Since Byron is in Cleveland for a few days on business, Nate and I are on our own for dinner. While this typically involves making Nate's favourite Daddy-Is-Away meal of spaghetti and sprinkle cheese, last night, Nate decided he wanted Burger King. Since I enjoy a nummy have-it-my-way Whopper every now and again, I obliged.
Off we went to our local Burger King, which is attached to a gas station (so you know it's classy). There weren't very many people in the restaurant area - a single person sitting off to the side and then a family of three sitting near the play area. Balancing our tray of freshly-made meaty goodness, Nate and I headed over to the enclosed play area, walking past the family of three. As I approached their table, I noticed something on the floor. It looked like mud... but then I smelled it.
Sitting right there on the floor, no more than three feet away from this family's table, was a big schmear of dog poo.
Yes, you read that right. DOG. POO.
And not non-smelly dog poo, either. I deked around it, but I could definitely smell it, and so could Nate. I wondered, how could this family sit there? Surely, they would alert the staff. It's dog poo... someone will take care of it, right? RIGHT?!
Sitting in the play area, I was able to observe the dog poo and other patrons' reactions to it (or lack thereof) from a safe, non-stinky distance. While Nate played in the hamster maze structure, I watched as a couple of men sat down adjacent to the dog poo. No reaction. Then the family of three departed, stepping over or around the poo schmear several times (I caught my breath a few times when it looked like the daughter might step right in it... the suspense!). No reaction. A family of FIVE then arrived and sat at the table right next to the poo. They clearly noted the presence of the dog poo on the floor, BUT SAT THERE ANYWAY. Several times, the dad went up to the counter but it was apparently not because of the poo, because no one came out to clean it up. One of the kids went up to ask for some towels. I was hopeful... but he just used them to wipe off the table At one point, someone from the staff actually went over the family-of-five's table, spoke with them, and then returned to her post. In order to accomplish this, she had to step over the poo TWICE.
In other words, despite the clear presence of stinky dog poo on the floor, no one seemed fazed by it. I started to question just how gungy the Burger King must normally be that no one was bothered by the fact that there was actual feces on the floor. I wondered whether I was being Punk'd, or whether they were filming one of those episodes of Dateline NBC where they present some really abnormal or abhorrent situation, then show how apathetic people are to it. I mean, it's DOG POO. On the floor of a RESTAURANT. Where they serve FOOD. And no one - staff, customers - seemed to care. What alternate universe had we stumbled into?
Eventually, Nate finished playing and we headed for the exit. But I stopped. Maybe I wasn't being punk'd. Maybe Dateline NBC wasn't filming. Maybe the staff just didn't know. I approached the counter and the girl who had taken our order asked how she could help me. Awkwardly, I told her that there was some, um, stuff on the floor over by the play area, which I thought might be dog poo.
She stared at me.
"Dog poo?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied. "Dog poo. It looks like dog poo, and it smells like dog poo, and it's been there a while so I'm really just surprised that no one has mentioned it yet."
"But we don't allow dogs in the restaurant."
And this was when I realized how it had come to pass that a schmear of dog poo, which had existed on the floor for an undetermined period of time before my arrival and had existed for an hour since my arrival, had remained on the floor for as long as it had. It was just completely beyond the realm of reason to everyone who encountered it that it was actually dog poo. After all, this is a restaurant which doesn't allow dogs in the facility. Surely, there would not be dog poo on the floor in such an establishment.
But at the end of the day, if it looks like dog poo and smells like dog poo, whether it is supposed to be there or not, it's probably dog poo. And someone - preferably someone on the staff - should clean it the f&$# up.
As Nate and I got into the car, I looked back into the Burger King. The area by the dog poo was vacant. No one had approached... it was not being cleaned up, and it appeared that the girl I'd told about it had just gone back about her business behind the counter.
I wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing... whether I'd truly wandered into another dimension... A dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity... the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, which lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. A smelly, yet tasty, dimension of flame-broiled imagination. An area which we call...
The Dog Poo Zone.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Slice Up the Fruitcake
A month or so ago, a friend of mine posted an article on Facebook about a toddler who had been struck by a car after escaping her mother’s care in a busy alley roadway, who was then ignored by multiple other vehicles and passers-by before a woman finally stopped to pull the girl from the street and seek help. As some of you may already know, the child succumbed to her injuries and passed away in the hospital.
