The New Keynsian Model

Park 'n Ride

2011-10-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

My parents have always subscribed to the notion that used cars are better than new cars for the following reasons:

1) Better to have a $500 payment (on repairs) once in awhile than have a steady, monthly $400-$500 payment.

2) Was there another reason?

I'll admit, there's some logic to #1. I mean, if you get a good used car (and of course I'm an expert at this after a lifetime learning from the parents), you could go a whole year, maybe even two, without having to make a "payment." On the other hand, a steady monthly payment on a new car pretty much ensures that you won't find yourself coasting down a main thoroughfare, gritting your teeth and attempting to bargain with your vehicle (If you could just make it to that parking lot up ahead...I promise I'll never again let the tank go all the way down before filling it). Neither does a monthly payment come as a surprise to you, like some warped Santa's idea of a gift (You chose to make do with what you have instead of just buying a new one! Great! As a reward, here's your Complete Exhaust System Repair Bill! It's the gift that keeps on taking...). Add those concerns to the "guilty-until-proven-innocent" attitude one must have when dealing with those no-good mechanics (got this one from the parents too), and it's no wonder I've spent so many hours focused on designing my new XTerra online, like any good ostrich in the sand.

Incidentally, now is not the time to mention the possibility of not being able to afford said monthly payment.

Wondering where this post is coming from? Well, here's been my day so far: I take the car in for a semi-routine fixing of the serpentine belt, which (surprisingly) did not require any arm, leg, or other body part payment. The mechanic comes out to let me know I'm "all set," and then casually mentions, "Oh, and you might want to get ahold of one of those bolts pretty soon."

"What bolts?"

"Oh, the one that typically holds your alternator on. It's missing."

"Missing?"

"Ayup."

"Well, where is it?"

"I don't know. It wasn't there when we put the belt on. But like I said, you might want to see about that pretty soon, because without that bolt the alternator'll probably just fall off at some point."

Now I don't know much about cars, but I'm guessing that wouldn't be good. "Well, can you put another one on for me," I say hopefully.

"Yeah, no problem." He doesn't move.

"Today?"

"Sure, won't take a minute. I just need a bolt." He looks at me as if I've been hiding one.

"And you don't have any here."

"Nope. Probably have to go to the dealership for that. But once you have one, just bring it back in and we can put it on for you no problem."

"Awesome." I'm about to leave when I realize there are probably any number of bolts involved with a car and that I most likely will not be able to describe which one I need, so I ask him to write it down for me. He gives me a slip of paper with the words "alternator bolt" scrawled on it. I'm pretty sure this will not be of much help, but I leave anyway and drive across the street to the Toyota dealership (grateful that there is one in such close proximity).

"Hi," I say to the guy at the counter. "I need an alternator bolt for a 2005 Toyota Corolla." He nods and begins typing things into his computer.

"Do you want the bolt that holds the alternator in, or the tension bolt?"

Why I don't say "just give me both" I'll never know. Instead, I say, "Uh...I'm not sure, but I think he meant the one that holds the alternator in." He nods, grabs the part from a drawer behind him, charges me $4.00, and I'm on my way back across the street to Jiffy Lube.

The Jiffy Lube guy takes one look at the bolt and says, "That's way too big -- not gonna fit."

"So I need the other bolt then, the tension bolt?" I say, thinking I sound a bit knowledgable and therefore "on top of my game."

"Uh...yeah, sure."

If I were telling this story to my mom on the phone, at this point she would say, No, Keyna, that's not right! You need to take it somewhere else! She would not get the humor. Luckily for these guys, I do get it. So I take my faulty bolt, go back to the dealership, and proclaim the need for the Other Bolt. Two guys (the same from before and another guy) spend fifteen minutes trying to locate said bolt on the computer inventory to no avail. They even come out to the car and look at it to see what they need, but the part is simply not listed in any of the diagrams of my car. So they give me a handful of bolts in different widths and lengths, a refund for the previous bolt, and send me on my way.

I drive back across the street to Jiffy Lube, pass on the handful o' bolts, and the guy disappears to "give them a try." He comes back a few minutes later with three bolts, and I say, "Oh, good so one of them was the right one."

"Yeah," he says, "it was kind of a tight fit but I made it work." Very confidence-inspiring. Nonetheless, I thank him and head out, eager to get on with the more important parts of my day's plan, like purchasing mouse traps for the house (another story for another time).

I make it to the Ace Hardware a few blocks from my house when the car radio and clock blink out, followed quickly by some sputtering, and then coasting with no power into a convenient parking spot. Deep breaths. More deep breaths. I try to start the car -- nothing, not even a click. More deep breaths. Must. Control. Fists. Of. Death!!

The Cliff Notes for the rest of the story go as follows: long conversation with Jiffy Lube guy, no new information; friend tries to jump car, no luck; random guy from barber shop next to Ace goes on smoke break, chats pleasantly about cars breaking down, tells me not to go to Handy's (where I usually go), then recommends a small Asian mechanic across the street; Random Barber Shop Guy, Small Asian Mechanic, and I push car across North Ave.; Small Asian Mechanic tells me "battery and alternator bad."

I guess the upshot here is that I'm once again thankful that Burlington really is a biking/busing town (see previous post).

Ride of Your Life

2011-09-30T11:24:00.001-07:00

Recently I've been conducting an experiment. I keep telling people that one of the reasons I like Burlington so much is that it's a great bike/public transportation town, unlike any of the other places I've lived. I decided I'd try to take better advantage of that fact, so I purchased a bus pass (good for unlimited rides) and have been busing/biking to as many places as I can. This decision has yielded several interesting experiences, but here are the Top Five from the week of September 25th:

5. Ran into this girl that I frequently run into in Burlington but haven't seen in about a year. We worked together at Borders (pre-bankruptcy) for about two days, then I had to quit because I was in grad school and was slowly going insane. Then I saw her intermittently, usually at random places, throughout the next few years, and she always acted like we were best friends (I usually had trouble remembering her name). She acted the same way on the bus the other day, and in fact she remembered not only my name (which in and of itself is a feat), but where I was from, what I went to grad school for, and what my favorite book was. Next time she'll probably remember what stop I got off at.

4. Forgot to put the bike rack back in place after getting off and retrieving my bike. I was almost three blocks away before I realized the honking was for me.

3. Ran into an ex-friend who recently (as in last week) "fired" me. She got on, we ignored each other; she sat two seats in front of me, we didn't speak. Good times.

2. A young blond woman, probably in her twenties, but also probably not carrying an entirely full deck, got up and gave me her seat when I got on because she was "taught to be kind to the elderly."

1. Official transcript from a conversation between a crazy woman who spoke VERY loudly, a kind, random girl sitting next to me, and me:

   CRAZY WOMAN: Where's the baby?
   RANDOM GIRL and ME: [looking at each other, then at the woman, confirming that she is, in fact, talking to us] What baby? [in unison]
   CW: The baby, I said! [speaking even louder, as if we haven't heard her] Where's your baby??!!
   ME: Oh, we left her at home. [Girl suppresses a laugh]
   CW: What??  She's only six months old, I thought!
   RG: Yeah, we figured it was time to stop coddling her. At some point you just gotta let 'em go, you know?
   ME: [nodding my head] Yeah, I mean enough's enough, right?
   CW: [horrified] You just left her alone? No one watching her?
   ME: Oh, well, no -- the dog's there.
   CW: [back to normal; not sarcastic] Oh, well, that's alright then.

Stay tuned for next week's adventures!...

Least Complicated

2011-09-23T16:58:00.000-07:00

Another Friday night spent at the B & N. I remember the last time I wrote a post on a similar experience...turns out it was almost exactly two years ago. I just reread it; it seems I was decidedly more bitter then. I can't say my mood tonight could be illustrated by unicorns and rainbows, but it is a mood sans edge.

The thing is, here's what I realized (and wanted to share with you): I chose to be here tonight. I actually could've gone out with a friend, but I chose to come here. What's more is, I chose to ride my bike here, and about half way it started raining. And it's dark (because it's 7:51 pm). So clearly I really wanted to spend my Friday night at the Noble.

