws, and gaunt cows. Bikes or motorcycles carried so many passengers at once they looked like clown transportation at Ringling Bros. If you've ever been to Hell's Kitchen in New York City, then you have a vague idea of what the storefronts are like in Kathmandu, only...there, they're about 50 times dirtier and 100 times less sophisticated. Grocery stores, tailors, electronics shops, post offices....they all looked the same.

Driving by the entrances of various bastis (or slum colonies), one could see down the narrow alleys that appeared to go on and on forever; a horizontal precipice into unfathomable despair. I never did enter any of those bastis, but I knew that following any of the alleys would lead me to hundreds of families living on top of each other like foul in a coop. Tiny one-room huts with tin roofs and tacked-up bedsheets for doors; communal bathrooms without so much as a toilet stall; no plumbing and no electricity; row after row after row of human doghouses. These bastis were all over, and every one I saw was sadder and more vast than the last.

Once we arrived at our hotel, we walked a few blocks to the closest bank. I pulled out of my bag an American Traveler's Check for $200. I stared at it for a moment and realized that, in my hand, I was holding an entire year's income for a family in Nepal. I started sobbing uncontrollably right there in the bank. A travel-mate of mine was already at the counter when my emotion bursted out of me like a monsoon storm. The banker took notice and asked her why I was crying. Thinking quickly, she told him that we had just arrived in Kathmandu and that I was overcome by the beauty of the city. He believed her and was touched by the sentiment. He greeted me with a huge smile and gentle words and did the same every time I visited him that summer.

I didn't break down in that way again while I was in Nepal (except maybe when I left to go back home). However, I did cry many times after that, and, suprisingly, every cry really did express that I was overcome by the beauty of Kathmandu...the beauty that I learned to see. I learned to see the poverty as a birth mark. It was an imperfection that would probably never fade, but after I gazed at it for a while, I almost didn't even notice it anymore. Instead of detracting from the radiance of the figure, it enhanced it. Just as kudzu can overtake the side of a building or a forest, the beauty of the culture of that place grew over my soul. I became completely entangled in it, and to this day, I still haven't been able to free myself from its leafy grasp. I hope I never break free of it. So much physical freedom would mean that my soul has disconnected from what it learned that summer.

The draw-back...or maybe the benefit (depending on how you look at it) of my new job is that I'm faced with impoverished people on a daily basis. They are my work now; my sustenance; my heart. Sometimes it all gets to me. Sometimes I feel discouraged and dirty in the midst of the ugliness of poverty. It makes me feel diseased and injured and lame...just like the leper that begged me for money that day so long ago. But I think I'm re-learning how to see the beauty through the dirt. My soul is trying to remember.

Like, Merry Christmas and stuff

2006-12-21T07:45:00.000-08:00

Sadly, my beloved has gone home for Christmas. Well, its actually a happy thing that he's gone home, but I'm selfish and would rather have him here. The opportunity to sit around in our pajamas watching old Christmas movies and doing other "couply" things has been retracted and I have been left to spend the Holiday working extra hours at the mall (since I'll have a week off from my "real" job), eating dry turkey with my parents, and restraining Bridget from repeatedly knocking all the ornaments off the Christmas tree.

I know that entire paragraph sounded like a scroogy complaint, but in truth, I feel fairly content about "my" Christmas this year. The past couple of weeks have been CRAZY at work, but it's all been a good crazy. We've distributed extra food to hundreds of families, and about 300 children who may have had nothing at all from Santa this year are now getting pretty decent gifts. I've felt like Santa myself as I've personally delivered big boxes of toys to my clients. It won't come as a surprise to you that I've had my moments of cynicism throughout all of this. I've encountered people who are ungrateful and probably even undeserving of what they've received, and I've had to shake off the "Bah-Humbug" spirit as it has bitten at my heels. But, overall, I've seen a lot of joy and humbleness...and THAT has humbled ME. I keep reminding myself that despite the sometimes nasty attitudes of adults, there are children who are benefiting from our hard work. And THAT is all that really matters.

And you know what else makes me feel better?
I visit this site every now and then and imagine my sweetie there...and how could that not be a happy thing? Besides, I never tire of seeing a pervy Singaporian Santa Claus riding a Christmas train. Apparently Christmas in the Tropics has him even more excited than the kiddos. And, my much-loved readers, check out "Create Your Own Tropical Flower" for a fat slice of happy! I'll warn you...this little virtual craft is scarily addictive and will turn your brain to mush in no time flat. Not only is it fun to look at other flowers that have already been created by people all over the world...it's SO much fun to make your own. I made about 10 in one sitting (brain-mushy afterward, indeed). I wish you could see one I made, appropriately named Pollyanna, just for you guys, but the site won't allow me to post the link. I guess you'll just have to scroll through all the 2,252 flowers that are already on the tree. Let me know how that turns out.

I doubt I'll get another chance to write before Christmas, so have a merry one! I'm off to officially start my vacation with a long nap!

Love and the Dark

2006-12-19T17:03:00.000-08:00

Have you heard about "DARK" restaurants? I first heard about them a few weeks ago on "60 Minutes" and I was completely fascinated by the concept. This slowly-growing trend in fine dining started in Europe, but it's making its way around.

More or less, it works like this: When you visit one of these restaurants, you are shown menus in a lobby area. You make your decisions and place your order before you ever go to your table. Once your order is placed, you are instructed to make a line with your party...holding onto the hand or shoulders of the person in front of you. (I suppose you could even do it locomotion style, with hands on the hips.) Your host or hostess leads the line into the PITCH BLACK dining room. You are seated safely, of course, but your entire experience once entering the dining room is in total darkness. No candles on the tables. No moonlight peeking through the curtains. No light coming from under the door of the kitchen. TOTAL darkness.

The coolest part about it? Most of these restaurants hire servers that are seeing-impaired, which, for obvious reasons, makes perfect sense. I can almost always get excited about something that provides opportunity and dignity to people who are disadvantaged or disabled.

The story I watched was very amusing because it had been filmed in "night vision". All of the patrons struggled through their meal, dropping food all over their laps, losing their spoons inside soup bowls, and pouring wine with extreme caution so as to not spill the entire bottle. Nobody was sure of what they were eating; or even HOW to eat what they were eating. And all of this while the blind servers zipped around with ease. It looked like great fun.

This one is in Canada somewhere.

After the meal, everyone at the restaurant talked about what a sensory experience it had been. Everything smelled better and tasted better. Because nobody could see them, anyway, lots of people used their hands to eat and raved about how good it felt to touch the food they were eating...that it changed everything. And it made sense to me. Normally when we eat, we don't take the time to enjoy our food. Yes, we can taste it and smell it and touch it if we want to...but we can also SEE it. And we get distracted by the SEEING.