I am not retelling this story simply to depress you on a random Tuesday… though I recognize this may occur anyway. I mention it because it seems somewhat representative of the sad state of affairs in our world today. I mention it because the priorities in that street on that day were clearly out of whack. Just how busy does one need to be to justify stepping over an injured toddler in the street? Just how perishable were those perishables?!
Need more evidence that common decency has generally gone off the rails? How about Jerry Sandusky and the entire Penn State football debacle? And it’s not just Penn State… similar assaults occurred at the Citadel by a rising star and were ignored. Catholic church, anyone? “We can’t risk our rep, people! Kids be damned, we can’t risk our rep…”
Then there is the high school football coach in Wyoming (Why-oming? Why not!) who decided to take on the bully issue in his school by handing out a “Hurt Feelings Report” form to his students. Bullied students could check boxes marked “I am a pussy”, “I have woman like hormones”, “I am a queer”, “I am a little bitch”, or “I am a cry baby” as the reason for the complaint. The same “report” then solicited the “name of ‘real man’ who hurt your sensitive little feelings”. If I started to list all of the ways this was wrong and/or offensive, it would take me completely through the pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. But the worst part is that HE STILL HAS A JOB AS A GUIDANCE COUNSELOR. What the f…?! I suppose if it doesn’t work out for him in Why-oming, he can always go to Michigan, where bullying is against the law unless it’s religiously or morally motivated. I suppose Michigan forgot that, back in the day, some people thought interracial marriage was immoral, and that slavery was sanctioned by God… In other words, “Screw you, victims! So what if you are psychologically scarred! We have our own (flawed) interpretation of God's word and morality on our side! Woot!”
The economy is in a shambles. Our political leaders have largely abandoned the helm and are letting the crazies steer the ship (maybe they use the down time for their insider trading activities?). At least one current candidate has defended himself against allegations of sexual harassment by pointing out all of the women he has NOT sexually harassed (ummm….?) and suggesting that for successful executives, accusations of sexual harassment are as normal as filling out your annual benefits election form. And judging by the Penn State scandal (not to mention the abuses within the Catholic church and other esteemed institutions), our police and other community leaders have apparently abdicated their duties and left the children to fend for themselves. And then there’s Kim Kardashian. KIM. KARDASHIAN. (Shudder.)
I guess what I’m saying is that, while it may be a bit earlier than usual and we still have a week until Thanksgiving, I think it’s time to haul out the holly. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lb9OVjlEZho I don’t know about you, but I need a little bit of cheer right now… depending how the rest of the year goes, I may need to mainline candy canes and egg nog until New Year’s. For, recent events have caused me to grow a little leaner (in spirit if not in physical form… drat!), grow a little colder, grow a little sadder, and grow a little older (which I really DO NOT NEED right now). I need a little angel sitting on my shoulder! I need a little music, need a little laughter. I need a little singing ringing through the rafters. I need a little snappy “happy ever after”, because god knows that the little girl in the street in China, the kids in the Second Mile program, the bullied students in Why-oming, and poor, clueless Kris Humphries didn't get one (well, maybe Kris did...). It’s time for some reaffirmation that humanity hasn’t completely gone to hell in a handbasket. Yes, we need a little Christmas, right this very minute! We need a little Christmas NOW.
Who’s with me?
Friday, October 14, 2011
On Absence, Fondness and Moonwalking
Wow! It's been a while. I bet everyone (all four of you out there) missed me. Well, I'm glad to be back. After all, sometimes a little absence is just what it takes to make the heart grow fonder.
I should know. Over the last month or so, I've found the speakers to my car stereo and iPhone are more and more frequently pounding out the music of some of my old faves. Michael Jackson, AC/DC, Run DMC... as it turns out, Nate loves 80s music. Every time he puts on 'Bad' or 'It's Tricky' (which, admittedly, has been one of his go-to-favourites for a while now), my mind wanders down those old, abandoned trails to the days when I first heard them. And then I feel old. REALLY old. But I still smile, because absence has made my heart grow fonder and, well... I still love Michael Jackson's music.