And now that I'm here and I've found a seat that I like reasonably well, I can see why I wanted to come. They're playing sexy saxy jazz music overhead, and they've just pulled some cinnamon scones out of the oven, and I'm looking around and all the people look normal. No mental patients pushing napkins like last time. And this time I'm not running from anything (or anyone). I'm just hanging out, in my place.

Just thinking and writing...

Cycling Through

2011-09-19T10:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, I promise all of my posts won't be so gushingly inspirational -- I guess I've just been extra introspective as of late -- but I just couldn't pass this one up.

I discovered yesterday that my bike, a Trek 3900 mountain bike, has 24 speeds. I have owned the bike for four years. I knew when I bought the bike that it had 24 speeds, which is part of the reason I liked it, and yet I just discovered the range of speeds yesterday.

I was taking advantage of the absolutely gorgeous day we were having in Burlington, thoroughly enjoying the ride, when I hit a hill. As per my post about Miley Cyrus, I pushed on. In the middle of the hill, I found myself thinking, why the hell is this hill so damn hard? When am I gonna start being able to just speed up these hills like all the other bikers? (I was feeling decidedly less inspired than the other day). Then it occurred to me: I was in the wrong gear. Without getting into the details of the gears on my bike, I'll say I usually stay within a small range of about 7 gears out of the 24 at my disposal. Why? I have absolutely no idea, except that I'm not really one for change. But yesterday, after I decided to go out on a limb and switch to a lower gear (or higher -- not sure -- whichever made the hill easier), low and behold I made it up the hill with relatively little trouble!

Previous to this experience, I'd find myself thinking, I can make it up any hill, no matter how difficult -- it's just a matter of allowing myself to go as slow as I need to, which sounds like a reasonable, if not positive, sentiment. But then I would quit about half way up about half of the hills I undertook. Then I'd feel shame and guilt -- you know the drill I'm sure. So I'm amending my thoughts. I'm not retracting the above statement -- I still think it's true and helpful. But I'm adding this: you can make it up any hill, no matter how difficult, as long as you allow yourself to go at your own pace and use the right gear!

No Really...You Shouldn't Have

2011-09-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

I'm allergic to cats, so naturally they flock to me as if I were the Pied Piper toting an extra juicy fish to divide among them. No kidding -- whenever I visit my friends who have cats (and I never tell them ahead of time that I'm allergic, because then they always make a huge deal out of vacuuming, banishing the cats to other rooms, etc.), the situation usually goes something like this:

ME: [enters room, chatting happily with friend; sits down on comfy chair/sofa]
CAT: [appears in doorway, cocks head curiously at new possible playmate; gracefully leaps up into my lap]
FRIEND: Oh my gosh, he never does that! He's usually so shy, you almost never see him! Obviously you're very special!
ME: [laughs nervously, smiling and petting cat, knowing that within minutes the sneezing, puffy red eyes, and itching will begin, as will the explanations, apologies, and subsequent banishing of said cat]

I've basically come to accept this truth over the years, and it doesn't really bother me. After all, cats are mildly cute and usually very soft, and mostly worth a few sneezes. As long as I know that after a few hours, I can leave and the other, somewhat less enjoyable cat issues will be the owners' problems. Other problems? you ask. What other problems? Aren't cats pretty low maintenance?

So for the last week or so, a random neighborly cat has been hanging out on my doorstep, often giving me a look that says, you know you want to take me home. Like I said -- Pied Piper. This was all fine and good, since I had no intention of inviting the cat, whom I believe to be around its teen years, into my home, and it was kind of cute coming home to a cat on my doorstep. But two days ago, instead of a cat on my doorstep, there was a somewhat less cute squirrel carcass, complete with oozing guts and a bloated belly.

At first I thought, that's weird -- I wonder where this thing came from. I know it couldn't have been Indy [dog] -- she doesn't go out in the front yard. Then I thought, does someone in the neighborhood hate me enough to leave this on my doorstep? Is this a message? Have I offended the Burlington Mafia? Does Burlington even have a Mafia? Then it dawned on me: it was a gift. A token of respect, love, and gratitude, if you will, from Mystery Cat. Supposedly, I hear from other cat owners, this is one of the highest honors a cat can bestow upon human-folk, second only to bring a live rodent into said human-folk's home.

So...thanks? Although next time, I'd be just as happy with a DVD, as cliche as that may sound.

Be a Loser

2011-09-17T17:47:00.001-07:00

Today I'm reminded of a song that, cheesy as it may be, holds a lot of truth and inspiration: "The Climb," by Miley Cyrus (of all people). I know, I know...I'm sure there are plenty of sarcastic, snide remarks about my questionable taste in music coming my way, but just hear me out...

Today I climbed a mountain. Okay, I actually climbed about a tenth of a mountain. But my intentions were good. After my recent epiphany about being an "athlete" (see previous post), I figured I'd stop being an Eastern Mountain Sports poser and actually GO HIKING. I've done this before, so it wasn't my first time. But today felt different somehow. As I was scrambling over the rocks and making my way through what the trail guide called "moderately strenuous," I couldn't help but sing Miley to myself: "There's always gonna be another mountain. I'm always gonna want to make it move. It's always gonna be an uphill battle -- sometimes I'm gonna have to lose. It ain't about how fast I get there. It ain't about what's waiting on the other side: it's the climb." Granted, I also couldn't get Stevie Nicks out of my head: "I climbed a mountain and I turned around...and the landslide brought me down." In this case, though, Miley proved to be a bit more inspiring (although Stevie has inspired me many a time).

I can't tell you how true those lyrics to "The Climb" are. I can't tell you how much they sound like me -- well, the first part at least. I am ALWAYS trying to move mountains (or climb them), and even though I try to remember that "journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step" stuff, I usually find myself wondering why I can't just kick the mountain aside like a wayward piece of trash. And inevitably those thoughts lead right to the "what's wrong with me?" thoughts, which are, as we all know, less than helpful.

Today what stuck out to me, though, wasn't the line about the journey being more important than the destination, although that's usually the one that gets me. Today what got inside my head was that "it's always gonna be an uphill battle," and "sometimes I'm gonna have to lose." I think that's the part I've never accepted, never even entertained. No losing, right? Who wants to be a loser? Well, at this moment...I do! Right now I have a LOT to lose, both literally and figuratively (I'm catching the irony in the whole "losing weight" vs. "being a loser" thing as I type).

The thing is, if you never try, you never fail, but you also never succeed -- anyone who's ever sat in a classroom plastered with inspirational posters knows that. But for years I have told myself that I would try, knowing that I might fail, but never really believing it could happen to me. And then when it did happen, when I did fail, it was like, "wait a minute -- I'm not supposed to fail! I get points for trying, right?" Somewhere along the way I seem to have lost the message. So here's the new thing (or at least today's thing): if you never lose, you never really know what winning feels like...so yeah, sometimes you're going to have to lose.

Betcha didn't know your song was so deep, huh, Miley?

On a different note, I plan to write the publishers of my trail guide and suggest they change the difficulty rating of today's hike from "Moderately Strenuous" to "Calves in Hell." Guess there's more than one reason it's called Mount Hunger.

What Color Are Your Walls?

2011-09-13T11:35:00.000-07:00

Recently I made a "discovery" that rocked my sense of reality. I put "discovery" in quotes because it was one of those things that's been right in front of me all along, for several years now, and I just now noticed it. Kind of like when you wake up one morning, look at your walls, which have been painted a lovely shade of blue for years, and go, "Huh. My walls are blue! I mean, they're really blue," and you even consider calling a friend and discussing this brilliant realization, but in the end you don't because you actually need more time to process it. That's the kind of discovery this was, and now I'm at the end of my processing time, so I'm sharing it with you...out loud...on paper: I am an athlete.

About four years ago I started practicing Taekwondo. I had wanted to be the "Karate Kid" since I saw the movie when I was 10, so I was very excited to finally be embarking on this journey. From day one, I loved Taekwondo, as much for the community aspect as for the sport itself. But I quickly discovered that it is just that -- a sport -- and that's when the anxieties set in: I'm too overweight to do this, too out of shape. What if I make a fool of myself? What if I'm the last one down the floor? What if everyone's just standing around waiting for me to fail? Can I really take that rejection? What am I thinking -- I am not an athlete. I kept going, but the fears didn't go away. Each class I would just push them to back of my mind as best I could and continue kicking.