For those of us who are lucky enough to properly working senses...we don't always think that much about them. We can see and hear and touch and taste and smell...and those incredible powers go unnoticed and unappreciated because we're so used to having them. We take them for granted. What's so interesting to me is how we can rely too much on ONE sense, inadvertently allowing the other senses to weaken in their time of underuse. The reverse is even more interesting. In the absence of one sense, the others often grow stronger to compensate for the loss.

Strangely enough, all of this made me think about love. Or, to be clearer: it made me think about being IN love; experiencing love that is great and pure and noble. SENSES are comparable to EMOTIONS, and the exchange works the same way. One emotion can fortify as others fade...and vice versa.

I've been in many "relationships" that had nothing to do with love. Not REAL love, anyway...although I didn't always realize it at the time. In the absence of love, there were plenty of other things to take its place. Fear. Hesitation. Disappointment. Mistrust. Artificiality. Uncertainty. (Just to name a few.) I was always so busy feeling these other things, I didn't have time to notice that love was missing. I couldn't have understood it in my state of preoccupation.

What I know now is that when LOVE, as it is meant to be, is present...all that other "stuff" disappears. There's no room for it in a healthy relationship because love is just THAT big. It covers everything...every little nook and cranny and hollow space...and its dominion pushes anything that contradicts it out of the picture.

I'm sure the rest of you already knew this. I never did. Not really. It's as if I've finally learned how to see. Or, maybe...I've finally LOST my sight.(?) I think I lost track of my illustration somewhere along the way as I've been writing! Either way...you get the point. And what's more important...I get the point, and I'm blessed for the change in vision. Meal time will never be the same.

I guess if I have time to look at T-Shirts, I have time to blog, right?

2006-12-14T12:37:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. You're wondering where the hell I've been. Well, I've been swamped at work, that's where I've been! My blogging hobby would greatly benefit from having access to a computer at home...and all that time I spend sleeping in the wee hours of the morning could be spent writing, instead. No such luck. My computer is archaic, at best, and can no longer serve me the way a good computer should. So, for the time being, you must suffer the inconvenience of my infrequency. I offer you my deepest regrets.

On another note...you'll recall my recent story about the "Interpretive Dance Joke" at work, right? Well, I was visiting my favorite source of T-Shirt wear the other day when I found this.

Because I knew they'd get a kick out of it, I passed the link around to my coworkers. After what I'm sure turned out to be a great deal of tweaking and somewhat illegal graphic manipulation, my friend (and co-worker), wandered into my office and posted this sign:

Please do not call 1-800-Dance4U at this time. I'm all booked up for the Holiday season. Feel free to try after the new year begins.

Make-Believe, "Snake-Bereave"

2006-12-01T08:23:00.000-08:00

There’s a playground right behind my office that belongs to the preschool program that shares our property. As I stood by the microwave this morning, sleepily waiting for my coffee to heat up, I found myself staring out the window at the dew-damp playground equipment. It’s your typical playground. Some toddler-sized swings, a few slides, and a miniature playhouse on stilts. Off to the side of the yard there’s a small wooden wall with some very tall flowers painted on its front. The circular section of both flowers are cut out so that the kiddos can put their faces through; you know...so that it appears as if this flower’s face is really the kid’s face. Not exactly genius design. As I stared at this, I thought to myself…

“That is like...SO lame. Why would someone put that on a playground? There’s nothing fun about putting your face through a wooden flower. Kids are so stupid. They get a kick out of doing such stupid things. ‘Whoo-Hoo! Look at me, everybody! I’m a flower! My face is in a flower! Hahahaha...I’m so awesome and life is so great and it’s so much fun pretending to be a flower! Yay!’”

I know. My inner dialogue was unnecessarily critical. But like I said, I was waiting on my morning coffee. Of course, I did a LOT of stupid pretending as a child. (I still do, for that matter.) Here are just a few things I “pretended” when I was a youngin:

For some reason, I convinced myself that there was a massive underground “Cat City” in the woods behind our house. The secret entrance was through a mossy knot on the front of a certain oak tree I was fond of. I pretended that I was the only human that knew about the Cat City, and that I was an honorary citizen. They’d lead me through the access tunnel and we’d spend the evenings at little cat clubs…wearing fancy party clothes…dancing to jazz music…all played live by little cat musicians.

I dabbled in a variety of professions as a child. I was a teacher. A chef. A circus acrobat. A trainer of wild animals. A soccer mom. A librarian (I was a crazy one, huh?). A medieval warrior. A bus driver. Shirley Temple. A rockstar. A tiger. A bride. A policewoman battling terrorists in extreme situations. A makeup artist. A model. Queen of the Underworld.

When I had nobody else to play with, I’d drag out a board game and several of my favorite stuffed animals. I’d sit them around the game and the 4 of us would play the game…turn by turn. This brought defeat for me every time because it was ALWAYS Sampson the Seal Pup that won. That Sampson was one smart seal pup.

I would use every single spare sheet, blanket, towel, table cloth, and other large cuts of fabric in the house to construct complex fortresses to hide in. I would drape and tie them over every piece of furniture and fixture that stood still. My architecture was impressive. I’d have tunnels and rooms and secret chambers that stretched from one wall of the living room to the other. They were a high-tech hideout that I lived in during nuclear meltdowns and alien invasions…built in the unknown depths of the Brazilian rainforest. I’d usually do this when nobody was paying much attention, and then I’d get berated because my family would walk in and see that it was impossible for them to maneuver around my cloth castle. Usually, my brothers would end up kicking the walls in or throwing pillows through the ceilings, and I’d be left with nothing but a pile of wrinkled bedsheets; exposed and vunerable to the alien infested wilderness around me.

More frequently than anything else, I’d pretend that I belonged to a family different from my own. This wasn’t because I didn’t like my family. My parents were wonderful to me, and my brothers weren’t COMPLETELY horrible. It was just that I thought that life with another family would be so much more glamorous than with my own. I had a perverse fantasy that I was really the love child of Tom Selleck and Shelley Long (have I shared this before???). They had been caught in a torrid love affair, and had had no choice but to give me up when I was born. I would watch Magnum P.I. and Cheers and wonder if they ever thought about me…the daughter they would never know. I would daydream about the trips we would have taken together, the horses we should’ve raised in the back yard, and fabulous birthday parties (with inflatable jump castles, face painting, and hot air balloon rides) I was missing out on every year, thanks to them.

Nowadays I mostly pretend the same types of things that all other adults do. I pretend…almost daily…that I’m in some type of mood other than the mood I’m REALLY in. (Complacent instead of concerned. Interested instead of irritated. Alert instead of sleepy and distracted.) Right now, I’m pretending that, instead of my office, I’m in a luxurious hotel suite in Aspen. My window view is of a breathtaking, snow-covered mountainside and not the dented bumper of my coworker’s car. There’s a steamy cup of latte and a plate of fresh apple danish and cinnamon rolls on the corner of my desk, none of which could possibly make me fat.

What are YOU pretending today?