I have to admit that I still get a little bit giddy at Halloween when I just KNOW the Thriller video will be played. And I always do my creepiest voice along to Vincent Price's part... mwaaaa haa haa ha! I marvel at Michael's effortless contortions in the videos for Beat It, Billie Jean, Remember the Time, and (among the best for his dance performances, in my view) Smooth Criminal. I remember fondly those days when I would try to moonwalk down our wood-floor hallway in my slipperiest socks... and I recall in particular one neighbourhood garage sale when every other house had a table of Michael Jackson keychains and trinkets. I ran out of money before I hit the end of the block!
In any event, last weekend, after listening to 'Bad' in the car at least a million times, I finally pulled out our nifty little tablet thingy and searched Vevo for Michael Jackson. http://www.vevo.com/search?q=michael%20jackson&content=Videos They don't have the full cache of his videos, but they do have Bad. I called Nate over, and he, Byron and I cuddled on the sofa while we watched Michael strut his stuff and take on a scrappy ne'er do well in an empty train station. Then, Byron and I watched (and recorded) with glee while Nate recreated the steps in front of the fireplace. He didn't seem to take a shine to the pelvis grab-and-thrust (I feel like that may come later, like when he's a teenager), but he definitely nailed the head whip, the arms-out-to-the-side-defiant-pose-with-shouty-face, and the shuffles.
Since then, I've gone back to Vevo and watched most of the other available videos. My love of Michael Jackson's music and my admiration for his talent has returned, in full force. Michael's right. It doesn't matter if you're black or white. As it turns out, you are not alone. And it sometimes helps to just sit back and remember the time, back when Billie Jean may or may not have been my lover, back when we were all bad and each day was a thriller. There are always going to be some days when you wanna be startin' somethin' because that smooth criminal over there has made you feel like they don't care about us, but instead you just get on the floor and go off the wall, or take a good hard look at the man in the mirror and scream. You think about those who may be gone too soon, which may make you think there ain't no sunshine and you'll never be able to heal the world. But you've got a friend. We've got a good thing going, and no matter what happens, I'll come home to you, because we've got forever. Absence has indeed made my heart grow fonder.
You, my loyal fan(s), may have worried "she's out of my life", but I'm back, baby. I'm back. Can you feel it? Is your heart fonder? Mine is.
I should know. Over the last month or so, I've found the speakers to my car stereo and iPhone are more and more frequently pounding out the music of some of my old faves. Michael Jackson, AC/DC, Run DMC... as it turns out, Nate loves 80s music. Every time he puts on 'Bad' or 'It's Tricky' (which, admittedly, has been one of his go-to-favourites for a while now), my mind wanders down those old, abandoned trails to the days when I first heard them. And then I feel old. REALLY old. But I still smile, because absence has made my heart grow fonder and, well... I still love Michael Jackson's music.
I have to admit that I still get a little bit giddy at Halloween when I just KNOW the Thriller video will be played. And I always do my creepiest voice along to Vincent Price's part... mwaaaa haa haa ha! I marvel at Michael's effortless contortions in the videos for Beat It, Billie Jean, Remember the Time, and (among the best for his dance performances, in my view) Smooth Criminal. I remember fondly those days when I would try to moonwalk down our wood-floor hallway in my slipperiest socks... and I recall in particular one neighbourhood garage sale when every other house had a table of Michael Jackson keychains and trinkets. I ran out of money before I hit the end of the block!
In any event, last weekend, after listening to 'Bad' in the car at least a million times, I finally pulled out our nifty little tablet thingy and searched Vevo for Michael Jackson. http://www.vevo.com/search?q=michael%20jackson&content=Videos They don't have the full cache of his videos, but they do have Bad. I called Nate over, and he, Byron and I cuddled on the sofa while we watched Michael strut his stuff and take on a scrappy ne'er do well in an empty train station. Then, Byron and I watched (and recorded) with glee while Nate recreated the steps in front of the fireplace. He didn't seem to take a shine to the pelvis grab-and-thrust (I feel like that may come later, like when he's a teenager), but he definitely nailed the head whip, the arms-out-to-the-side-defiant-pose-with-shouty-face, and the shuffles.