In March of 2010, I successfully tested for black belt. I was still overweight -- by quite a bit -- and I'm sure I survived the test on pure adrenaline, because had I been faced with that kind of workout in another setting, I honestly don't know if my body could've handled it. But I huffed and puffed and sweated my way through it, and in the end I vowed that I would not test again until I was at my goal weight (which at the time meant I needed to lose about 60 pounds). After that I gained about 15 more pounds, and this past spring, I started to notice the effects of this extra weight on the mat. I have more difficulty getting my body in the air for jumping kicks; I land heavily on my heels; I generally move slower, even when I tell my body to hustle; I experience more aches and pains, during and after my workouts; and (maybe most importantly) I've become increasingly self-conscious on the floor, which impacts my ability to fully execute the techniques.

As of this moment, I have five months to train for my 2nd Dan (degree) black belt testing, which will take place at the beginning of March 2012, and I have once again recommitted to dropping down to goal weight (or at least close) before I make another appearance before the Testing Board (a bunch of high-ranking black belts who judge your performance). I've struggled with losing weight all my life. Despite the fact that, in other areas of my life, I am a driven goal-achiever, no amount of positive (or negative) reinforcement has ever seemed to be enough to push me toward achieving this goal. I make sure I get anything else I want; why not this?

Master White, my Taekwondo instructor (a 7th Dan black belt), is helping me train, which means he's giving me a focus and some specific things to work on, along with a lot of moral/emotional support. After my first private lesson with him last week, I started thinking: a lot of people pay him a lot of money to whip them into shape. A lot of athletes pay him a lot of money for his expert advice on how to win sparring matches and make Nationals (which of course he's done several times). When he worked with me on Friday, he didn't begin any of his instructions with, "Now, because you're overweight, we're going to..." or "I know you're not really an athlete, so..." He talked to me the same way I've heard him talk to so many gold- and silver-medalists before. Like I am an athlete. Like that's a given.

Yesterday I spent two hours working out, a combination of eliptical, weights, ab work, and Taekwondo-specific exercises. I will do that at least three or four times a week, hopefully more, between now and March. I will do this, in addition to eating nutritionally and drinking lots of water, because I am an athlete in training. In the process I'm sure I'll lose weight, but more importantly, I will have the inner and physical strength to join my fellow athletes out on the mats for testing. Maybe the reason I haven't achieved the weight goal all these years isn't because I'm not capable or I don't have the drive or will power; maybe it's because I was focused on the wrong thing. I was so busy trying figure out how to be something I thought I wasn't, I didn't even realize I already was.

Like I said, this morning I woke up and realized my walls really are blue.

Days Like This

2011-09-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

I'm 40 minutes into my two hours free parking, sitting on the third floor of the Fletcher Free Library, and I realize it's days like this that make me feel guilty and keep me from getting work done. I should be working on my syllabus for various classes right now, but what am I doing instead? Sitting here, staring out the window, going back and forth in my head between these two thoughts: "God, it's a GORGEOUS day! I need to be spending time outside. These days won't last much longer," and "I need to be inside so I can get wifi so I can work on my stuff for school. There'll be other nice days." Needless to say, this vacillating between obsessive thoughts (which both make me feel guilty, by the way) is not helping me achieve either goal. So I sit here, staring out the window, wishing I were outside...

Thomas Alexander Houston II (1921-2011)

2011-06-24T08:40:00.000-07:00

Today my grandfather, Thomas Alexander Houston II, known to most as "Pop Tom," passed away after a relatively short but difficult battle with cancer. These were the only images I had on hand that reminded me of him. Both are taken at one of his favorite places, High Hampton Inn, in Cashiers, NC, where we had our annual family reunion.

After hearing that he had a massive spot on his lung, he opted not to take chemotherapy. We all knew that, at 90 years old, this was pretty much his death sentence. But even though I knew that, and even though I had that news a few months ago, I still didn't manage to send him that letter I'd been planning to write. So cliche, but you just can't put off things like that. Eventually procrastination really kicks you in the ass.

Earlier this year I wrote a tribute to him on this blog, and I said much of what's on my mind now. In 90 years, that man truly lived -- played golf and swam almost every day up until about five years ago. He was fierce and intense, both in love and anger. He never rode the fence. That much I learned from him. I guess as humans go, you really couldn't find a better one.

I wish I could say I was the granddaughter he wanted, the one he deserved. And sometimes I was I suppose. But lately, in the last fifteen years or so, I really wasn't. At this point I don't even remember all the things that kept me from loving him the way I should've. I know they seemed important at the time, righteous even. But now they seem like such a pile of little things, just a scrap pile of reasons not to make myself vulnerable one more time. He deserved to know how much I loved him, how much his ways and spirit shaped me. Houstons are tough, Houstons endure, Houstons get things done, Houstons go after what they want full speed ahead. Houstons are beautiful.

Sometimes, Houstons are weaker than they'd like to be, but I suppose in the end, Houstons try to let go gracefully.

Best Line from MMU

2011-06-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

So here's the best line I've gotten in a paper from Mount Mansfield Union High School, where I'm currently ending up a long-term sub position. (Note: no sarcasm here -- this is actually an awesome line).

[at the end of an essay on the development of the American hero through literature]

"From Romanticism to Postmodernism, American heroes have gone from 'superhuman' to super human."

wish I'd thought of that one!

It's a Beautiful Day

2011-05-30T11:38:00.000-07:00

Beautiful weather makes me want to get out in the world and accomplish things.

But it also makes me want to nap in the sun.

Life is full of complicated dilemmas like these.

This Just In...

2011-05-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

According to one of my super astute college students:

The 1960's Hippie generation had a significant influence on all the generations that preceded them.

It's a tricky thing, influencing people that lived before you...I hear you have to use The Force.

And another thing...

2011-04-28T09:15:00.000-07:00

I've been having an ant problem at Casa Houston, so naturally I invested in some Raid and fumigated the place.

Yesterday I came home to about 204 ant carcasses on my kitchen and sun room floors, and I thought, the exciting life of a 35-year-old-single-woman-with-no-career strikes again! Don't try to tell me you're not jealous.

On Turning 35

2011-04-27T18:55:00.000-07:00

Turned 35 last week. Distressing. Overwhelming, really. Finding it hard to speak in complete sentences. Don't say it -- those of you who're older and **ahem** wiser and want to call me a "baby." I know, 35's not the end. It's not even the middle I guess. I hope.

But let's put it this way: I can no longer say I'm going through a Quarterlife Crisis. And a Thirdlife Crisis just sounds like something totally different.

So...wanna know what I did on my 35th Birthday? Well, I started out the day by going to the police station to get fingerprinted. (this was actually for my new job coming up in May, but I did get some satisfaction out of telling my students that all citizens have to get fingerprinted on their 35th birthdays, just as a way of keeping Big Brother in the loop). Then I had a doctor's appointment. After that I went to Friendly's by myself and ate my weight in Munchie Mania and Cinnamon Roll Sundae. Later that night I drove down to Randolph, VT, attended a Taekwondo class at the Randolph Blue Wave (another gym in our Blue Wave association), and went out with a friend of mine afterwards. The tkd class nearly killed me (I think the instructor was "showing off" because I was there) and Ramsey (the friend) and I didn't get to go out until 8:30, and apparently Randolph completely shuts down at 9:00. But I did have some fabulous lasagna and Ramsey made me some awesome butterscotch/oatmeal cookies. Then I went home and watched Law and Order: SVU with my dog.

OK, so I'm not saying it was a bad day, per se -- far from it, in fact. It's just that...well, I remember when I was in high school, and even college, and how my birthday was such a big deal. All day long I would catch myself thinking today's my birthday!!! and realize I was grinning from ear to ear. And usually there was some big extravaganza planned for that night or for the weekend to follow, and so much of the day would be spent anticipating what was to come. But last week it was just kind of like, oh, yeah, today's my birthday. almost forgot. And then I'd think, and once I'm done with this, I get to go to the...doctor. Oh, but then I'm going out to lunch with...myself. I mean, I know people used to tell me that birthdays become less of a thing "as you get older" -- I just didn't expect that to happen at 35.

Then again, there's a lot I didn't expect to happen at 35. And a lot I did expect that apparently didn't survive the cutting room floor of the movie of my life.