I'd Be a Willow Tree

2005-11-01T07:45:00.000-08:00

I was with my aunt at an outdoor nursery recently. We had spent the past (mind-numbing) hour looking at an assortment of ready-to-plant trees. Palm trees, magnolia trees, pine trees, bonsai trees….you name it. As we were leaving, I asked my aunt in a loud, excited voice, “If you were a tree, what tree would you be?” I thought it would be funny. A man just happened to be getting out of his truck next to me and overheard my question. Apparently, he broke into stifled giggles behind my back (my aunt could see him even though I couldn’t). Had I realized this, I would have promptly turned and asked him if he considered himself closer to a daffodil or a petunia. I was sorry I missed the chance to experience such intimacy with a stranger. Anyway, the exchange embarrassed my aunt to extremes. She went on and on about how humiliated she was, but all I could do was laugh.

This from a woman who moons her teenaged sons’ friends with no hesitation.

Comtemplating thankfulness after Thanksgiving = Sending a Belated Birthday card (belatedly)

2006-11-28T08:14:00.000-08:00

At the start of last week, I had an enormous amount of negative energy in my body. An enormous amount. I felt choked by it. I could've written several entries in which I ranted and bitched about all the crap that was clogging the pipes of my happiness, but I chose not to. I was practicing some some self-restraint in the spirit of Thanksgiving. I chose to focus on the positive and not let every little worry and frustration (and my growing contempt and disgust in the human race) overtake me. As I thought about it I realized the truth as it is, that I have an immense amount of things to be thankful for right now. God has blessed me more than I deserve to be blessed. I have a job I love (for the most part). I have many comforts and luxuries that others don't. I'm in love. I have great friends. I've had lots of good hair days lately. But, listing the things I'm thankful for would have been the MOST unoriginal thing I could have done. Seeing as Thanksgiving is over now, I could have just skipped this subject altogether, but I really did want to write about it. So...I'm gonna give it a shot.

Instead of thankfulness, I'm going to talk about forgiveness. Why forgiveness? Because I've reached the conclusion that thankfulness isn't possible without forgiveness. I'll do my best to explain...

I read this one day last week. "God is more interested in making us what we ought to be than in giving us what we want to have." I began to disect this the instant I read it. I thought about "wants" as they relate to thankfulness. Should we only be thankful when we recieve the things we want? Or should we be thankful for everything in our lives; the good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff we hoped for, AND the stuff we never expected?

A friend of mine taught me a couple of years ago (during a very dark time)to be thankful PARTICULARLY for the bad stuff. I thought she was crazy at first. I immediately told her that there was no way I could thank God for the things that were making me miserable at the time. (There were a lot of them.) And, even if I offered thanks, I would be doing so insincerely...and God would know the difference, anyway. She insisted that I should do it; that I should repeatedly send up praise for every little thing that made me sad and angry and worrisome. Because I trusted my friend and because I was desperate to feel God at the time...I took her advice...and it took it fully. I audibly said "Thank You" to God probably 50-75 times a day. I said it after EVERY negative thought and every unpleasant spark of emotion. And I hated it.

Nothing changed at first, and the continuous task of expressing gratitude in my time of despair took a toll on my already fragile emotional state, and also on my patience. But, much to my surprise, it didn't take long to understand the advice she gave. Before long, I found that all the little ugly things didn't bother me so much...and I was soon able to focus more on the things that WEREN'T ugly. And then something else happened. I realized that I had been blaming myself for all the ugly things that I felt so burdened by. I had convinced myself that they were all, in one way or another, either directly or abstractly, the factor of my failure. But somewhere in my forced, concentrated thankfulness, I forgave myself. I wasn't even concious of it at the time...but it came to me in shallow waves of relief. As the miracle continued, I found myself more thankful...for life and for breath and for love and for opportunity...than I ever had been before. And my focus shifted to the beautiful and away from the ugly.

Since then, I've thought a lot about forgiveness, and I've learned how to forgive not only myself, but others. I know we think that all of us already know how to forgive, but it's an ability that we aren't born with. It's completely unnatural. It's a hard thing to learn; such a painful process...like riding a bike without training wheels. I had bruised legs...and a bruised ego...for months. The more I've forgiven...and the BIGGER I've forgiven...the more thankful I've become. This is partly the power of positive thinking, but mostly it's power that allows beauty to come into my life. I forgive...I let go...and great things follow. I don't even have to look for them. It's as if greatness automatically fills the space that my unforgiveness was once occupying...just like a commonplace act of nature.

If forgiveness can work such miracles in my tiny little life, then what other powers does it possess?

I just read a book called "Left to Tell". It was written by a woman who survived the Rwandan Holocaust by hiding in a bathroom for 3 months. Her entire family, with the exception of one brother, was brutally murdered during the genocide. She tells of the horrible things that happened in Africa during that time. Things that no human being should ever have to witness and endure. But what she talks about more is how she learned to forgive the people that put an entire country through Hell. She even forgave the individuals that slaughtered those she loved most. She instead chose to be thankful for survival and for her faith. This woman has gone on to achieve amazing things, and has spread messages of hope and healing to millions of people around the world. She would never have accomplished anything without forgiveness.

I think of Elie Weisel, one of the best known survivors of the Holocaust during World War II. He has spent years talking about forgiveness. I cry every time I hear him speak and every time I read his works. I cry not only at the emotion I hear in his voice and for the memories he wakes up to every day of his life, but for the way he has embraced life since that horrible time. He has credited much of his success to the power of forgiveness...and he,too, has changed many lives with his wisdom.

I could name dozens of other examples of extreme forgiveness, and all of them would tell a different story of lives changed. I believe that every single one of them would mention thankfulness as a key factor...a prominent outcome.

Being thankful really does transform us. It pushes us towards success, inner peace, and healthy relationships. It gives us hope and acceptance. When you think about it, it enables us to be "what we ought to be" (referring to the afore mentioned quote), doesn't it? Aren't those characteristics things that we "ought" to display? Wouldn't most people WANT those things?

We can look at all of this mathematically. Please keep in mind I have NEVER been good at math.

Pain + Thankfulness = Forgiveness
Forgiveness X more Thankfulness = Great things/things we WANT

So, if God really does care more about making us better people more than he cares about giving us our desires, he's actually killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that.

2006-11-16T12:49:00.004-08:00

It's interesting to me that this picture is posted on a Mullet Enthusiast Website because, really, the mullet is the last thing I notice.

I'll take the Botox, the Brow Lift, and a side of Vaginal Reconstruction

2006-11-15T08:06:00.000-08:00

There’s a new fad in the medical world, folks. Hymenoplasty. It’s actually been around for some time (although it’s news to me), but the popularity of the procedure is growing with fervor. Broken hymen, ladies? Well, here’s a new one for ya!