Since then, I've gone back to Vevo and watched most of the other available videos. My love of Michael Jackson's music and my admiration for his talent has returned, in full force. Michael's right. It doesn't matter if you're black or white. As it turns out, you are not alone. And it sometimes helps to just sit back and remember the time, back when Billie Jean may or may not have been my lover, back when we were all bad and each day was a thriller. There are always going to be some days when you wanna be startin' somethin' because that smooth criminal over there has made you feel like they don't care about us, but instead you just get on the floor and go off the wall, or take a good hard look at the man in the mirror and scream. You think about those who may be gone too soon, which may make you think there ain't no sunshine and you'll never be able to heal the world. But you've got a friend. We've got a good thing going, and no matter what happens, I'll come home to you, because we've got forever. Absence has indeed made my heart grow fonder.
You, my loyal fan(s), may have worried "she's out of my life", but I'm back, baby. I'm back. Can you feel it? Is your heart fonder? Mine is.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
You Pledge Allegiance to the Whaaa?
We live in a time of pledges. Sorority and fraternity pledges. Pledges to charity fundraisers. Pledges here, pledges there. Throw a rock in any direction and you’ll hit a pledge of some sort. Of course, the newest pledge on the scene - the new pledge on the block, if you will - is the political pledge, and it’s all the rage for our legislators to sign them. And sign them they are… in droves! In some of these pledges, our government representatives commit to an ideological platform; in others, they commit to vote “yes” or “no” on a particular issue. While it seems to me that the majority of the pledgors are on the conservative side of the aisle, I'm certain some lefties are signing them as well. Regardless of the party or pledgor, all of these pledges are drafted by special interest groups. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
For what it's worth, I am not a special interest group.
Sadly, I am just a voting citizen who wants to know that I still matter, and that my voice will be heard. I am aware that my elected representatives and I will not always come to the same conclusion, and believe it or not, I’m okay with that. But I at least want to know that they are willing to hear me out if I have something to say. So with this blog posting, I officially throw my pledge hat into the ring. If you like it, feel free to send it to your federal, state or local representatives and ask for their signature. I call it it the...
Pledge to Do My Job
I, [Insert name here], commit to my constituents that I will do the following:
- Unless I was elected by a 100% margin without a single vote cast against me as a candidate, I pledge to remember – and to remind myself periodically, and if necessary, to hire someone to remind me repeatedly – that I represent a group of citizens with views as diverse as the day is long. Whether I personally agree with these citizens or not, I recognize that, as their representative, it is my duty - nay, obligation! - to listen their concerns, respect their perspective, solicit their viewpoints, gather the information necessary to make an informed decision (including, where necessary, engaging experts in the field to provide objective guidance), and to collate that with the concerns, perspectives and information gathered from my other constituents before making any decision, announcing any “final” position on a matter, or casting any vote. I further pledge that in executing this duty, I will not supplant either the best interests or the prevailing viewpoint of my constituents with my own personal perspective or belief. I recognize that I am but one individual within my district, and at all times I pledge to speak and act for those I represent, not only myself. Even if I intend to run for national office (e.g. President of the United States), I expressly acknowledge that until such time that I win a national election, the people who reside outside of my district are not my constituents, are already (presumably adequately) served by one or more other representatives within the legislative body, and are not the citizens on whose behalf I have been elected to serve.
- I pledge that I will diligently, efficiently and in good faith work to develop and pass legislation. I recognize that I have been elected in order to serve as the voice and arm of the people, not to stand as a fixed and immovable object of obstruction. In meeting this obligation, I pledge not to 1) erect false walls of objection to any piece of legislation or policy which rely on weak or non-existent factual foundations for support, 2) take absolute positions which do not allow me to negotiate in good faith, 3) call for “leadership” or “a grown up in the room” if I have no intention of personally and affirmatively answering the call on this particular issue, 4) highlight the failures of the opposing party or others with whom I disagree, unless I highlight my own past and current failures in the same regard with equal prominence, or 5) engage in inflammatory rhetoric which serves no legitimate legislative purpose. Rather, I pledge to 1) gather the information necessary to make an informed decision, 2) listen to the concerns, perspectives and viewpoints of my constituents, 3) engage experts on the subject matter who can provide objective guidance, 4) analyze the legislation or policy which is up for debate, and 5) cast an informed and deliberative vote. I will, at all times, engage in good faith negotiations, without using any tactics which would or could be considered to be undertaken in or indicative of bad faith bargaining.
