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

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/

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!

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

Cincinnati "Paradise"

Birds calling to each other.

Unidentified critters pawing their way through the woods.

An occasional breeze pulling through the leaves.

The plinky tune of an ice cream truck futilely making its way through my neighhourhood, searching for children who are either at baseball games or safely tucked away in the comfort of their air conditioned homes.

The grind of a chainsaw competing with the whirrr of a nearby weed whacker.

The distant throttle of a Harley, undoubtedly ridden by a helmetless good ol' boy with a ZZ Top beard.

Sitting on my deck, I close my eyes, hoping for a moment of peace to relieve the headache that is forming behind my eyes.  Nate and Byron are at a kiddie birthday party, and I am, for the moment, alone.  As the noise of the chainsaw overtakes the chirping of the birds,  I remember my days "down south," when the lapping tide was never more than a few hundred meters away.  Nostalgia calls, and I find myself wondering why, oh why, did we ever think that "real life" was so appealing?

Of course, even then, the graceful sound of waves licking the sand was not without interruption.  In Mexico, I rarely had any time to just lie quietly and relax; rather, my strongest memories of relaxation are of friendly gatherings on the beach, and the sound of French, Spanish and English conversations blending with each other and with the sea breeze and water.  In the Bahamas, the silence of the dock was punctuated with radio chatter between the boats, or the call of our Chef du Sport, Saber, to my boss, Jean-Paul:  "Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Saber"  Repeat.  Then, finally, with a sarcastic tone, "Oui, Sabeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr.... qu'est-ce qui se passe?"  In Cayman, home-brought lunches on the beach were frequently interrupted by needy tourists asking what time the next boat went out, where they could rent a floaty, or why the parasailing people were taking such a long break.  Of course, in Cayman at the Hyatt where we worked, there was also incessant pounding of hammering and machinery from the construction of a new hotel unit on the beach.

Even with all of the interruptions, though, there was still peace, quiet and comfort in a form that simply doesn't exist here on my deck nestled in the trees.  Because when you tuned out the conversations, the radio chatter, the tourists and the construction, all you heard was the water, all you felt was the sunshine, and you knew you were in paradise, or damn close to it.  But when I tune out the ice cream truck, the chain saw and weed whacker, and the good ol' boy's Harley, I still know I am in Cincinnati, 15 minutes from work, arm's length from my laptop, two rooms away from my blackberry, and seemingly light years from an ocean.  I may love it here, but it is no paradise.

The Cat's Out of the Bag

Makeup is illusion.  It is the mask with which women (and some men) present a more ideal face to our adoring public.  Makeup can give us confidence that we are putting our best face forward, not our “I didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night” face,” or our “This is what I look like after a night of drinking” face,” or our “Blotchy skin and undereye circles run in my family” face.  And for many women, their hair speaks volumes, whether they use a volumizing conditioner or not.  Sleek and straight says one thing; curly and wild says another.  Sporty pigtail braids fall into a separate category than a headband or a scarf.  A perky, high ponytail sends a different message than a conservative, low ponytail.  In light of all of this, can someone out there please explain to me the rationale behind coming into work without your makeup and hair done, then standing in the office bathroom for a half hour to do it?

The only explanation I have heard which makes any sense is that it saves the woman some time in the morning to get ready.  While I am wholeheartedly in favour of finding any reasonable way to get an extra half hour of sleep, and I will readily admit that I go through a daily post-alarm assessment of things I can do which would allow me to hit the snooze just one more time, this “method” just seems unethical: why should your employer have to pay for you to make yourself presentable?  Because, let’s "face" it, that’s precisely what is happening, ladies!  Think about it.  You are being paid by your employer for your time at work.  And you are taking that time – time that should, at least in theory, be spent working – to get ready... time that your fellow co-workers who came to work already made up are spending doing the business of the day!  Did you come to your job interview without your hair and makeup done, then proceed to put the finishing touches on while exchanging pleasantries and providing more detail about your experience?  If you didn’t, then I think it’s fair to say that your employer reasonably expects you to show up for work with all of that prep work done already.  I mean, you wouldn’t show up to work in your pajamas and then get dressed in the bathroom, would you?  Isn’t it just a basic expectation that when you arrive at work, you are dressed and ready to go, and that you don’t need to spend the first half hour doing what should have been done at home in front of your own bathroom mirror?