Apparently, women are taking advantage of this technology to attain a second chance at “virginity”. I put VIRGINITY in quotes because equating the concept of sexual purity with whether or not you happen to have an intact hymen is asinine. What a joke. If you’re TRULY concerned about your sexual purity, then surely you would understand that a little piece of skin really has nothing to do with it at all. I experience so many simultaneous emotions when considering all the ramifications of this subject…I don’t even know where to begin in expressing them.

This article (http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/05349/622923.stm) is almost a year old, but it covers a variety of different views on this matter. The quote…"It's the ultimate gift for the man who has everything," makes me want to vomit. And if you don’t understand all the reasons WHY it makes me want to vomit, then my explaining it to you would make no difference at all; you will never get it.

Spicing up a marriage? Wear some nasty lingerie. Experiment. Role play. Lose the baby weight and get more exercise. See a sex therapist. But please don’t resort to having your vagina surgically altered just so that it feels good for your husband….just ONE more time. If this is what he needs, then your problems are much bigger than you realize.

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 5

2006-06-21T07:47:00.000-07:00

I've received several recent requests for the next installment of the "Creepy Guy" series. I suppose it has been a while since I've done one. (..."done" an entry on creepy guys...not "done" a creepy guy. let me clarify.) The delay is not due to a shortage of encounters. There is, and always will be, plenty of creeps to go around. I just haven't thought to craft any recent encounters into a story. However, as I was watching the local news this morning, I was reminded of an encounter that I failed to report.

Several months ago I was forced to make a t.v. appearance to promote an event that I had planned for my now-former job. This event, by the way, caused me more stress than any other single element has caused me in my entire life. I truly felt that I was going to drop dead from a heart attack before it was all over with. Truly. Alas, I did not drop dead; in case you were wondering. Anyway, I did NOT want to do a t.v. interview, but it was either me or my boss. And, well, in cases such as those, it was always me. It was either that, or lose my job. Oh. Wait. Never mind.

I arrived at the studio early on this particular Saturday morning and attempted to fake my enthusiam for what was ahead. I HATE being filmed...especially on live television. As I walked in I wondered which anchor would be conducting my interview. Our city is not known for its outstanding news personalities. (Similarly, we're also not known for our high quality locally-made commercials.) I soon learned that one of the younger, more attractive; if there were such a category, anchors would be interviewing me. I had not met this one before, and I was immediately struck by his arrogance. It was not only blatant, but also completely unfounded. I couldn't help but wonder if he had done his own makeup that morning, or if there was a staff person specifically charged with the task. His foundation looked awful. Way too orangey for his complexion. His blush was too bright. Had he been wearing fake boobs and high heels, he would have been an ideal queen.

I'm a smart ass most of the time. When it comes to professional situations, however, I'm perfectly able to restrain myself. But there's something about arrogant men that brings it out in me. It doesn't even have to be obvious pomp. I'm like a bloodhound in this respect. If there's something subtle or non-direct that even hints at the scent of peremptoriness, I sniff it out with alarming proficiency. Because I smelled such an odor on this guy, I let several tarty comments slip out during our pre-show discussion. He laughed at something I said, and perhaps my sarcasm excited him, because his tone drastically changed at that point. He softened his eyes and gazed intently at me.

"Are you wearing vanilla?" he asked.

"Yes. I am, actually." I was, indeed.

"Oh my God. That smells so good. You smell delicious, really." (yes. delicious was what he said.)

I played it off. "Yeah. Haha. I always get comments when I wear this stuff." And, I do, by the way.

And then, before I knew it was coming, he smelled my neck. His nose actually touched my neck. Nose to neck. Neck to nose. And he let the nose linger there for several seconds before he pulled away. "Man, you smell good. What is that? Where'd you get it? Is it lotion or perfume? I've gotta get my wife some of that." And then he pulled the classic breast glance. Locked eye contact with me, let his eyes travel slowly downward, and then brought them back up to post-eye contact. We all know the move. Men and women alike. We know the move.

Before I could decide whether or not to respond, our turn was up and we were quickly shooed to our places under the heavy lighting. We were stationed on a fake kitchen set, at a high table with bar stools. I'm pretty sure I had a ceramic rooster behind my head somewhere. The cameras came on. During our interview, while his face was turned towards me and not at the camera, he did the glance several more times. When we went to commercial, he "helped me" undo my mic with a more gentle touch than was necessary. And as I was getting out of my seat, I happened to swing my head in his direction and caught him staring intently at my ass.

All I cared about at that point was that I had made it through the interview without making a complete fool of myself. And, honestly, I could care less who stares at my ass. But it still makes for a good story.

A Different Kind of Orphanage

2006-06-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

One of the peculiar details of my experience in being me is how particular themes seem to coat my thought patterns. This happens routinely and without fail. Does this happen to everyone, or is it just me? Sometimes I assume these themes are supernaturally planted by God in order to draw my attention to something that I wouldn't have considered otherwise. Sometimes I assume that it's just another product of my obsessive personality; my subconscious producing ideas that are either purposed to distract me or further fuel my preoccupation with some particular emotion or idea (just as dreams are often illuminating illustrations of what's REALLY going on in our heads).

The most recent subject on which I've been fixated is orphancy. Have you ever thought about why orphancy is such a common theme throughout history in various (if not all) religions and literature? In the bible alone I can find 7 stories that mention orphans by name, and that doesn't include the many times that the concept is referred to outside of those stories. Think about literary orphans that have been iconic and stable in the ever-changing world of popular culture: Annie, Oliver Twist, Pippi Longstocking, A Little Princess AND The Little Prince, Pollyanna (my blog's namesake), Tom Sawyer, Harry Potter, Anne Shirley (from Anne of Green Gables), Frodo Baggins, and Cinderella. Luke Skywalker grew up without parents, and so did Princess Leia. Spider-Man, Batman, and Superman were ALL orphans. Did you know that even James Bond was orphaned at a young age?

Is it that human beings are so enchanted by orphancy? I think it's just the opposite: I think we're terrified by it, and we always have been. This is one definition of the word orphan:

An orphan is a person (or animal), who has lost one or both parents, often through death. One legal definition used in the USA is someone bereft through "death or disappearance of, abandonment or desertion by, or separation or loss from, of both parents". Common usage limits the term to children, (or the young of animals) who have lost both parents. On this basis half-orphans are those with one surviving parent.

The words "abandonment", "desertion", and "separation" are so cold and scary; but they very accurately pinpoint how most of us relate to orphancy. Due to spiritual engineering, there is something inside of us that makes us NOT want to be alone. Our souls as well as our physical bodies need connection and support, and in the extremes of our imaginations, being an orphan means being without those things. Because, to most of us, the pain of this is so unfathomable, we tend to heroize those who know the pain personally. It's an inspirational concept...overcoming all that accompanies aloneness and reaching happiness when all odds are against you. All of the orphaned figures that we've looked upon with favor act as a reassurance that we, too, can triumph over the empty plates we've all been served. Yes, even WE can save an entire household or community or even Middle Earth in it's entirety despite our shortcomings. (Interesting to note that most of the literary orphans I mentioned did exactly that...they were saviors or martyrs or redeemers or superheroes...and none of them started out the confidence or knowledge to be so.)