- I pledge to prepare my own talking points for any interviews I grant or speeches I make, based exclusively on the views and opinions of my constituents and objectively provable facts. When presented with talking points prepared by any special interest group or representatives of my political party, I will provide a full, unredacted copy of those talking points (along with a complete disclosure as to their source) to my constituents, either in paper form by mail to every household within my district, by providing a copy of the talking points to the local media and/or newspaper for publication, by posting the talking points to my website, or by any combination thereof. Unless I independently arrive at the same talking points by the process described above, I agree not to speak, directly or indirectly, from talking points provided by special interest groups or representatives of my political party without full disclosure of the source of those talking points.
- I hereby confirm that I have not previously signed any pledges, and I pledge not to sign any pledges in the future, which would be directly or indirectly inconsistent with or contradictory to the commitments I have made to my constituents in this pledge.
- In the event that I no longer wish to be bound by this pledge, I will personally, directly and publicly make the following statement: “I, [Insert name], hereby advise the citizens who reside within my district – previously known as my “constituents” – that I no longer represent all of you, but rather [choose one or more of the following options]: (a) wish to represent only the will and interests of certain special interest groups or a limited group of citizens, including but not limited to [insert names of special interest groups, or description of citizens sufficient for your constituents to identify or discern their political beliefs], (b) prefer to substitute my own personal judgment for that of the citizens within my district, (c) have decided to answer only to my political party’s national organization and therefore intend to vote the 'party line' from now on. I remind you to consider this fact in the next election cycle when deciding which candidate deserves your vote.” This statement is to be repeated in full in at least one television commercial scheduled to air during prime time on each of the primary television networks (ABC, CBS, NBC, Fox) on the night before the next election.
I acknowledge that failure to meet the obligations set forth in this pledge may result in the loss of confidence or votes of my constituents, and may rightly subject me to ridicule.
Signed,
_______________________________
[Insert Name]
[Date]
Monday, June 27, 2011
On a Universal Truth
There are some fundamental, universal truths in this world. Kittens are adorable. Meetings always take at least twice as long as they need to. Only the good die young. The list goes on and on. But the one on my mind today is this: tan fat looks better than pale fat.
I realize that uttering these words out loud (or typing them into my blog silently) constitutes dermatologic heresy. We are told – ordered, even! – to slather ourselves with 1,000,000 SPF sunscreen and to wrap ourselves from head to toe in sun-resistant garments, lest we spontaneously combust in a painful, melanoma-riddled flame. Failing to wear adequate waterproof sunscreen, appropriate shielding garments and floppy hats can, in some circles, subject you to branding with a scarlet “S” (for “sunburn”…. keep up, please).
Do I reject this guidance? No. Do I disagree with the science? No! I accept that sunbathing, particularly sunbathing that results in sunburns, is harmful to your health. http://www.skincancer.org/Sunburn/ I do my best to keep my son appropriately doused in 50 SPF sunscreen, even though (despite my best efforts) he is and always will be a little bronzed god, and I dress him in long swim trunks and a protective swim shirt so conservative in nature as to be evocative of only the trendiest swim clothes from 1877’s summer couture collection. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Punch_-_Masculine_beauty_retouched1.png I accept that it is my fate, as a woman of German and Polish descent, to be (eventually) relegated to the shadows to live out my life in semi-translucent, permanently-freckled seclusion. I have a dermatologist who tells me once a year to avoid the sun because it puts me at risk for skin cancer, but who also tells me that, for the most part and thanks to my days frying in pure coconut oil and working down south, the damage is done, really… all we can do is hope for the best. He tells me that tanning beds are the bane of his existence, and that he hopes eventually we women all get the message that “pale is beautiful.”
But then he tells me that, if I insist on having a tan, I should get it through one of the spray-on or rub-on self-tanners.
And therein lies the problem.
