I have a lot to say but haven't formulated the words and/or modes to say it. Stuff with Biblical feminism, woodworking, etc.
Nugget today:
Energy bill is in the Senate, to be voted on today.
Ugh.
Do you really want more nuclear power plants built? How about major tax breaks for the oil and coal industries? Little or no relief from the prices at the pump? There are better solutions.
Call your Senators.
Call the White House (202/456.1414)
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
A Series of Irresponsible Events
Friday my friend from camp called to say that Doodle was flying in that night and would I like to go to the airport to pick her up? Doodle and I are two of the five "originals" of camp; we were part of the staff of five years ago that has grown into what camp is today. If camp were the US, we'd be the Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison and Franklin of the bunch. So somehow (through no fault of our own) we've developed a sort of legend status. I know, laugh it up. Doodle was to arrive at 9pm, and thus at 8 I stopped the work I was doing on my dresser (another story entirely) and got ready to go to Dulles. My friend called: flight delayed til 9:30. Called again, 10:30. Ok, 11. A tad frustrating but understandable. So my friend (who, if you haven't noticed, has remained nameless) decided in the interim to head to Winchester to go out for drinks with some friends. Before going to the airport in the opposite direction. I questioned it as well. So when she finally called me she had left the restaurant late and had two young guys in tow. I pointed out that with Doodle this would be five people in her car, but she didn't seem to notice. So my friend and these two guys show up at my house at 11 and I open the car door to find these two guys (who, incidentally, are barely 18) with open beers in the car. They had brought a six pack for the 40 minute ride to my house were down to one full can. I will not, in any circumstance, ride around with underage people with open containers. Like that adds a whole new dimension to idiocy. So I told them to pour 'em out. They balked. I affirmed. They muttered, grunted and poured. My legend status shrank considerably. I had to take their five empty cans into my house so that they wouldn't be rolling around the back of my friends car. I was dumbfounded. Here we were, in the county with the most cops per capita in the state, in a state with some of the strictest drunk driving and open container laws in the country and these guys told me I just needed to relax and chill. I was too much of a "goody-goody". It is rather strange to go from the most liberal of one group of friends to the most conservative of another.
They didn't speak to me the rest of the ride to the airport. We got Doodle, she wondered why my friend had the two drunk, underage guys with her as well and validated my stance. When I had to crawl into the back seat to ride between the two fun boys, I had to move the leather pouch of pot and a bowl so I could buckle my seat belt.
At first I wondered if I was just getting too old for that sort of thing, but then I realized that I don't think I was ever ok with any of that. My sense of good ideas and bad ideas has usually governed me away from situations like that. Then I looked at my friend and wondered how she was ok with any of it when I was so uncomfortable.
Doodle and I caught up on jobs, families, pets, rent/morgages and car payments. I realized that the other three could not contribute to the conversation and I got self-conscious, right around the time Doodle and I were discussing our Medical and Dental plans. I could tell the guys were scrutinizing these two legends who work basic 9-5 jobs when Doodle piped up and said, "I wonder which is better: working a steady job that pays for time off to do the activities we love, or doing the activities we love for a living and then being too burned out to do them in the spare time? I think it's a draw." We don't live in the tent village anymore, we don't live by the seat of our pants, we have roots and relationships and investments and payments and insurance. I'm not saying we are better, we are just older and I think it was a sort of wake up call for both sides. The Lost Boys grow up at some point.
They didn't speak to me the rest of the ride to the airport. We got Doodle, she wondered why my friend had the two drunk, underage guys with her as well and validated my stance. When I had to crawl into the back seat to ride between the two fun boys, I had to move the leather pouch of pot and a bowl so I could buckle my seat belt.
At first I wondered if I was just getting too old for that sort of thing, but then I realized that I don't think I was ever ok with any of that. My sense of good ideas and bad ideas has usually governed me away from situations like that. Then I looked at my friend and wondered how she was ok with any of it when I was so uncomfortable.