I guess I started pondering all of this subconsciously about a month or so ago when I was feeling particularly lonely. The loneliness was present for a while, and, momentarily, it knocked the breath out of me. All of the sudden, every time I heard or saw anything having to do with orphans or adoption, my stomach would flip. I took it personally without even realizing it. I think all the while I was being nudged to analyze exactly what I'm writing about today. I needed to find encouragement in an unexpected form.

I've always said that I want to adopt at least one child...someday. In fact, I told some coworkers last week that if I'm still single with no children in 5 or 6 years, I may consider adopting on my own. I've always loved the idea of bringing home a baby from some far off place to give him/her a life that he/she wouldn't have elsewhere. Of course, the romantic ideal is adopting a child from a foreign country, but we all know that there are plenty of children on our home turf that need loving, capable parents. I've developed a very powerful affinity of racial diversity within families. And by "families" I don't necessarily mean in the traditional sense. This affinity was always there...but it's grown stronger. It's beautiful to me; beauty in its truest and simplest form...almost like a tiny (tiny) glimpse of Heaven. The beauty being that there is (seemingly) no end to our cultural and racial uniqueness. I want that kind of family, I think (given that I have the funds to care for them all). I want to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner and look into the faces of God's creative genius.

Even though most of us have at least one parent, we've all been abandoned by something or someone. We've all been lonely. We've all felt the ache of separation. And if you haven't, then I'm sure you've laid awake and feared it. So maybe orphancy isn't so unfamiliar. And maybe that's why we're all here...to adopt each other from time to time.

and, by the way, I don't feel lonely anymore...

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 6

2006-10-24T17:23:00.000-07:00

When it comes to car maintenance, I’m not the most efficient nor the most proactive gal around. This is something I need to work on. Are you happy? I’ve acknowledged it with my tail between my knees.

Need an example of my car maintenance procrastination? Until last Thursday, my windshield wipers were in a state of utter desperation. Sadly, they had been in that state for quite some time. The rubber blade on my driver’s side wiper had become completely detached except for a two inch section on the far left side. That two inches was enough just to keep the blade hanging, but every time I’d turn the wipers on, it would waggle (yes, waggle) and flap around the windshield; thus doing absolutely no good in the way of clearing rain from my field of vision. The only reason I got away with waiting so long to replace the faulty blade was because I use Rain-X fairly regularly. Anyway…it was sad and irresponsible and dangerous. And, worst of all, it only added to the already-semi-ghetto appearance of my little blue Saturn.

Along with the torrential downpours that plagued the city last week came my increased awareness that I needed to get off my ass and do something about my windshield wipers. My friend Marisa and I headed to Wal-Mart to get the job done. Most people could have purchased the wipers themselves and put them on without too much effort. I, however, managed to select the appropriate replacements, but needed assistance in the execution. There was a long line in the automotive department, so I asked a salesperson about the possibility of getting the help I needed. A mechanic by the name of Walter came up and cheerily offered to assist me. Not only would he attach my wipers, free of charge, he would also replace my brake light. Well, how nice!! We were quite pleased with his helpfulness and pleasant disposition. Who says you can’t get good service anymore?

After Walter completed his work, he asked if we would take him out for a beer when he finished his shift…to show our gratitude for his help. We assumed he was kidding, so we audibly…clearly… laughed him off and said something to the effect of “Maybe some other time, Walter.” And we went our separate ways. You would think that our response would have been enough to dampen his pride for the rest of the night.

I had forgotten all about Walter in the midst of my grocery shopping, and did not think of him again until Marisa and I were loading our purchases into my trunk. Walter, still on the job in the automotive department, spotted us and called out. “Something something about getting a drink!!??” was all I could make out. I looked at him, confused. He made his way towards us and shouted again. “We goin out for a drink, or what? You buyin me a beer?”

I just so happened to have bought a six pack of Dos Equis, and…again…still assuming that Walter is a harmless, joking kind of fellow, I pick one up and hold it out towards him. “Sure, you can have a beer,” Marisa said in her typical jovial and giggling voice. He had reached my car by this time, and suddenly shot us both an offended glare.

(Voice notably raised in irritation…) “No, seriously. You ain’t gonna take me out? You ain’t even gonna buy me a 24 ounce Bud?”

“Um….no. You’re welcome to one of these, though.”

Walter, with disgust and anger brewing in his beady little eyes, was almost yelling now. “You mean to tell me that after I took you in front of all those people and helped you out, you ain’t even gonna buy me a beer?” All friendly joking was gone. He was seriously pissed off, which seriously pissed ME off.

Having already placed the beer back in its package, I slammed my trunk closed and looked down at him (Walter was a scrawny, midget son-of-a-bitch.) with the meanest look I could muster. I briefly lectured him in my most growniest grown-up voice that he was doing his job by helping me and nothing more…that I owed him nothing but a “thank you”, if that…and added that he should get back to work and have a good evening while he was at it!! (I’m never as tough as I plan to be in my fantasies.) He continued to stand there, a foot away from my car, pissy and sulking, tiny chest heaving with rage, muttering something under his breath, as I shut the door and put the car in reverse. I should have run his butt over. Loser.

Note: if an attempt to snag a couple of girls by way of some cheap beer at a skanky bar does not seem to be going in your favor, your luck probably won’t improve by trying to convince them that they somehow OWE it to you. And if you’re a Wal-Mart mechanic, you can increase the rate of your likely decline by about 68% per attempt. (If you’re under 5 foot 3, go ahead and add in another 10% incresase.)

The 4 years I spent in college was SO worth it.

2006-11-13T17:08:00.000-08:00

The following are just a few examples of not-so-smart things I’ve done/said lately.

I mailed off a 2-week-belated birthday gift to my friend in New York. (A Rachael Ray cookbook.) I selected a super cute card that went PERFECTLY with the book, but apparently forgot to include it in the package. AND…I didn’t even put my name on the outside of the package. So, she didn’t even know who the gift was from; it was just a book in an envelope. Happy Birthday from the laziest friend you’ve ever had! (I still haven’t found the card and have no idea what I did with it, BTW.)

After showering, I decided that my itchy dry skin needed a thirst quenching application of lotion. I pulled out a bottle from my very disorganized lotion drawer, and squeezed a hearty amount into my hand. As I proceeded to cover my arms, stomach, and shoulders, I noticed that my skin wasn’t absorbing the lotion well. Why? Because it was shower gel, that’s why. I had to get BACK into the shower to rinse off, and was late for work at the end of it all.

While with David, I noticed some cool apartments that I wanted him to see. Tapping him with my bony finger as he drove, I said, “Hey, Building! Look at that baby!” Needless to say, he did not see the said apartments.