If pale truly is beautiful, why immediately suggest the alternative? Because he knows that it isn’t really beautiful, at least not for so many of us, and certainly not as the term “beautiful” is currently defined. To a doctor, a tan may suggest increased risk for melanoma, but to a woman getting ready for a hot date, a tan represents the ability to wear a strappy black dress without looking like a character from an Anne Rice novel. http://www.amazon.com/Complete-Vampire-Chronicles-Interview-Lestat/dp/0345385403/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1309201820&sr=8-1
If pale truly is beautiful, why immediately suggest the alternative? Because he knows that it isn’t really beautiful, at least not for so many of us, and certainly not as the term “beautiful” is currently defined. To a doctor, a tan may suggest increased risk for melanoma, but to a woman getting ready for a hot date, a tan represents the ability to wear a strappy black dress without looking like a character from an Anne Rice novel. http://www.amazon.com/Complete-Vampire-Chronicles-Interview-Lestat/dp/0345385403/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1309201820&sr=8-1
Whether we like it or not, being pale is (still) associated with fragility, illness, poor nutrition, and a lack of energy. There’s a reason the phrase is “deathly pale” and not “deathly tanned.” Look up “pale” in the dictionary and you will find such inspiring synonyms as “dull,” “faded,” and “washed out.” When you’re already struggling with a little extra junk in your trunk, do you really need that kind of associational baggage packed into your Spanx? Hell, when I pressed him on the topic, even my dermatologist acknowledged that tan fat looks better than pale fat. For some reason, a chunky booty looks less, um… chunky… if it’s got a nice tan to it. Those dangly arms? Somewhat less dangly when they’ve been kissed by the sun. The muffin top you’re toting around above your belt line? You show me a muffin top that looks better when it’s pasty (nay... uncooked!) and I’ll show you a lovely invisible suspension bridge I’ve got to sell you between New York and London.
At the end of the day, I don’t know why tan fat looks better than pale fat. It just does. Universal truths don’t need to be proven or explained, and sometimes they are just so true that they are incapable of proof. They are universal truths because they are – regardless of explanation or origin - true.
If you don’t believe me, just ask the kittens. http://www.cutelittlekittens.com/
Sunday, June 19, 2011
El Camino Inca
About a dozen years ago, my dad and I went to Peru together. We had been talking about how cool it would be to hike the Inca Trail for months (perhaps years), and then one day, he said "we should go to Peru." And then poof, it happened. We went to Peru.
It was an awesome trip. We started in Cusco, a city that served as the capital of the Inca empire. Our first day there, we decided to head to the square for dinner. We took a wrong turn out of our hotel - literally, we turned left instead of right - and ended up in an area that was most definitely not the bustling square, but rather was an other-side-of-the-tracks local neighbourhood, filled with... well, locals... wondering why we were wandering around looking so annoyingly chipper and (I am guessing) pasty. Resigning ourselves to the fact that we were not destined to find the square at that particular moment, we popped into a local deli for some soup and bread. I wish I could say that the soup was the most exquisite soup I've ever eaten, but it was really kind of scary. But then again, so was Dad's, and we were in it together, so I pretty well figured if I was going to die of some weird uncooked-food-poisoning thing, at least I was in good company.
We got more directionally savvy as the trip progressed, and once we found the square, he and I ate some fabulous meals together. We also saw some really amazing sites: Sacsayhuaman (the puma-head-shaped fortress built by the Incas right outside of Cusco), the Catedral de Santo Domingo (with images of the enslavement of the Inca people carved into the wood pews), the Temple of the Sun (stripped of much of its gold by the Spanish Conquistadores), the ruins along the Inca Trail, Machu Picchu at sunrise, the hordes of (lazy!) travelers taking buses to Machu Picchu... the list goes on. We also shared the most awesome Snickers bar ever, sold to us by a little kid who materialized out of nowhere on the Inca Trail, just as we hit peak fatigue and were ready to start eating small vermin along the trail from a serious case of trail munchies.
But the coolest thing I saw on the entire trip was my dad. There he was, completely out of his element in so many ways, but also completely in his element in so many others. He moved effortlessly from dad ("Let it go... so they like their money straight and untorn... why does that bother you so much today? You know, if you lived in Peru you might value nice looking currency, too.") to trail mate ("I think we should try cuy... how often do you have the chance to eat one of your childhood pets as a delicacy?"), then back to dad ("We need to get your mom a Mother's Day card or she's going to be really pissed.") then back to soul traveler ("No, really, I'm going to get my hair cut here. Let's see what they can do!") over and over throughout the trip. I got a small glimpse of what my dad is like as a person. Imagine that... a real person! No, seriously! It's true! Parents are actual people, too! (I know. I didn't believe it either, until I saw it live and in person.)
I don't know whether he looks back with the same level of fondness as I do for that trip; after all, I did (as he puts it) "bitch my way up the mountain," so it may not have been quite as fun for him to be around me as it was for me to be around him. But when I think of Peru, I think how cool my dad is, and how lucky I was to have had him all to myself for a couple of weeks in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and how lucky we were to have survived the scariest soup known to man. But we survived it together (the soup and the mountain), and that's what matters.