Remembering Gamma and Pop Tom

2011-04-17T15:15:00.000-07:00

I've just gotten the word that my grandparents, my father's parents, otherwise known as "Gamma" and "Pop Tom," are not doing very well. Pop Tom has fallen and broken his hip, for which he is not going to undergo surgery because he can't withstand the anesthesia. This means he'll be laid up, flat on his back, for about eight weeks. It also means that things are not looking up for him. Meanwhile, Gamma spirals further into full-blown Alzheimer's and now spends her days fighting off those nasty nurses who insist on "assaulting" her by trying to do things like dress her and make her eat, and obsessing over a lost swim suit that she hasn't worn in about five years. These are the days of my late 80s/early 90s grandparents...

So I guess it's only fitting that I write a tribute to them. And on that note, I find myself caught in mixed emotions.

I was the first grandchild. The oldest. Well, at least until we found out about my half-brother, the charmer of the family, and then it was like fruit-basket turnover. But before that I was the oldest. I coined the names "Grandmama" (which got changed to "Gamma" when my next cousin couldn't pronounce the whole thing) and "Pop Tom." I think the best word to describe my relationship with my paternal grandparents is...complicated. My father, their oldest son of five children, died when I was just 18 months old. He apparently was the only person who could ever charm his way around their Southern Aristocratic Gentility (except for my brother, see comment above). I, on the other hand, never seemed to be enough for them. Not petite enough, not feminine enough, not demure enough, not polite enough, not Southern-Belle-ish enough. Just not enough. This, of course, is an accusation they would categorically deny, but that doesn't make it less real to me. And I can honestly say, after almost 35 years of vying for their approval, and receiving it only when I accomplish a "thing," never just for being the awesome person I am, I am tired. I'm tired of having to "adjust" to their version of love, especially when I am surrounded by easy, free, unconditional love. I wish things could've been different.

On the other hand, I find myself reveling in nostalgia anyway. Pop Tom taught me to play Rummy at age 4, and he never went easy on me. To this day I've never met another person who plays Rummy the way he does -- in that all-or-nothing, have-to-be-an-expert-at-remembering-cards way. But I loved it. Still do. And I loved the homemade peanut butter/black walnut milkshakes that went with those late night games. He also taught me to swim like the champion college swimmer (U of Oregon -- Go Ducks!) he was. And when my cousin Rusti, who was like a sister to me, came along, he taught her too. And we spent so many hours down at the Liberty Bell pool in Pine Mountain, GA, diving for pennies and racing from end to end -- his "little guppies." He tried to teach me golf, a love second only to Gamma, but it wasn't my cup of tea. But I still have great memories of riding the greens with him, Classic Coke (in a glass bottle) in my hand, and getting out to putt. And I'm pretty sure I get my love of crossword puzzles from him, although I still can't finish a New York Times (which he did every day) on my own.

Fond memories of Gamma are harder to come by. She was a brilliant painter (oil, acrylic, watercolor), and I always wanted to learn to paint, but whenever I asked her to teach me, she would wave me off and tell me I had to learn about perspective first (apparently from someone else). She was always hardest on me about my weight, my appearance, my lack of Emily-Post-ness. But then to others she would say how proud she was of me and my accomplishments. I still wonder if she was actually proud...and if she would've been proud if I'd never accomplished anything, if I'd just been...me. But there is one thing: her vanilla cupcakes with homemade vanilla frosting. She always made them for me when I was there, regardless of special occasion or not. Granted, she mocked them the whole time, always saying, "these silly things? They're just cupcakes for Heaven's sake! Just regular old cupcakes with 7-minute frosting." But she always made them for me. And I loved them.

In the final analysis, the most difficult thing about our relationship --the most perplexing, the most complicated -- turns out to be the simplest: I love them. Fiercely. And no matter how much water passes under the bridge, that will be the rock that remains.

Unemployment

2011-03-28T07:46:00.000-07:00

Why is it that the less I have on my plate to do, the less I get done? You'd think that all that free time would allow me to get all those little things done that I never had time to do before. But NOOOOO...instead I've managed to catch up on 8 seasons of Law and Order SVU!

You know it's time to find a productive occupation when you start referring to television characters as friends of yours in common conversation.

Houston Home Gym

2011-03-07T12:15:00.001-08:00

Upper Body Workout

Exercise #1: "Getting Something Out of the Car"

1. Open front house door and squeeze through

2. Sink shovel into waist-deep snow

3. Lift and throw

4. # reps = 128

Exercise #2: "Letting the Dog Out"

1. Open back house door

2. Squeeze arm with shovel through opening, creatively wrap arm and shovel around door, and "push" snow away from door

3. Squeeze body through new (wider) opening

4. Sink shovel into waist-deep snow

5. Lift and throw

6. # reps = 74

7. Manually remove dog from snow bank before going back inside

To Madame with Love

2011-02-23T07:14:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted on here in so long...I almost don't know where to start. But lately I've been filling out lots of apps for lots of jobs, hoping to snag a full time gig for next year. One of the apps required an essay question that asked me to describe what makes me a good teacher. In thinking about this question, I wrote the essay that I'm about to post. The essay doesn't really answer the question very well, but it turned out to be a nice tribute to one of the most inspirational people in my life, so I thought it'd be good to post it here:

Musicality

I’ve known I wanted to be a teacher since the eighth grade, when Mrs. Zohn walked into our chorus class singing. She had big shoes to fill: the man whom she replaced had been our favorite, and we were all prepared to hate her on principle. All during the previous summer we’d talked about how we couldn’t believe Mr. Holben was leaving, how we’d never betray him by even liking her a little, how we’d simply refuse to do anything she said. But we couldn’t do it; she took hold of our hearts from that very first day as she belted out the chorus of “Sloop John B.” We barely registered the news that soon each of us would be singing “Gee, Mom, I wanna go home,” solo, in front of the rest of the class (until, of course, we actually had to do it).

Deborah Zohn was a striking woman. She was young, but she had taught before. Dark, thick, curly hair, olive skin, tall (at least to an eighth grader), and often dressed in black leather. She exuded confidence and ebullience and she reminded us of all the great women from history we’d learned about – a mover and a shaker for sure. She made us smile while we sang (imagine that), sometimes by reminding us of little in-jokes that had developed during practices, sometimes by pushing up the corners of her mouth with her index fingers in a purposely campy way that made us crack up every time. She told us that smiling improved our pitch, but over time we realized that there were other benefits too.

A day wasn’t a day without a little Zohn. I wore my first self-chosen dress for her, for our first concert (quite a contrast with my tomboyish ways). She gave me my first on-stage feature, the alto part in a duet from Les Miserables; I learned all the music for that play before I ever read the book or set foot in a theater to see it performed, and to this day it’s still my favorite. And listening to her stories about past students who would come back to see her, all grown up and almost unrecognizable, was the first time I had conceived of the idea that a teacher could be that influential in a person’s life. I knew I would be one of those students, and I hoped I would be one of those teachers.

Many of us had already been “musicians” for about five years before she came into our lives, but she taught us the real gestalt of that word. She taught us about the things that have to happen before any of the notes or key signatures or breath marks can make sense: things like discipline, commitment, confidence, positivity. She also taught us about something called “musicality,” which I define as the art of synthesizing the technical with the interpretive, the theory with the practice, the external and learned with the internal and inherent, thus creating a seamless performance unique to the musician. And, though I didn’t realize it until much later, she taught us that another term for “musicality” is “teaching.”

Mrs. Zohn used to tell us that she and her husband would never have children because she had enough kids already. We’d laugh at her sarcasm, knowing how true it was that dealing with us must be exhausting indeed. But I didn’t realize until I became a teacher myself that the exhaustion came not from frustration and stress (although I’m sure there was plenty of that) but from caring. Her rule on signing yearbooks was that she would only do it for ninth graders, who would be leaving junior high and venturing into the unknown of high school – that way, she said, she could focus on writing a truly personal message. And, as with all of her other rules and expectations, she followed through. In my copy of the 1991 Troxell Junior High yearbook, where all my other teachers simply signed their names or wrote, “It’s been a pleasure,” or “Have a great summer and good luck in high school,” Deborah Zohn made her mark. “Certain students seem to stand out in a teacher’s mind,” she wrote, “you, of course, will always be among them.”