Doodle and I caught up on jobs, families, pets, rent/morgages and car payments. I realized that the other three could not contribute to the conversation and I got self-conscious, right around the time Doodle and I were discussing our Medical and Dental plans. I could tell the guys were scrutinizing these two legends who work basic 9-5 jobs when Doodle piped up and said, "I wonder which is better: working a steady job that pays for time off to do the activities we love, or doing the activities we love for a living and then being too burned out to do them in the spare time? I think it's a draw." We don't live in the tent village anymore, we don't live by the seat of our pants, we have roots and relationships and investments and payments and insurance. I'm not saying we are better, we are just older and I think it was a sort of wake up call for both sides. The Lost Boys grow up at some point.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Morning Poo
I got this email from my friend Sean, who is teaching English in Japan. Sean is a tall kid with shaggy hair and a deep baritone voice and is not typically prone to bouts of goofiness like this, which makes the following story all the better:
"I arrive at one of my two elementary schools and I'm told that there will be an assembly on "healthy living". I thought oh real fun. Although my attention span for listening to Japanese has increased over the year, listening to two hours of it kills me. So I get to the assembly, sit next to some of my students and begin to zone out. Half an hour passes, I catch the occasional phrase, drink milk, go to bed early and eat your vegetables...So you can have your morning poo....My ears pick up....What did the school nurse just say? Now my attention has returned. Did I hear wrong? Did she just say that you need to have a healthy morning poo? oh yes. She did.
Now my Japanese is not great, but I know enough to know she said morning poo. In fact, literally translated, it was good morning poo. I wait and sure enough, comes the talk on the ohayoo unchi (good morning poo). Three children bring out a big flipbook, illustrating the life and path of jiro, the morning poo. It is jiro`s job to explain how poos are formed, what to eat to have a good, healthy poo, what color your poo should be (brown it turns out). I am not joking when I say that someone had drawn pictures of a boy taking a poop. The story was narrated by some 4th, 5th and 6th grade students, Jiro being voiced by a 6th grade boy who delivered his lines without cracking a smile. In fact, no one laughed at the fact that there were illustrated bowel movements on stage. I was sitting next to third graders who looked at me like I was a child when I was laughing. Strange. My favorite quote from the story was,
boy: jiro, why is it good to take a good morning poop?
Jiro: because, wouldn't it be embarrassing to have to say to your teacher in the middle of class, "sensei, I have to take a poop. may I go to the toilet?"
now you may or may not believe me, but it gets better (or worse from your perspective). So they took the lovely illustrations away, jiro taught all the children why it is good to eat vegetables (they help you take a morning poop) why it is good to get up early (so you have time to take a morning poop) and why it is important to take a morning poop (you wont be a social outcast for having to take a poop in class). I didn't think it was possible to top that, until the finale...three 6th grade boys walk on stage with some strange headbands on. In Japan, there is a very distinctive way of drawing poop, every kid draws it the same way, it looks like brown whip cream basically. You know how when you put whip cream on, pumpkin pie, or a ice cream sundae, that kind of swirly motion (I'm sure there is a better way to describe it, but the longer I live here, the worse my English gets). Either way, there is no confusing it. Its poop. Now, what's funny is that these boys wore headbands with this poop drawing on their forehead. I'm not joking. It gives new credence to the term shit head haha. These three boys, without acting embarrassed or laughing walked on stage in front of the school, with pictures of poop on their forehead. At this point, I'm almost crying from laughter and having third graders ask me to be quiet. They come out and introduce themselves as the "poop brothers" and then proceed to give a quiz on poop (a lot of which I regretfully didn't understand). I shit you not. Get it. I made a funny."
And thus ended one of the more random emails in recent memory. I hope it made you laugh as hard as I laughed.
"I arrive at one of my two elementary schools and I'm told that there will be an assembly on "healthy living". I thought oh real fun. Although my attention span for listening to Japanese has increased over the year, listening to two hours of it kills me. So I get to the assembly, sit next to some of my students and begin to zone out. Half an hour passes, I catch the occasional phrase, drink milk, go to bed early and eat your vegetables...So you can have your morning poo....My ears pick up....What did the school nurse just say? Now my attention has returned. Did I hear wrong? Did she just say that you need to have a healthy morning poo? oh yes. She did.
Now my Japanese is not great, but I know enough to know she said morning poo. In fact, literally translated, it was good morning poo. I wait and sure enough, comes the talk on the ohayoo unchi (good morning poo). Three children bring out a big flipbook, illustrating the life and path of jiro, the morning poo. It is jiro`s job to explain how poos are formed, what to eat to have a good, healthy poo, what color your poo should be (brown it turns out). I am not joking when I say that someone had drawn pictures of a boy taking a poop. The story was narrated by some 4th, 5th and 6th grade students, Jiro being voiced by a 6th grade boy who delivered his lines without cracking a smile. In fact, no one laughed at the fact that there were illustrated bowel movements on stage. I was sitting next to third graders who looked at me like I was a child when I was laughing. Strange. My favorite quote from the story was,
boy: jiro, why is it good to take a good morning poop?