Happy Father's Day, Ratty!
It was an awesome trip. We started in Cusco, a city that served as the capital of the Inca empire. Our first day there, we decided to head to the square for dinner. We took a wrong turn out of our hotel - literally, we turned left instead of right - and ended up in an area that was most definitely not the bustling square, but rather was an other-side-of-the-tracks local neighbourhood, filled with... well, locals... wondering why we were wandering around looking so annoyingly chipper and (I am guessing) pasty. Resigning ourselves to the fact that we were not destined to find the square at that particular moment, we popped into a local deli for some soup and bread. I wish I could say that the soup was the most exquisite soup I've ever eaten, but it was really kind of scary. But then again, so was Dad's, and we were in it together, so I pretty well figured if I was going to die of some weird uncooked-food-poisoning thing, at least I was in good company.
We got more directionally savvy as the trip progressed, and once we found the square, he and I ate some fabulous meals together. We also saw some really amazing sites: Sacsayhuaman (the puma-head-shaped fortress built by the Incas right outside of Cusco), the Catedral de Santo Domingo (with images of the enslavement of the Inca people carved into the wood pews), the Temple of the Sun (stripped of much of its gold by the Spanish Conquistadores), the ruins along the Inca Trail, Machu Picchu at sunrise, the hordes of (lazy!) travelers taking buses to Machu Picchu... the list goes on. We also shared the most awesome Snickers bar ever, sold to us by a little kid who materialized out of nowhere on the Inca Trail, just as we hit peak fatigue and were ready to start eating small vermin along the trail from a serious case of trail munchies.
But the coolest thing I saw on the entire trip was my dad. There he was, completely out of his element in so many ways, but also completely in his element in so many others. He moved effortlessly from dad ("Let it go... so they like their money straight and untorn... why does that bother you so much today? You know, if you lived in Peru you might value nice looking currency, too.") to trail mate ("I think we should try cuy... how often do you have the chance to eat one of your childhood pets as a delicacy?"), then back to dad ("We need to get your mom a Mother's Day card or she's going to be really pissed.") then back to soul traveler ("No, really, I'm going to get my hair cut here. Let's see what they can do!") over and over throughout the trip. I got a small glimpse of what my dad is like as a person. Imagine that... a real person! No, seriously! It's true! Parents are actual people, too! (I know. I didn't believe it either, until I saw it live and in person.)
I don't know whether he looks back with the same level of fondness as I do for that trip; after all, I did (as he puts it) "bitch my way up the mountain," so it may not have been quite as fun for him to be around me as it was for me to be around him. But when I think of Peru, I think how cool my dad is, and how lucky I was to have had him all to myself for a couple of weeks in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and how lucky we were to have survived the scariest soup known to man. But we survived it together (the soup and the mountain), and that's what matters.
Happy Father's Day, Ratty!
Friday, June 10, 2011
An Open Letter (#weinergate)
Dear Men Who Send Pictures of Their Bits to Women:
I write on behalf of myself and all of the women out there in the world today who, upon hearing that some football player, politician or other random famous person has emailed, Tweeted, Facebooked or otherwise electronically sent a photo of his junk to a prospective hook-up, reflexively (when we finish laughing) say to ourselves (and anyone else who will listen), "why would you ever do that?"
Contrary to what you might think, as a general rule, women aren't really all that fascinated with your penis - at least not as fascinated as you might think we are. This is not to say we don't like that you have a penis, or that we do not ever want to see it or otherwise engage with said penis. No; what I mean is that, barring extraordinary circumstances, we usually don't feel like we need a photo of it, and it is exceedingly rare that we need a photo of it to pop up, unannounced, on our Twitter feed, in our SMS Text inbox, or in a Facebook chat box. No matter how awesome the photo (or the subject) is, we are probably never going to hang your "masterpiece" on our living room wall, above our bed, or even in our garage. Rather, we will store it on our mobile device, and whip it out at the bar after a night of drinking to show our girlfriends what this jackass we met on Facebook sent us, as if we wanted or needed such a photograph. Or, as many of you have discovered firsthand, we will save the photo until it is least convenient and helpful to you, and then send it to Andrew Breitbart or any other media outlet that is willing to pay for it or give us enough publicity to assist us in getting a book deal. Or to your wife. You remember her, right? Riiiiigght....