Explaining what made me want to become a teacher isn’t hard; but delineating what makes me a good teacher is a daunting task. It feels overgeneralized and somewhat contrived to say that I get to know the students, use my sense of humor, establish and enforce expectations and consequences, constantly search for new ways to break down abstract concepts into accessible chunks, and try to show students how literature applies to the real world, even though all of that is exactly what I do. The musicality of teaching isn’t about the broad strokes; it isn’t really about your philosophy or your curriculum or your classroom management. All of those things are subject to change anyway, because of the variables we call life. The musicality of teaching is about the day-to-day: the conversation you have about the best sports cars with the kid who always sits slumped down in the back; the smile in your eyes that no one else sees but the shy kid who’s just made a breakthrough in analyzing a poem; the endearing nicknames you give them, and vice versa; the concerts and games you attend; the times you make a fool of yourself and laugh with them; the words you write in their yearbooks. Very little of it has to do with literature, or music, or whatever subject you think you teach. But it all has to do with learning.

Certain teachers seem to stand out in a student’s mind. Mrs. Zohn, of course, will always be among them. And now, thanks to her, so will I.

Obama-nate

2010-11-14T15:32:00.000-08:00

Here's the transcript of a recent [frightening] conversation with a student:

STUDENT: what does "abominate" mean?

ME: basically it means "to hate"

STUDENT: oh, good, that's easy to remember. I hate Obama, so "Obama-nate." [chuckles and congratulates self for cleverness]

ME: why do you hate Obama?

STUDENT: well, first of all, he's not even black.

ME: [thoughts: !!!!!!!????] Huh?

STUDENT: he's Muslim.

ME: um. . . o. . . kay?

STUDENT: and you know the Muslims' whole goal is to take over America.

ME: all the Muslims?

STUDENT: see, I knew it -- you like Obama, don't you?

Friendly Conversation

2010-11-04T18:24:00.000-07:00

Haven't posted in a LONG time, so I'll ease back in with this riveting conversation I overheard while dining at Friendly's the other day:

[special note: these girls were NOT being sarcastic]

GIRL 1: So I'm on my way out the door this morning -- late of course -- and he decides he wants to "talk." [actual air quotes were visible] I mean, every time I want to talk, he's too busy watching the game or whatever, but when I'm in a hurry, then he wants to talk. [huffs loudly]

GIRL 2: Jesus.

1: I know, right?

2: So what was the big deal?

1: Oh, get this: he says he wants to talk about my drinking. Says he really wishes I'd quit drinking.

2: You mean totally? Like, NEVER drink?

1: That's what I said! I'm like, "Dude, you've GOT to be kidding me. Practically the only time I'm happy is when I'm wasted." [is it me, or should this have been a sign to her?] So he's like, "Well, why can't we have fun without drinking? I mean, you know I don't drink -- can't you at least quit drinking when you're with me?"

2: Psshh -- as IF!

1: I know, right? So I'm like, "Well, you know I DO drink, so can't you just START drinking when you're around ME?"

2: omg [these letters were her actual words], what did he say?

1: Huh! This is the best part! He's like, "C'mon, Baby, you know I'm an alcoholic!" [laughs uncontrollably] I mean, can you beLIEVE this guy? Could he BE more selfish?

2: Jesus, Lisa, when're you gonna drop his ass?

Open Letter

2010-09-02T17:20:00.000-07:00

The following is one of those hilarious-because-it's-sadly-true things that I just had to share. Borrowed from McSweeney's:

AN OPEN LETTER
TO MY ABANDONED
MA ENGLISH DEGREE.
June 11, 2010
- - - -
Dear Abandoned MA English Degree,
We could've been big, MA English Degree. God damn huge! Working together, our forces finally combined with BA English Degree to form that ancient tripartite power of analysis, critical thinking, and original content. We could have taken the world by storm. There was no shortage to where we could have gone: non-paying internships at publishing houses, a PhD program, the list... well, the list kind of peters out there, but man, what we could've done in either of those, it would've really set the world aflame! But alas, here is where we must part ways. Two semesters into our supposed two year relationship I must take my leave from you.
Ah, just thinking about all we've done together, and all we could've done, makes me get a little misty eyed. We had grand plans. Together we were going to finally shed light on the latent homosexuality running through the short stories of Flannery O'Connor. And our thoughts on why the Harlem Renaissance was actually BAD for African Americans... man, that really would've zinged 'em!
But these are ideas for another time, another student who comes to you full of piss and vinegar and a new way to read the great works (was Shakespeare really a woman?! Now, the world may never know...) But it won't, nay, it can't be me, not anymore. I've finally realized that I can no longer change my life or myself for you. You see, MA English Degree, I want a real job, one that lets me wake up and go to sleep at a reasonable hour, gives me health insurance and grants at least the possibility of future employment. No longer can I pretend that I'm satisfied with what you offer. You try to seduce me into staying, offering teaching assistant jobs with possible adjunct professorships to follow. Perhaps, you say, I can publish my original short story in the campus lit magazine or sit in on a creative writing class, even though I'm not an MFA student? It's tempting, but no, I must stay strong. Don't make this any harder than it is.
Will I regret abandoning you? After all, we were so close to finishing. How does the old song go... "Didn't we almost have it all?" Yes, MA English Degree. We almost did. And perhaps, thirty, forty years from now, when I'm in the twilight of my life, I will look back and feel a sadness in our unfinished business. Standing in the door of my English classroom as the high school English teacher I will inevitably become, I'll wonder what life could have had in store for us. Giving papers at academic conferences in South Dakota? Uprooting my family and relocating for a job at a small community college in Ohio? Maybe even a book, something with a ridiculously long title and a colon or a semicolon thrown in, like Home Sweet Home: Domestic Violence in the Early 20th Century and its Affect on Children's Literature; Looking at the Adolescence of Young Girls in A Tree Grows In Brooklyn and To Kill A Mockingbird, published at a university press? Who knows the wonders you could've opened up to me. Like the genie (who, as you've taught me, is actually a metaphor for the oppression of the mystical practices of various indigenous tribes in the Middle East) you could have granted me riches beyond my wildest imagination. But I'll never know for sure.
So it is, with a slightly heavy heart, that I abandon you, MA English Degree. It's not as callous as you might think. I don't regret our time together. And whenever I read a book, I will think fondly of how you taught me to stop at every word and wonder, what does that mean? But I cannot care for you anymore, not in the way you want, the way you need. I'm sorry MA English Degree. I do hope you find someone else, someone who can give you the time, patience, and obtuse thinking you so desire.
Best wishes,
Liz Skoski

Highest Rank

2010-08-24T19:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the first time I've ever been the highest rank in a Taekwondo class. I've been second highest before, but never highest. For those who don't know, the highest rank lines up first (furthest to the right) in the first row and is responsible for saying the necessary words to bow everyone in and begin and end class. This involves knowing (and in my case remembering) some key Korean words/phrases: cha-ryuht (attention); geuk gi hyang kyung-nae (bow to the flags); sabumnim kyung-nae (bow to the Master); kahm sa hamnida (thank you).

More than the words, though, being the highest rank comes with a responsibility I didn't anticipate. Everyone is looking to you for an example of, well...everything. How to pronounce the words, how to behave while Master White is speaking or instructing, how to move your body in the right way. I realized as we were warming up, and I was going through the same warm up exercises I have done for three years now, that the white belts at the back of the room only know me as a black belt. They didn't see me progress; they weren't there while I struggled at the back of the room, trying to figure out how to turn my hips so I could execute a good round kick. They only know me as the highest rank, one who's supposed to be experienced and polished. And while I'm sure they don't expect me to be perfect (or maybe they do -- did I expect the black belts to know everything back then?), they certainly look to me as an example of how to do things properly.

When I think about it like that, it all seems pretty crazy -- I mean, I'm no expert. I may be a black belt, and sure it took lots of training and hard work to get there, but I have so much to learn. Becoming a black belt is really just the beginning. I hardly feel capable of teaching, and yet, here I am doing exactly that. And people are calling me "Ma'am," and that's weird too.