Jiro: because, wouldn't it be embarrassing to have to say to your teacher in the middle of class, "sensei, I have to take a poop. may I go to the toilet?"
now you may or may not believe me, but it gets better (or worse from your perspective). So they took the lovely illustrations away, jiro taught all the children why it is good to eat vegetables (they help you take a morning poop) why it is good to get up early (so you have time to take a morning poop) and why it is important to take a morning poop (you wont be a social outcast for having to take a poop in class). I didn't think it was possible to top that, until the finale...three 6th grade boys walk on stage with some strange headbands on. In Japan, there is a very distinctive way of drawing poop, every kid draws it the same way, it looks like brown whip cream basically. You know how when you put whip cream on, pumpkin pie, or a ice cream sundae, that kind of swirly motion (I'm sure there is a better way to describe it, but the longer I live here, the worse my English gets). Either way, there is no confusing it. Its poop. Now, what's funny is that these boys wore headbands with this poop drawing on their forehead. I'm not joking. It gives new credence to the term shit head haha. These three boys, without acting embarrassed or laughing walked on stage in front of the school, with pictures of poop on their forehead. At this point, I'm almost crying from laughter and having third graders ask me to be quiet. They come out and introduce themselves as the "poop brothers" and then proceed to give a quiz on poop (a lot of which I regretfully didn't understand). I shit you not. Get it. I made a funny."
And thus ended one of the more random emails in recent memory. I hope it made you laugh as hard as I laughed.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Pioneer Spirit
Rick is my father's best friend, and is, at the very least, far more expressive than my father. He may be one of the most passionate and insightful people I have encountered, and I think he helps my father express his emotions. I was at my dad's house last night and he pulled out a box of papers and asked if I had ever seen the poem Rick wrote about me. I hadn't. He handed me a small piece of yellow legal paper dated 12/29/95.
Sarah
Phil beams
Excited relays...
Sarah's running
Sarah's doing
She's being so
So much
A participant in life
Engaged and engaging
A special sense of right
And humor
And delight
Pioneer spirit
Clear as northern sky
My first thought was one of embarrassment and flattery. It is truly thrilling to be thought of that highly, but I was 14; how much of it really was me? Have I lost some of the better parts of me? I can't say I've ever had someone write anything for me; my exes have usually been short on words and long on action. The part that hit me hardest was the "Doing and being so much" portion; since graduation I have done little but lag under the weight of endless possibilities, and so that was a sort of sting. An "Oh yeah, I remember when I had a clear idea of just wanted I wanted and how I wanted it..." I guess it reminds me of when I was simpler. I dunno. I didn't post it to glorify myself; maybe just to remember.
Sarah
Phil beams
Excited relays...
Sarah's running
Sarah's doing
She's being so
So much
A participant in life
Engaged and engaging
A special sense of right
And humor
And delight
Pioneer spirit
Clear as northern sky
My first thought was one of embarrassment and flattery. It is truly thrilling to be thought of that highly, but I was 14; how much of it really was me? Have I lost some of the better parts of me? I can't say I've ever had someone write anything for me; my exes have usually been short on words and long on action. The part that hit me hardest was the "Doing and being so much" portion; since graduation I have done little but lag under the weight of endless possibilities, and so that was a sort of sting. An "Oh yeah, I remember when I had a clear idea of just wanted I wanted and how I wanted it..." I guess it reminds me of when I was simpler. I dunno. I didn't post it to glorify myself; maybe just to remember.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Despots and 2x4s
My room in the townhouse is fairly small with cathedral ceilings, so I, in a fit of hysterical ambitiousness, decided I needed a full-sized loft for a bed.
And that I am the one to build it.
Just call me Bob Vila.
I'm not building this off the top of my head; I have the plans for one. It's 22 pages long.
Today I went to Home Depot (or "Home Despot" as I like to call it) in Hank, my 1987 Ford F-150 pickup truck to get the necessary lumber for said loft.