Besides the myriad equitable arguments against this little “system,” we can’t ignore its biggest (in my view, its most fatal) flaw: by the time you get into work, get settled, perhaps take a conference call or two and eventually wander into the bathroom to put on your makeup and do your hair, people have already seen you in your “base” state.  Why bother?  It isn’t like you’re fooling anyone.  We’ve all seen you without the corrector and foundation to even out your skin tone.  We are aware that your eyelashes are thin and that your eyes don’t “pop” naturally.  We’ve seen your frizzy, bed-head hair (seriously, can you please just run a comb through it before you leave in the morning?).   And now we know what products you use, which for some reason, just seems like more information than I need to have about some of my colleagues.  In any case, we are not impressed with how fabulous you look when you (finally) walk out of the bathroom ready to shine, because we’ve seen your unfabulous, shineless head already.  

The cat’s out of the bag.  Don’t waste your time trying to stuff it back in.

30 Day Song Challenge

Because I am an overachiever, I have completed the 30 Day Song Challenge in a single day.  You may now bow down before me and admire my extraordinary capabilities.

Day 01: Your favourite song (of all time):  Hotel California (Eagles)
Day 02: Your least favourite song:  Torn (Natalie Imbruglia)
Day 03: A song that makes you happy:  Blame It On the Boogie (Jackson 5)
Day 04: A song that makes you sad:  My Immortal (Evanescence)
Day 05: A song that reminds you of someone:  In Your Eyes (Peter Gabriel)
Day 06: A song that reminds of you of somewhere:  Please Don’t Go (Rick Astley)
Day 07: A song that reminds you of a certain event:  Wonderful Tonight (Eric Clapton)
Day 08: A song that you know all the words to:  Ice Ice Baby (Vanilla Ice)
Day 09: A song that you can dance to:  Hold It Against Me (Britney Spears)
Day 10: A song that makes you fall asleep:  Anything from the Chant album (Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos)
Day 11: A song from your favourite band:  April 26, 1992 (Sublime)
Day 12: A song from a band you hate:  Doll Parts (Hole) 
Day 13: A song that is a guilty pleasure:  Take It Off (Ke$ha)
Day 14: A song that no one would expect you to love:  Cowboy (Kid Rock)
Day 15: A song that describes you:  Bitch (Meredith Brooks)
Day 16: A song that you used to love but now hate:  Everything I Do (I Do It For You) (Bryan Adams)
Day 17: A song that you hear often on the radio:  Judas (Lady Gaga)
Day 18: A song that you wish you heard on the radio:  Tonight Tonight (Hot Chelle Rae)
Day 19: A song from your favorite album:  Santeria (Sublime)
Day 20: A song that you listen to when you’re angry:  You Oughta Know (Alanis Morissette)
Day 21: A song that you listen to when you’re happy:  Like a G6 (Far East Movement)
Day 22: A song that you listen to when you’re sad:  Call and Answer (Barenaked Ladies)
Day 23: A song that you want to play at your wedding:  Just the Way You Are (Bruno Mars)
Day 24: A song that you want to play at your funeral:  Ripple / Brokedown Palace (Grateful Dead)
Day 25: A song that makes you laugh:  Fuck You (Cee Lo Green)
Day 26: A song that you can play on an instrument:  Fur Elise (Beethoven)
Day 27: A song that you wish you could play:  Hungarian Rhapsody (Liszt)
Day 28: A song that makes you feel guilty:  Criminal (Fiona Apple)
Day 29: A song from your childhood:  Yellow Submarine (Beatles)
Day 30: Your favourite song at this time last year:  I Like It (Enrique Iglesias)

One free candy bar (winner's choice!) to anyone who can answer all of the following questions about my list (guesses are welcome in the comments section):