Theoretically, none of this affects my performance. I still give 100%. But somehow that 100% seems more focused, more aware of details in my stances and kicks, and less willing to slack off when things get tough. At the end of class, as we bow out, we all say kahm sa hamnida to each other (Master White included). We say "thank you" for teaching us, and he says "thank you" for being my students. And now I know why.

The Better Mouse Trap

2010-08-05T08:21:00.000-07:00

Lately I've realized I have a mouse problem in my house. Oddly enough, real mice are not as cute as they seem in nursery rhymes. I have two traps for them, and so far I've caught a mouse a day (does that have the same effect as an apple a day?). Luckily for me, Indy has been willing to help.

Each morning we have a ritual: I check the traps, usually find a long, rigid tail sticking out above two petrified little feet, and I pick up the trap and head outside to release the carcass. Indy follows, more than willing to help me find a good dumping spot. The trick is, I have to throw the mouse over our fence far enough that Indy can't retrieve it and adopt it as her new toy -- like any healthy dog, she has quite the taste for the delicacy of rodent carcass (and bird carcass and fish carcass and...you get the picture).

On Monday of this week, I failed. I threw the mouse over the fence and headed back inside, quickly realizing Indy was not with me. I looked back just in time to catch Indy rooting her nose under the fence just far enough to snatch the tail and rescue the dead rodent. She then pranced around the yard with the limp body in her mouth, looking at me as if to say, "Mom, look at my new bitch!" Then she broke into a run -- a zoom, actually -- in repeated ovals around the tree in the center of the yard, stopping only briefly to give the mouse a good wrenching back and forth. Eventually she gently dropped the dead body in the hole she's been digging in the yard, preparing to give it a proper burial (and not, I'm sure, planning to dig it up again later), at which point I ran over to that spot and guarded the mouse while yelling at Indy to stay away. This upset her greatly, and she barked back at me like any good teenager.

Then I realized the difficulty of my new mission: somehow guard the mouse from Indy, while simultaneously corralling Indy back into the house and discovering a way of picking the mouse up and throwing it back over the fence without touching it. In the end I used two sticks to pick up the carcass chop-stick style (which was difficult, as I can't even use real chop sticks), chased Indy back into the house, and shut the door so she couldn't see the mouse's final resting place (far into the woods on the other side of our fence).

Looking forward to tomorrow morning.

I Heart Vermont

2010-07-19T18:02:00.000-07:00

On my recent trip to Georgia, I was once again reminded of the vast differences between the North and the South. I really think we should give some more thought to this whole secession thing -- we're already like two different countries. But, while I do love my family and friends in the South, this trip only cemented in my mind how much I love and appreciate Burlington and Vermont in general. So I thought I'd post a top ten list of things I love about Vermont.

Top Ten Things I Love About Burlington/Vermont: (not in order)

1. Great breakfast places: Sadie Katz, Penny Cluse, Magnolia's, Mirabelle's

2. Outdoor life -- the fact that you can walk, bike, ski, etc. to anywhere you want/need to go, besides the fact of just doing that stuff for fun

3. Shiny Happy People -- the most open, accepting, fun, spirited, socially conscious people I've met in any place I've ever lived; this is a place where truly anything goes

4. Lake Champlain and the Mountains

5. Size -- a big enough city to have culture and stuff to do, with a small-town feel, without much of the drama of a true small town

6. Photo opps!

7. Seasons -- four full, beautiful seasons (okay, Spring a.k.a. "mud season"...not so great; and yes, the Winter is long, gray, and cold; but both of those inconveniences are totally worth it for Summer and Fall!)

8. Green in so many ways -- landscape, ecology, attitude, education...

9. Blue Wave Taekwondo (so this one doesn't apply to everyone, but it's definitely on my list)

10. Maple Everything! yum...

Ode to the Girls

2010-06-04T08:14:00.000-07:00

In honor of Rue McClanahan (who died yesterday), Bea Arthur and Estelle Getty (who have apparently already died, and I didn't realize it! :'-( ), and Betty White (who is, thankfully, still very much alive), I must write a tribute to my beloved Golden Girls. I have the entire series on DVD, and I have gone to them for comfort many times over through the years. Last night I had some cheesecake in their honor.

So here are my Top 5 Favorite Golden Girls Episodes (and my favorite quotes from each):

1. "The Way We Met"
[Dorothy and Rose are arguing over who gets the better room after Blanche promised it to
both of them; they flip a coin and Rose wins]
Rose: I'll make it up to you, Dorothy. I promise. Listen, if there's ever a night where you
can't sleep, I'll come to your room and sing "Kumbaya."
Dorothy: Oh, Rose, I don't know what to say. . . . Yes I do. Don't ever do that.

2. "My Brother, My Father"
[Sophia's brother/Dorothy's uncle Angelo, who's a priest, is visiting from Italy; Dorothy and
Stan are pretending to still be married; Rose and Blanche, who are acting in a local
production of The Sound of Music, enter dressed as nuns]
Rose: Hi, I'm Sister Rose
Blanche: And I'm Sister Blanche. We're, uh...
[looks at bra and panties in her hands]
Blanche: ...collecting lingerie for. . . needy sexy people.

3. "Valentine's Day"
[The girls reminisce about Valentine's Days past; in one memory, they're going on a cruise
with their boyfriends, and they're shopping to prepare]
Blanche: We are giong away on a romantic cruise to the Bahamas with Jeff and Rich and
Randy. In this day and age it might be a good idea to take along some protection.
Rose: What kind of protection?
Dorothy: Two armed Pinkerton guards! No, Blanche is talking about...
[drawing Rose's attention to items on a nearby shelf]
Rose: A Nestle's Crunch?
Dorothy: One over.
Rose: An enema bag?
Dorothy: To the right.
Rose: Dentu-Grip?
Dorothy: Condoms, Rose! Condoms! Condoms! Condoms!
Drug Store Clerk: Hey, take it easy lady! You just get out of prison?

4. "Isn't It Romantic?"
[Dorothy's friend Jean develops a crush on Rose]
Sophia: Jean thinks she's in love with Rose.
Blanche: Rose? Jean has the hots for Rose? I don't believe it! I do not believe it!
Dorothy: I was pretty surprised myself.
Blanche: Well, I bet! To think Jean would prefer Rose over me, now that's ridiculous!

5. "Sophia's Choice"
[Sophia's upset over the treatment of her friend in a nursing home; meanwhile, Blanche
decides to use her bonus to get breast implants]
Sophia: Why do we let things like this happen? Why can't we take care of our elderly like
they do in Japan? Why are there 17 sets of hooters on the coffee table?!
Blanche: Oh, those are mine, Sophia.
Sophia: Oh, well let me put on my big "surprise face"!

Thank you all for being friends, girls.

Who Makes These Lists?

2010-06-03T10:08:00.000-07:00

A few years back, the Modern Library published their list of the Top 100 Best Novels -- a board's list and a reader's list. And so, being the list lover (and book lover) that I am, I immediately set out to find out how many of those I had read, and then subsequently vowed to fill in the gaps on both lists. Then I got to James Joyce's Ulysses (which is #1 on the board's list and #11 on the reader's list), and I decided these kinds of self-imposed challenges are silly.

Then recently I was looking for something good to read, so I thought, hey, why not recommit myself to this quest? So I made a list of all the books I've already read and those I'd need to read to complete both the board's and the reader's lists.

I saw Ulysses again, I vowed to power through it this time. Then I saw Finnegan's Wake, another Joycean masterwork. The inclusion of this book on the list makes me seriously question the lives and minds of the listmakers. For those who aren't familiar with this title, let me quote a paragraph from the first page of the novel (which, by the way is often cited as "comic fiction"):

The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner-
ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur-
nuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later
on life down through all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the
offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan,
erse solid man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends
an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes:
and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the park
where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since dev-
linsfirst loved livvy.

Really??! I have a very difficult time believing enough people have read this to warrant a place on the Top 100!

I've decided I'm ok with my incomplete list.

Lost and Found

2010-05-24T07:37:00.000-07:00

For six years, I have been a devoted follower of Lost. I've watched it by myself, with friends, with my Mom (I consider getting her hooked a big achievement!); I've pondered it, discussed it, written about it -- even presented on it at a national conference (Popular Culture Association). And now that it's over I find myself...well, lost...in a way. Not necessarily because I have all this free time and no show to watch (because, believe me, I have plenty), but moreso because of the things I've observed about humanity revolving around this show.