8 2x6x8
4 2x4x12
6 2x4x10
1 2x4x8
2 2x3x8
1 4'x8' 3/4" particle board (which, I learned, is approximately 90lbs)
120 #8 2 1/2" Phillips wood screws
50 #8 1 1/2" Phillips wood screws
35 5/16 x4" lag bolts and washers
Pushing my big orange cart around the Despot this morning you'd of thought that I was the first woman to dare to play at Augusta, or enter the Citadel, or accuse Bill Reilly. I mean the conversations stopped and they just stared. Like I would have been more conspicuous dressed as the mascot for the Orioles. I felt as if I was walking around with three boobs, like I should have been selling carnival tickets, or had brought my own pole to dance with. I believe some serious cases of whiplash may have later been reported. They wouldn't help me, would walk right past me but continue to stare unless I stared back, then they'd duck and walk briskly away. There actually was some snickering overheard. The only time anyone helped or spoke to me was when it was the all-out war between the particle board and myself. I had one end up on the cart and every time I went to push it farther onto the cart, the cart rolled farther down the aisle. The kind gentleman in the orange apron was nice enough to put his foot in front of the cart's wheels, thereby saving me from chasing it all the way to the far wall.
$105 later I was out in the parking lot in the 95+ weather and humidity, trying to figure out how to get all the lumber in to the bed of ol' Hank. I counted 18 men who walked right past me without so much as a grunt of encouragement or an offering of help (and it was obvious that I needed it). Finally, after about 10 minutes, a woman offered to hold my cart so I could get the bastard particle board into the bed of my truck. That's it.
I don't expect doors held for me, or a man to stand up whenever I leave the table, or him to give me his coat when it's cold (though all of these are always appreciated and major bonus points). I do, however, expect a neighborly offering of help when it is evident that it is needed. Only women spoke to me while I was struggling to wrangle my lumber into bungees and tie-downs, and it was to offer some sort of encouragement.
I got the a few of my boards measured and cut tonight; I have a lot more building, cutting, sanding, staining, drilling, screwing and filing in my future. It was just a day of realizing that I my being a girl can be a shock or even an insult in the wrong situation (Was that too dramatic? Sorry I got a phone call toward the end of this post and coming back I had lost all my steam).
And that I am the one to build it.
Just call me Bob Vila.
I'm not building this off the top of my head; I have the plans for one. It's 22 pages long.
Today I went to Home Depot (or "Home Despot" as I like to call it) in Hank, my 1987 Ford F-150 pickup truck to get the necessary lumber for said loft.
8 2x6x8
4 2x4x12
6 2x4x10
1 2x4x8
2 2x3x8
1 4'x8' 3/4" particle board (which, I learned, is approximately 90lbs)
120 #8 2 1/2" Phillips wood screws
50 #8 1 1/2" Phillips wood screws
35 5/16 x4" lag bolts and washers
Pushing my big orange cart around the Despot this morning you'd of thought that I was the first woman to dare to play at Augusta, or enter the Citadel, or accuse Bill Reilly. I mean the conversations stopped and they just stared. Like I would have been more conspicuous dressed as the mascot for the Orioles. I felt as if I was walking around with three boobs, like I should have been selling carnival tickets, or had brought my own pole to dance with. I believe some serious cases of whiplash may have later been reported. They wouldn't help me, would walk right past me but continue to stare unless I stared back, then they'd duck and walk briskly away. There actually was some snickering overheard. The only time anyone helped or spoke to me was when it was the all-out war between the particle board and myself. I had one end up on the cart and every time I went to push it farther onto the cart, the cart rolled farther down the aisle. The kind gentleman in the orange apron was nice enough to put his foot in front of the cart's wheels, thereby saving me from chasing it all the way to the far wall.
$105 later I was out in the parking lot in the 95+ weather and humidity, trying to figure out how to get all the lumber in to the bed of ol' Hank. I counted 18 men who walked right past me without so much as a grunt of encouragement or an offering of help (and it was obvious that I needed it). Finally, after about 10 minutes, a woman offered to hold my cart so I could get the bastard particle board into the bed of my truck. That's it.
I don't expect doors held for me, or a man to stand up whenever I leave the table, or him to give me his coat when it's cold (though all of these are always appreciated and major bonus points). I do, however, expect a neighborly offering of help when it is evident that it is needed. Only women spoke to me while I was struggling to wrangle my lumber into bungees and tie-downs, and it was to offer some sort of encouragement.
I got the a few of my boards measured and cut tonight; I have a lot more building, cutting, sanding, staining, drilling, screwing and filing in my future. It was just a day of realizing that I my being a girl can be a shock or even an insult in the wrong situation (Was that too dramatic? Sorry I got a phone call toward the end of this post and coming back I had lost all my steam).
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