I went into the grocery store for Draino and toilet paper…only. I left the store with ice cream, aluminum foil, tampons, and a can of baked beans…only.

(Another shower story…) I stepped in fire ants. Unfortunate. Painful. Fully dressed, I jumped into the bathtub to rinse off the excruciating fire ant venom. Of course, I didn’t know that the shower nozzle was still on and when I turned the cold water on, I was drenched. My feet hurt so badly that I couldn’t even concentrate enough to turn the water off or to step out of the tub. No outfit makes you feel sexier than a pair of wet jeans and a wet hoodie.

I popped some brownies into the oven and went about my business doing very important things. 30 minutes later, it occurred to me that my apartment was NOT filled with the heavenly aroma of baking chocolate. Going to investigate, I realized that I had never even turned the oven on.

My supervisor put a report in my box that listed a few tasks that I was working on for a particular client. In hindsight, I can say that it was CLEARLY a report that needed to be signed and handed back to him, although at the time, I didn’t get that. I read it and acknowledged in my head that I had, in fact, completed all listed tasks. Good! I then crumbled it into a ball and threw it away. More than a week later, my supervisor asked whatever happened to that report he gave me about such-and-such. Oh. “Yeah. Um, I’m gonna need another copy of that.”

I made some temporary “friends” during a 7-hour-long airline fiasco that revolved around cancelled and delayed flights. Towards the end of our adventure together, one of them mentioned the name of the company they both worked for. “Company A”. I perked up a bit…and quickly shared that my boyfriend works for “Company B”. They both looked at me, then looked at each other, then looked back at me as if to say “…AND…???” I went on to excitedly explain that “B” is closely related to “A”. That, in fact, “A” is really the parent company of “B”.

They looked confused and proceeded to ask me questions about this mysterious “Company B”. They had never heard of it. Feeling the need to defend myself and my boyfriend’s company, I shared with them all the knowledge I had about “Company B”. And…let me tell you what a BigGirl I felt like as I went on and on about what the company specializes in. My new friends finally decided that I seemed to know what I was talking about, but I knew they were still suspicious because they had no knowledge of this “Company B”. Someone graciously changed the subject, and I didn’t give another thought to the conversation.

I finally reached my destination…late and frazzled…and was dragging my butt through the airport when I saw a sign for my boyfriend’s company. It said “Company C” in big, bold letters. Aww. That’s nice. It took me about 3 seconds to realize, with humiliation, that I had wrongly referred to “C” as “B”, and no wonder my airport friends thought I was a moron. As my mind continued to right itself, I came to another embarrassing conclusion. “Company B” was not the name of an existing company at all, but the name of a prescription drug used to treat schizophrenia and other mental illnesses, of all things. (The name of the drug and of the company are similar....)

I know what you’re wondering, and NO, I don’t take any such medication.

I need to be cooler, and it's all up to YOU.

2006-11-10T08:23:00.000-08:00

Okay. I need help.
I'm not COMPLETELY computer illiterate, but I do struggle from time to time with the technical stuff. I am somewhat able to manage my site template to make minor changes, but the big stuff leaves me confused.

So, what I want to do is create some type of cool "masthead". (...across the top of my page...I've been told this is what it's called.) Either that, or insert some large(r) graphics on my sidebar. I've been reading up and tinkling with my template from time to time, but I've obviously not had much luck. I know some of you MUST know how to do this because your own sites look spiffy and fancy.

Please share your knowledge with me, even if it's only out of pity!!!

I'll never look at Tenacious "D" the same way again

2006-11-09T08:18:00.000-08:00

This morning...around 4:45 am, I woke up from one of the most terrifying nightmares I’ve ever had. It was gruesome, bloody, and life-changingly disturbing. It was so horrible, in fact, that I had to turn on all the lights, the t.v. in the living room, and the radio in my bedroom just for the sake of distraction. I sat up in bed and prayed for a solid hour before I finally fell back asleep. (I’ll spare you the details of the dream. I’ll even spare you the concept. I did share them with my coworker this morning, however, and he was more than eager to interpret the meaning for me. His insights actually gave me a great deal of clarity, and I’m sure I’ll be obsessing over what he said for the next week or so.)

Anyway…as awful as the nightmare was, it ended in a rather amusing way. It was me and Jesus…dancing the waltz. That I was dancing with Jesus wasn’t the funny part. It was quite beautiful, really, considering what had happened previously in the dream. No, the funny part was that “the role” of Jesus was played by Jack Black. Jack Black…looking up at me with those beady eyes and that goofy little crooked grin of his….reciting scripture and assuring me that it was all going to be okay. Surprisingly, I found tremendous comfort in this.

Again, I’m reminded that God REALLY does have a sense of humor. I love that about God.

The horse is dead. Really...he's a goner. You can put the bat down now.

2006-11-08T17:42:00.000-08:00

I love my coworkers (all 9 of them). We're like family. We care about each other. Support each other. Make each other laugh. And, just like family, we often argue and pick on each other like adolescent brothers and sisters.

One of the ways in which we as a group remind me of a family is the way we NEVER let things lie. Like my own family, for example: every one of my family members thinks it's uproariously funny to mention "The Allison Hug" at every family gathering. "The Allison Hug" refers to the alleged way I used to hug them. It was a limp hugging style...bodies not touching...mostly involving hands gently patting on the upper back. What can I say? It was during my middle school years...when I didn't like to be touched. I'm a loveable, enthusiastic hugger NOW, and that's all that should matter. Or, how about the way my mother refers to milk as "golly-ga" or "gulp" when my brothers are around just because that's how they pronounced it 30 years ago or so. It's really not that cute any more. I guess all families do this, right? Please tell me that all families do this!! If I can't believe that, then I'll be pushed a little closer towards insanity.

So, had I fully realized way back in June what the familial nature of our staff is/would be, I may have avoided setting myself up the way I did. After I had been working here for a few weeks, we had a day-long staff retreat at a local plantation home/conference center. At that point, I hadn't yet revealed myself as the smart-ass that I am. I usually try to reveal that in small doses so to not scare people off, you know? I let it out in small tufts...like air slowly escaping a balloon.

We had a full day planned; every mintue already occupied on the schedule. An "expert" speaker had been recruited. Games would be played. Planning would take place in grand form. Good food would be eaten...constantly...all day long. Everyone was milling around when I arrived...drinking coffee and casually chatting. Renee, my boss, was standing by a table alone, organizing her papers. I walked over to her to say good morning. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I spoke in a very serious voice.

"Renee, I have something kinda special planned. I've been practicing an interpretive dance that illustrates the importance of teamwork. I have music with it and everything. When do you think we might have time today for me to perform this?" Still serious. No smile on my face. I don't have a clue why I say these types of things to people. I never plan it. It just happens. I think my sense of humor has me wired like someone suffering fromTourette's Syndrome.