Of course, as I mentioned, there are exceptions to the rule - i.e. "extraordinary circumstances" - in which sending a photo of your bits might be warranted. For example, if you had unprotected sexual intercourse with a woman, then a week later, discovered something that looked like cauliflower growing from the shaft of your penis, by all means, snap a picture and send it to her she she can show her doctor what to test for. Similarly, if you have an unusually small or large penis, you might want to send a photo (upon her request only, after making the appropriate verbal disclosure) so she can either get her giggles out of the way before you come over, or do some sort of kegel exercise to prepare for the impending sexual armageddon.
Absent such extraordinary circumstances, there is really no need to send us a picture of your penis (or, for that matter, any body parts that are directly penis-adjacent). Really. However, let me also be clear that I, like many women, can totally get behind sending a woman a nice picture of your non-penile/non-penile-adjacent physique, especially if you are in the habit of "meeting" women on Twitter or Facebook; after all, it's completely reasonable in that circumstance to provide some sort of evidence that, while you may be too lazy to go out to a bar to pick her up the old-fashioned way, you are not, in fact, too lazy to run a few laps or lift some weights.
We've all seen what can happen when you send pictures of your nether-regions to women, and now that you understand our perspective on the whole "digi-bits" issue, consider yourself on notice. To paraphrase the line from Field of Dreams, "If you send it, we will laugh... and then we will send it to everyone we know."
Cheers,
K
I write on behalf of myself and all of the women out there in the world today who, upon hearing that some football player, politician or other random famous person has emailed, Tweeted, Facebooked or otherwise electronically sent a photo of his junk to a prospective hook-up, reflexively (when we finish laughing) say to ourselves (and anyone else who will listen), "why would you ever do that?"
Contrary to what you might think, as a general rule, women aren't really all that fascinated with your penis - at least not as fascinated as you might think we are. This is not to say we don't like that you have a penis, or that we do not ever want to see it or otherwise engage with said penis. No; what I mean is that, barring extraordinary circumstances, we usually don't feel like we need a photo of it, and it is exceedingly rare that we need a photo of it to pop up, unannounced, on our Twitter feed, in our SMS Text inbox, or in a Facebook chat box. No matter how awesome the photo (or the subject) is, we are probably never going to hang your "masterpiece" on our living room wall, above our bed, or even in our garage. Rather, we will store it on our mobile device, and whip it out at the bar after a night of drinking to show our girlfriends what this jackass we met on Facebook sent us, as if we wanted or needed such a photograph. Or, as many of you have discovered firsthand, we will save the photo until it is least convenient and helpful to you, and then send it to Andrew Breitbart or any other media outlet that is willing to pay for it or give us enough publicity to assist us in getting a book deal. Or to your wife. You remember her, right? Riiiiigght....
Of course, as I mentioned, there are exceptions to the rule - i.e. "extraordinary circumstances" - in which sending a photo of your bits might be warranted. For example, if you had unprotected sexual intercourse with a woman, then a week later, discovered something that looked like cauliflower growing from the shaft of your penis, by all means, snap a picture and send it to her she she can show her doctor what to test for. Similarly, if you have an unusually small or large penis, you might want to send a photo (upon her request only, after making the appropriate verbal disclosure) so she can either get her giggles out of the way before you come over, or do some sort of kegel exercise to prepare for the impending sexual armageddon.
Absent such extraordinary circumstances, there is really no need to send us a picture of your penis (or, for that matter, any body parts that are directly penis-adjacent). Really. However, let me also be clear that I, like many women, can totally get behind sending a woman a nice picture of your non-penile/non-penile-adjacent physique, especially if you are in the habit of "meeting" women on Twitter or Facebook; after all, it's completely reasonable in that circumstance to provide some sort of evidence that, while you may be too lazy to go out to a bar to pick her up the old-fashioned way, you are not, in fact, too lazy to run a few laps or lift some weights.
We've all seen what can happen when you send pictures of your nether-regions to women, and now that you understand our perspective on the whole "digi-bits" issue, consider yourself on notice. To paraphrase the line from Field of Dreams, "If you send it, we will laugh... and then we will send it to everyone we know."
Cheers,
K
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