Through the years, I've endured lots of ridicule and harrassment from "non-believers," who say, "It's just a tv show -- what's the big deal?", implying that only an imbecile would get so wrapped up in a tv show that it would affect her world. I've encountered all kinds of reactions to it -- people love it, hate it, claim they "can't be bothered" by it (as they sit down religiously each week to watch it). What I've noticed is that, by and large, admitting to being devoted (as I have just done) and discussing it as though the characters were real makes you at best uncool and at worst emotionally disturbed and unstable. I gather that the "cool" attitude would be to either not watch it at all (because you're too busy, have more important things to do, or are categorically against television), or to watch it but maintain a disaffected, take-it-or-leave-it attitude about it. What's cool about apathy? What's wrong with admitting you like something? What's wrong with admitting that fictional characters and their situations affect our lives, and that that doesn't make us childish or crazy?

I've also encountered people who love to deconstruct the show and expose all its anachronisms and "unrealistic" situations. I suppose if you can pick a show apart and destroy its logic, you can use that as an excuse for watching it religiously? Maybe it makes them feel somehow "smarter" or less vulnerable -- like they haven't been fooled by the show's writers or whatever.

The truth is, our lives revolve around stories. Everyone has a story. Stories feed us and fulfill us, whether they're true or not. So of course we're drawn to complicated, interwoven plots and characters we can identify with. Of course those characters' stories affect us. I think all of this "covering" is just people being afraid to admit how deeply these stories do run. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not suggesting that everyone around the world secretly loves Lost, even if they say they don't -- I'm simply saying that television (and movies, and books, and any form of narrative) directly affects who we are. And admitting that means opening yourself up to participate in a conversation that you're already a part of.

One of my ex-students emailed me today and said, "I can't believe Lost is over. I really can't believe that when it started I was reading Lord of the Flies in your tenth grade class, and now I'm applying for grad school!" That made me think: because of Lost, I've made some lifelong friends, I've had some highly philosophical discussions that have changed the way I saw the world, and I've grown as a person. The show's life has seen me through a very momentous time in my own life -- I have fully engaged with its stories, and those stories have helped me understand myself. And no matter the content of the show (I wasn't particularly thrilled with the ending), I am a richer person for having watched it.

When Does "Free" Become a Burden?

2010-05-19T07:22:00.000-07:00

I like Craig's List. Really. I think it's one of the greatest things to come out of this Internet thing. And I especially like that people use the "free" category to pass on their hoardes of stuff that might be useful to someone else. Canned cat food, pvc pipe, frames without glass, stained mattresses, lawn gnomes (last year's model). These are just a few of the items listed today in Burlington's free section.

But here's where I draw the line: Diaphragm, only used once. First come, first served.

No, I am not making this up.

When Things Fall Into Place

2010-05-12T08:20:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been thinking a lot about how the universe works, and about the Law of Attraction. Despite what I know about how you have to give off light to attract it, it's always a struggle for me. I have to keep reminding myself to think positively, and I constantly catch myself slipping back into "woe is me" sort of negative thoughts.

Today I had a sort of epiphany: everyone struggles with this same concept. I don't think maintaining a regiment of positive thought is easy for anyone. And in the end it's our intention that matters, moreso than our actual output. I was getting overwhelmed with anxiety that I was sending out negative energy into the world, despite my best efforts at avoiding that, to the point where I had become afraid to feel "bad." But I realized that 1)it's ok to feel bad sometimes, and 2)feeling bad doesn't automatically mean bad things will happen to you -- it's your intention and your reaction that matter. Allowing yourself the space to feel whatever you're feeling is an important step in getting yourself to the point where you can see the positive and reflect that positivity back to the universe. You can't have the yin without the yang, and vice versa.

Recently some key aspects of my life have clicked into place. Without really much searching, I found a very sweet housing situation -- one which met all of the criteria I had laid out for my "perfect house" -- including cost. And now, it seems, the same can be said of my job situation. I can't say it's happened without much searching -- or anxiety and doom, for that matter -- but I can say that I'm entering one of those moments when I'm seeing first-hand that things happen for a reason. The universe puts you where you need to be until everything falls into place and you're ready to "move."

So this weekend I'll be doing a lot of moving, in many senses of the word.

Homemade Mother's Day

2010-05-07T06:11:00.000-07:00

Student A: What's that? [points to the card in Student B's hand]

Student B: Mother's Day card. I made it in Graphic Design.

Student A: Who'd you make it for?

Student B: Who do you make your Mother's Day cards for, your girlfriend?

White Madness

2010-04-28T09:22:00.001-07:00

So I'm driving back home from visiting the folks in New Hampshire yesterday, and when the rain started about forty minutes outside Montpelier, I thought, well this sucks, but at least it was beautiful all weekend. I try to be an optimist.

Then I got about ten minutes outside Montpelier and that rain turned to snow, and I thought, It's April 27th..........................

WTF????

This is ridiculous!!!

See how quickly that optimism can disappear?

I tried my best to "enjoy" this freakish weather by taking some pictures, which worked temporarily. Then I got up this morning to a perfect ground covering of (what did they say on the radio?...SIX INCHES?!).

Come on, Vermont. There's a reason the song isn't "I'm Dreaming of a White Mother's Day."

Play Date

2010-04-12T07:37:00.000-07:00

When I drove out to my friends Sally and Cindy's house last weekend, I actually wasn't sure I was going to make it. They had warned me that it would be best to park at "The Shed" and walk in to the house, and then they'd called me again and said I should just park at "the bottom of the hill" and they'd come get me, since there had been some rain and the road was "a little rough." But I quickly realized I hadn't fully grasped the big picture. I arrived at "the bottom of the hill" and sat, car idling, gazing up at the long and winding mud ditch otherwise known as Ridge Rd., where they live. I looked up and saw them waiting at the top of the hill, so I decided this wasn't the place they had said to stop, even though I was unsure of my Toyota Corolla's ability to brave the elements, no matter how good the front-wheel drive was. When I finally got to where they were parked, they said, "We didn't know [the neighbor] had fixed it!" Uh-huh -- fixed. Right. We then parked at The Shed and proceeded on the "short walk" -- a fifteen minute hike -- to their house. I briefly thought, maybe I should've brought more gear.

It turned out to be a fabulously great time, though, and I was fascinated by their house -- which Sally designed and built from the ground up, with her actual hands. And I loved meeting their chickens and goats, particularly Gus, who was aptly described as a "lap goat."

The best part of the night, though, was the four straight hours Sally and I spent playing music -- she on guitar and me on drums -- with Cindy jamming away in the background. Adult play date!

East Middlebury Falls

2010-04-07T18:24:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday was a beautiful day, so Indy and I drove out to the falls near the Green Mountain National Forest, just outside Middlebury, VT -- a favorite spot of ours. These are some shots from that day. On the left is a really cool piece of wood I found -- every time I look at I see a lamb, but that's just the way it naturally was (not carved or anything).

Indy was mostly occupied with trying to teach the water a lesson -- it was not cooperating with her when she tried to take a drink, so there was much barking and pouncing, which of course led to getting wet, swimming, and then shaking herself dry at my expense. A good time was had by all I'd say.

Things You Learn Through Experience

2010-04-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes Life gives you lemons and then cackles hysterically as it screams, "We're out of sugar, so good luck with the lemonade!"

Note on Blogger's Facilitation of Graphic Design Creativity

2010-04-04T14:00:00.000-07:00

It's really frustrating to try to fix a post layout the way you want in Blogger. (see previous post)

Fire and Ice

2010-04-04T13:27:00.000-07:00

Helen and I seem to gravitate toward sunsets. OK, so maybe I gravitate toward sunsets all by myself. Either way, I find myself taking lots of pictures of them lately, an activity which satisfies me on several levels. I mean, there's my obvious love (ok, let's say obsession) with sunsets; then there's my love of photography (which seems to be growing now that I have a partner in crime); and then there's just something about spending a lot of time watching nature in action -- sunrise, sunset and all that. Of course I generally miss the sunrise part, but you can't have it all. It just seems like I can be having the worst day imaginable, and but then I take a minute -- or an hour or two -- to watch the sunset, and my mind clears. Nature breathes for me.