She was obviously shocked. The look on her face showed that she was locked in an emotion somewhere between confusion and panic. I could tell that part of her wanted to laugh, but the professional side of her told her that she COULD'NT laugh; not to my face, anyway. Her eyes darted around searching for somewhere nearby that had overheard because she knew immediately that, later on, she would want someone to laugh WITH.

"Oh! Okay. Well..." All she could get out were one-word sentences. She was searching her brain for an answer, but one failed to come to her. Feeling guilty for her struggle, I admitted that I was only joking. She was so relieved that her eyes literally welled up with tears as she laughed. It was just "the funniest thing" she had ever heard. She HAD to run and tell the others what I had said. And right then and there, I was named "the funny one".

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind being "the funny one". It's better than being "the smelly one" or "the one that lingers too closely" or "the one that picks her nose when she thinks nobody is watching". But my coworkers have used the dance incident to get a chuckle about 375 times since then. Any time we have a meeting or a special event coming up, it's inevitable that someone will suggest that Allison "prepare a dance" for the occassion.

Renee has even spread rumors of my liturgical dancing skills to our board members and volunteers. She usually does this in front of me...and she'll nudge me and say "Tell 'em, Allison! Tell 'em the story. You guys are gonna love this!" This always leaves me in an awkward position to explain that it was all just a silly, spontaneous joke. For some reason, this seems to confuse non-staff members. Most of them half-giggle politely, pretending to get the humor in the whole thing. But I know that under the surface they think I'm an idiot.

Or, then again, maybe I'll just stick to kitty cats and goldfish.

2006-11-07T17:15:00.000-08:00

It never ceases to amaze me how many parents there are in the world that really have no business at all being such. It’s truly alarming. Disturbing. We’ve all suffered the wrath of poorly disciplined children in restaurants and grocery stores and shot judging glares in the direction of their complacent mothers and fathers. It seems that lately I’ve been inclined to shoot a horrific number of these glares.

An example: A few weeks ago I was at a Chinese restaurant with a friend of mine when I witnessed a disturbing sight. A group of 6 or 7 small children was roaming the place under no supervision whatsoever. Their parents (several sets of them) were dumpy looking fat-asses, apparently too absorbed in their own gorging to pay attention to their spawn. Instead of accompanying the kids to the buffet or, better yet, choosing their food for them, they were left to wander the bar area as freely as they chose…picking shrimp up one at a time and popping them into their mouths…poking their fingers in the orange chicken…and making things float in the sweet and sour soup. (I know….another buffet story. I told you have an issue with these.)

The sight that angered and concerned me most was the 2 year old that visited our table more than a few times…usually to hand me a piece of eggroll or a fortune cookie message she’d happened upon. Not only did the parents of these brats not CARE what was going on; they couldn’t even SEE them because they were seated in another room entirely. I could’ve taken off with that baby and nobody would have ever known. (In fact, I tried to. But she smelled like pooh so I took her out of my purse and sent her on her way.) Every time I attempted to look in their direction to stare at them judgingly, they were lost in open-mouth-full-of-half-chewed-crap conversation. I ended up complaining to the cashier that I was appalled they let children tear through their restaurant with no supervision. He was completely confused as to why I would be annoyed by such a situation and had nothing of satisfaction to say back to me.

And then, on the other hand, there are parents who pay quite a bit of “attention” to their children; but the outcome is equally as alarming to me. My office is located immediately next door to an elementary school. Being in a poor urban neighborhood, most of the children that go to this school live close by in the community, and a good many of them walk to and from the school every day unaccompanied by an adult.

There’s one mother that picks a large group of children up every afternoon when the bell rings. She’s a monster of a woman; large, loud, and scantily clad. On a daily basis we hear her walking in front of our building, screaming obscenities at the tykes around her. She calls them a variety of vulgar names and often makes physical threats. Sometimes, when those two methods don’t get their attention, she’ll take off her shoes and throw them directly at the back of one of their heads or grab them by the bicep and shake them violently. I’ve heard some of my coworkers let out a chuckle at the sight of this and say “Well, at least she’s walking home with them. Most parents don’t even do that.” I can see the logic in such a comment, but it’s really just sad to me that our society is so quick to negotiate on standards of appropriate parenting.

I know I’m not a parent yet and some would say that I, therefore, have no right to judge the parenting styles of others. But it just seems like common sense to note how many people SUCK at being mothers and fathers. I don’t understand why we can’t do more about this problem. You have to pass a test to drive a car or to work in a fast food restaurant. You have to fill out a stack of forms and sign waivers to get a hunting license. Foster and adoptive parents are required to go through weeks, months, or even years of interviews and supervision in order to be “given” a child. So why is it that any idiot or sack-of-trash can pop out as many kids as they want to without any outside force determining whether or not they’re capable of such a responsibility? The older I get, the more intolerant I become of insufficient parents. Maybe it’s my maternal instincts starting to bloom. (Which I guess should be reassuring because I always wondered if they would ever bloom at all.)

Of all the potentially-future events and/or situations I occasionally and/or frequently feel unnecessary anxiety over, motherhood isn’t one of them. (Pregnancy is another story completely, however. We’ll discuss that at another time.) I’m mostly confidant that I will be a good mother, if I’m blessed with the opportunity one day. Yes, I’ll probably be overprotective. Being a “mother” to Bridget has already shown me that. Yes, I'll be strict in the areas of housekeeping and personal hygiene. And yes, I’ll threaten to sell my kids to gypsies when they piss me off. I may even seriously contemplate doing so. But other than that, I think I’ll be alright.

I’ll be one of those “cool moms”. You know the kind. Not the “cool kind” that gives the neighborhood kids sex advice. Not the “cool kind” that barges into the classroom, hair in a scrunchee, unlit cigarette in hand, to cuss out the teacher when he/she complains about her child’s poor behavior. I’ll be the kind that makes homemade chocolate chip pancakes for dinner on a Tuesday. The kind that makes them laugh so hard, milk squirts out of their noses. The kind that will dance in the rain in her socks and pajamas. The kind that doesn’t stifle creativity. The kind that establishes it’s OKAY to make mistakes; in fact, it’s propitious. The kind that puts plastic fruit in their lunchboxes on April Fool’s day (I stole that one from my aunt.). The kind that listens to great music…even when she’s over 40. The kind that doesn’t wear elastic-waist pants or “mom jeans”. The kind that really loves their father…and isn’t afraid to show it. The kind that loves her kids so much that they have no choice but to go out into the world spreading the superfluous love to others.

And God forbid that I’ll EVER be one of those mothers that people shake their heads at in public as they mumble to their friends what a joke I am; that my children are hellions that need a good spanking. I shouldn’t even publish this because I’m sure that, one day, far in the future, my kids will find this and present it to me as some type of bribe. They’ll use it as proof that I vowed to be “cool”. The only comeback I’ll have is a weak, non-original one like “Because…I told you so! Yeah, that’s it! Because my rule is law!” And then I’ll have to send them to bed without their dinner just to reinforce my authority.