• Who am I reminded of in the Day 5 song?
• You'll notice Sublime is on the list twice; what is my favourite Sublime song of all time?
• What place am I thinking of when I hear the Day 6 song?
• What event do I recall when I hear Day 7?
• What song on this list is the only song that I danced to at my senior prom?
• Of the following groups/bands from the list, which one have I NOT seen live:  Hole, Alanis Morissette, Barenaked Ladies, Sublime

An epiphany

This Sunday, I awoke to the pitter patter of Nate's little feet running down the hall in his excitement to tell me it was time to make our Mother's Day brownies.  I opened my cards and gifts (flowers and a gift card for Caribou from Nate, so we can stop there on the way to the day care - guilt-free! - for hot chocolate and coffee), then after putting the brownies in the oven, kicked around the house until it was time to get ready for my "official" Mother's Day treat: a sojourn at the Woodhouse Spa for "aroma bath ritual," to be followed by a 50 minute massage.  Aromatic oils, flower petals, soothing music, a massage... what more could you ask for, right?

Well...

So there I was, in my white bathrobe and spa sandals, sipping a glass of ice water and all ready to relax.  My masseuse came in to greet me and led me back to the aroma bath ritual room (which sounds a lot scarier than it actually is... I'm pretty sure there have not been any ritual sacrifices or anything in there, but then again, I didn't ask).  We walked into the room, past the privacy screen, and voila!  There was a lovely old-school soaker tub, already filled with fragrant hot water and flower petals.  My masseuse explained how things would go (I was to get in the tub, relax, and then after about twenty minutes, he'd check on me to make sure I'm not dead and give me a five minute warning to get out and onto the massage table for part two of my decadent Mother's Day aroma bath massage session), then quietly slipped out of the room.  And this is where the wheels started to fall off.

I stood there, looking at the flower petals floating in the water, and couldn't help but think that this is exactly the type of tub they had at Tao.  My tub had less flower petals, but basically, it was the same thing.  Tub.  Check.  Water.  Check.  Flower petals.  Check.  Hot semi-naked girl?  Hmm.  I was a little giddy about the prospect of pretending to be a gorgeous, glammed-up tub-sitting girl for a little while, and dipped my toe into the water.  It was a little hot for my taste, but it's all part of the Tao - I mean, Woodhouse - experience.  I eased myself into the tub, and came face to face with a harsh reality: I am too damn tall.

It's not that I was too tall for the tub.  No, even the tallest of the tall can smoosh into a bathtub one way or another, and quite honestly, this one was pretty deep.  Rather, I realized that I am too tall to have successfully sat in a bathtub at Tao (or anyplace else) with flower petals covering my girl parts without basically lying down.

Had I simply come to this realization and moved on with my life, the next fifteen minutes might have been more enjoyable, or even mildly relaxing.  Instead, I spent the whole time squinching this way and that, moving the flower petals here and there, adding water to see whether that might help (it did cool the temperature down, which was helpful, albeit in a totally different way), trying to find at least one coquettish-yet-mostly-covered position that might look even remotely attractive to an outside observer.  Nothing worked.  And worse yet, I discovered that my boobs are not big enough to get the flower petals to "stick" at my bustline the way the Tao girls' boobs did, which, if memory serves, was how they were able to sit up in the tub themselves.  No... the petals just floated sadly around the surface, fruitlessly searching for something to land on.  I even sat up and tried to stick the flower petals directly onto my skin to see if that might help.  It didn't.  I either needed more flower petals, more boobs, or both.  Or maybe waterproof glue.  But definitely something.

When my masseuse knocked on the door to give me the five minute warning, I could barely contain my relief.  And that was when I had my second epiphany of the day: there are probably lots of reasons why I never got a career as a tub girl at Tao (or any other club) off the ground, and while it's a bit depressing in a vain, I'm-getting-old-and-that-really-sucks kind of way, that's really okay.  Tub sitting isn't for everyone, but then again neither is being a lawyer, or Nate's mommy, or, you know, an awesome like a possum Mother's Day goddess with a 50 minute massage ahead of her and homemade brownies waiting on the counter at home.