And don't you just love it when their little bloated bellies are covered in flies? It's to die for!

2006-11-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

I frequently wear a white rubber braclet on my left wrist. You know the kind...it's the trendy thing to do now. (Not that I'm all that trendy, honestly.) Lots of people wear rubber braclets that serve as statement for or against a variety of things. (i.e. FOR Lent, FOR Abstinence, FOR macaroni and cheese, AGAINST regular noodles sans cheese.) My braclet is worn in support of ONE . ONE is a quickly-growing campaign to end worldwide poverty. (as stated on their website...ONE believes that allocating an additional ONE percent of the U.S. budget toward providing basic needs like health, education, clean water and food would transform the futures and hopes of an entire generation in the world's poorest countries. ONE also calls for debt cancellation, trade reform and anti–corruption measures in a comprehensive package to help Africa and the poorest nations beat AIDS and extreme poverty.)

I joined the campaign a while back, as did some of my coworkers. I sign online petitions from time to time that are presented to governing bodies. I keep up with what's going on around the world in efforts to reduce debt in third world countries. And the best part? I occassionally get emails from people like Will Smith and Matt Damon filling me in on ONE news. This, of course, makes me feel delightfully special despite the fact that these emails are sent to every ONE member and are probably not written nor even read by the people whose names are attached to them. (But, I like to picture Matt Damon, on his couch with his laptop, sitting indian-style in his sweatsuit and socks, typing away a personal message to lil'ol me.)

I was wearing said rubber braclet one day recently when I girl I know started eyeing it.

"So, what's the braclet for?" She touched it; rotated it around my wrist. "ONE. What's that?"

I eagerly explained to her the mission of ONE and that I wear it to remind myself of the condition of the world and that I should do something...ANYTHING...on a daily basis to contribute to the needs of others.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "That's SO cute!"

I stared at her blankly for a moment before I spoke. I'm sure I rolled my eyes. I may have even drolled a little bit through my gaping mouth. "Cute? Worldwide poverty is CUTE? Billions of people don't have food to eat. Millions of children in Africa are orphaned and homeless. Dozens of people die every single minute in impoverished countries due to AIDS, a lack of nourishment, lack of shelter, and poor healthcare. Yeah, that's cute. It's toddler-with-teddy-bear, kitten-tangled-in-yarn, Susie's Zoo-on-a-onesie cute. It's f-ing adorable, really."

I wonder how she herself didn't choke on the dusty dry sarcasm in my voice. Who knew that a symptom of ignorance is a super-saturated throat?

ONEbyONE

2006-10-25T08:12:00.000-07:00

Here's another old one...posted exactly a year ago. I haven't thought of anything new to say about Halloween that's particularly amusing and/or interesting. So, kids, this will have to do for now.

Smell My Feet

Halloween was not a holiday that I looked forward to as a child. Sure, I liked to dress up; that was the part I liked. My mom made a costume for me almost every year. I wanted to be a clown more times than not, and I think my mom encouraged it because it was an easy costume to put together. My first grade year, I was a ballerina. I was kinda fat that year (I suppose from residual toddler pudge), and the pink leotard I wore made me look like a pig in a tutu. Another year, I was a hobo (again..an easy costume). I found an old Japanese Kimono of my grandfather's in a box a coupla years later. I wore it with white powder/red lipstick/hair in a bun....the whole deal. Not exactly p.c., right? I always wanted to wear the supercool costumes with the plastic masks and paperthin fabric I saw at KMart, but my mom would never buy me those.

The trick-or-treating part was okay. I liked walking door to door asking for goodies. I never managed to eat the goodies I worked so hard to attain, though. I was supposedly allergic to chocolate as a youngster (my mom made me eat carob instead), so all the really good candy was passed on to my brothers. And all the nasty chewy kinds made me gag (still do). So I was shit outta luck, as they say. Emptying my plastic jack-o-lantern was always anti-climatic unless I happened to find a flimsy spider ring or a Burger King certificate for free fries.

Everything else about Halloween made me extremely uncomfortable. I was the epitome of "wuss"....unnaturally terrified of anything meant to be even remotely scary. I would work up the nerve every year to watch the Garfield Halloween special...and that felt like a huge accomplishment to me. The only thing that was actually scary about that show was the bad animation, but it was about all I could handle. I ventured into my school's haunted house in 3rd grade (eerily constructed in the Art room under the stage in the auditorium), and it took me months to recover. Any T.V. commercial that featured spooky music freaked me out. Every snippet of clip from a cheesy horror flic sent me screaming into the other room. Most kids saw Halloween as a time to be someone or something other than themselves....a time to experience the thrill of chill bumps and racing hearts. I just saw it as another opportunity for something REALLY horrible to finally do me in. It was inevitable. I just knew it. Sooner or later the BoogeyMan from the Ghostbusters cartoon would bust through my closet door, stomp his cloven feet over to my bed, and steal me away forever. Freddy Kruger would dare him to make it extra torturess. Of course, this monsterous fate could have come about at any time of the year, but it was MUCH more likely to occur on October 31st.

Funny thing is...I was also scared of Santa Claus.

creativity is NOT always a good thing

2006-10-19T13:23:00.000-07:00

Thought you couldn't eat corn in a sandwich?

Well, you were wrong. You were SO wrong.

It's quite possible that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

2006-10-18T08:12:00.000-07:00

There are 3 things in particular that are bothering me this morning.

1. You know the commercial about depression…with the sad music and the grey-shaded scenes and the people who truly look as if they’ve hit rock bottom? Well, there’s this doggie in that commercial that is sitting in front of his depressed owner…and they zoom in on his little doggie face…and he cocks his head to one side as if to say “I’m confused. And sad. And worried. Why won’t you play with me? Don’t you love me anymore? And, hey! I really need to pee!” Yeah, so….every time I see that little dog, my eyes well up with tears, and I nearly loose it.

What? Which part is the part that “bothers” me? Well, all of it, really. The idea that I “nearly loose it” when watching a commercial is what is most bothersome, though, don’t ya think?

2. All of the clothes in my closet have somehow, mysteriously and suddenly, transformed into ugly, unshapely garments that nobody over the age of 16 or under the age of 40 should ever consider wearing. How did that happen?

3. K-Fed is referred to as an “artist”. Who the hell made that decision?

Yet another reason why I should probably be in therapy

2006-10-17T08:32:00.000-07:00

Me: “Yeah, so…don’t forget that David will be here this weekend. I guess we can all go to lunch or something.”

My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”

The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.

The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”

I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.

My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”

Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.

2006-10-12T18:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, yeah. Here we are--not watching football--and quite happy despite it (or maybe because of it). The only reason I did'nt post the picture in the previous entry was because blogger is a pigheaded bastard and wouldn't do what I told it to.