When we came upon the beach at Oakledge,

we were greeted by these ice formations. We both took scads of pictures of them -

- they fascinated me to no end, and I tried desperately (as I often do) to capture the real beauty in my photographs, but this is as close as I could come.

One time I took a photography class, and the teacher, who was basically worthless for most other things, gave us one piece of advice that has been

indispensable in helping me catch some of my most awesome shots. He said, "Whenever you're in awe over a breathtaking scene, and you're clicking your shutter as fast as your camera will let you, turn around. Usually the most incredible stuff is behind

you." After I'd taken about a hundred shots of ice sculptures and sunsets,

I turned around, and this is what I saw.

Sunset Over St. Albans

2010-03-28T07:53:00.000-07:00

Some pictures from sunset on the waterfront at St. Albans, Vermont.

I'm Lovin' It

2010-03-25T10:17:00.001-07:00

Today I discovered another reason not to eat at McDonald's that has nothing to do with how unhealthy it is. OK, maybe a little to do with health.

I sauntered up to the counter and ordered a Crispy Chicken Ranch BLT with cheese, to which the register girl said, "I'm confused." I was confused too -- I wasn't sure how to break it down any further than that, especially since my order was taken directly from the large neon menus above my head.

I tried again: "I'd like a Ranch BLT with crispy chicken, and I'd like to add cheese to that."

"I definitely don't know what you're asking," she said. Well, at least she was definite about something.

Oddly enough, the food came to me exactly as I had envisioned it would, despite her unresolved confusion. And here's the part where I once again thought (as I have MANY times before) I have to stop eating at McDonald's. The box in which the sandwich was nestled bore a warning: Product may contain chicken and/or bacon. There are two things that worry me about this statement:

a) The existence of the warning in the first place. Picture it: you have asked for and purchased a sandwich bearing the name "Crispy Chicken Ranch BLT." Because you have spent a significant amount of time frequenting fast food joints and grills across America, you recognize that the acronym "BLT" stands for "Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato." Unlike many of life's messy experiences, this order presents a very predictable, black-and-white situation for you. Then you open up your sandwich and, to your utter surprise, the sandwhich is filled with -- what? -- chicken and bacon! But wait -- they didn't warn you -- and you're allergic to chicken and bacon -- how could you have known? Oh, the humanity.

b) The words "may" and "and/or." As explained in the above statement, when I order a sandwich with both chicken and bacon in the name, I do not expect it to be a game of Russian Roulette. I don't expect to have to consider the odds. I pretty much expect -- demand, even -- that my "product" does contain both chicken and bacon. But then again, I'm told I'm "high maintenance."

For Loser Wannabes

2010-03-23T10:01:00.000-07:00

I wanted to give a shout out to a great book I've just finished reading: Secrets of a Former Fat Girl, by Lisa Delaney. If you've struggled with weight -- not just the physical aspects of trying to take off the pounds or dealing with life as a person of more-than-average size, but the mental hurdles of the Fat Girl psyche -- then this book is most definitely a must read. Delaney names and elaborates on seven secrets that address all the things that so often plague us Fat Girls, and her advice is practical yet also light-hearted and witty. I swear she's been spying on me for the last thirty years.

I give it 5 Caramel Sundaes (eaten stealthily, alone in your car of course)!

Link to the Future

2010-03-22T09:39:00.000-07:00

Inspired by Helen's recent post, I have decided to finally announce my engagement. This is a picture of my soon-to-be husband. Please don't be jealous -- it took me a lifetime to find my true love.

The Care and Feeding of Teenagers

2010-03-19T08:46:00.001-07:00

The following is a transcript of a real-life encounter with a teenager (the names have been changed to protect the guilty):

I look up from my desk when I see a football shoot across the classroom out of the corner of my eye.

ME: Chester, what are you doing? [sheepish shrug from Chester] OK, I didn't really think this is something I'd ever have to say, but please don't throw your football across the room.

CHESTER: Sorry.

I go back to my work. 30 seconds pass. I look up again when I see another type of ball shoot across the classroom out of the corner of my eye.

ME: Chester!

CHESTER: What??!! I'm not throwing a football!

ME: [flashing Chester a gimme-a-break scowl] Let me be more specific: please do not throw any kind of ball across the room.

I go back to my work. 30 seconds pass. I look up again when I see a ball of several wadded up sheets of notebook paper fly across the room and hit another student in the head, which elicits peels of laughter from the entire class.

ME: OK, let me be VERY SPECIFIC: please do not throw ANY OBJECT, ANY DISTANCE, within a 50 mile radius of me, until the END OF TIME!

CHESTER: Sorry.

I pretend to go back to my work, but really I keep a sharp eye on Chester and company. Five minutes pass. All seems well. I go back to my work. I look up to check again just as Chester completes a beautifully spiraling hail mary pass to Paul, the student he previously hit in the head with the wadded paper.

ME: [getting up and walking over to Chester's seat with my hand held out] Alright, that's it. Give me the football.

CHESTER: [hurriedly stuffing said football in his backpack] No -- I'm good. I'm good, I'm good, I promise, I'm good.

ME: I didn't ask you how you were doing. I said give me the football.

CHESTER: No seriously -- I'm good. It's gone. Won't happen again.

ME: Give me the football.

CHESTER: I'm putting it away.

ME: No, you're putting it in my hand. Now!

CHESTER: Fine. [licks the football] Still want it?

ME: Yes I do. Because I can wash my hands, while you, on the other hand, have just licked a football.

Class erupts into laughter; I take football. Game, set, match.

Give Paws a Chance

2010-03-19T08:21:00.000-07:00

Recently I've been looking for an apartment. Yes, after three years of living on the third floor (what used to be the attic) of what used to be a very nice Victorian home but what is now best described as Pothouse Central for Responsibility Challenged Fortysomethings, I have finally decided I've had enough. I need more space. I need less stairs. I need to be able to walk into my home without getting high from second-hand cannabis fumes. This seems like a reasonable request to me.

But apparently reasonable does not translate into easily doable. So many nice place, the majority of which specify, usually in bolded, all-caps letters, NO DOGS! That brings me to my current frustration: what do you people have against dogs?? Dogs are friendly -- they're lovers, not fighters. The worst they can do is lick you to death.

Okay, so not all dogs are like that. But mine is! Indy is sweet and playful and harmless. Granted, she may get a little excited when she sees people she loves, like her grandparents or Helen Auntie, and she may jump up to say hi. But basically, she's a good puppy. I mean, how can you resist a face like this:

The overwhelming lack of tolerance for dogs leads me to believe that Burlington landlords have had consistent, serious problems with dog-owning tenants. And since behavior is not really a dog's fault, this leads me to have some very serious unresolved anger toward the mass of apparently stupid, irresponsible people out there who spoil it for the rest of us! [disclaimer: I aplogize to those who are smart and responsible and have simply been unfairly judged].

So, Burlington, if you're listening, take a chance on us!

Peppermint Patty

2010-03-17T05:30:00.000-07:00

In th' spirit o' St. Patty's Day (often miswritten as "St. Paddy's Day" by those not in th' know), I'll be celebratin' me Irish heritage in th' followin' tribute...

LUCKY CHARMS:

If ye come across any o' dese t'day, ye can consider yerself lucky:

Leprechaun: one o' th' most well known (but also th' hardest to find) lucky charms. As ye know, Ireland is a land o' many mystical, supernatural phenomena, an' Leprechauns are just th' most fun o' dat bunch. If ye come across a Leprechaun in yer travels t'day, be sure an' ask 'em fer three wishes -- an' don't ferget t' use yer first wish t' wish fer more wishes!

Shamrock: known as th' National Flower o' Oirland (or Eire, as we natives like t' say), a shamrock brings good luck, lifetime happiness, and many Pots o' Gold (see below) t' all who have 'em. Unfortunately, shamrocks kin only be found in th' fields of Western Eire, where all th' damn Buddhists have settled, so at th' moment they got a monopoly on happiness. Dirty Jezebels.

Rainbows: as ye know, rainbows kin only be seen in Eire herself. True Rainbows (as in those over th' cloudy skies o' Eire) are formed from dat special mix o' chemicals in th' air, plus a wee bit o' Leprechaun magic. If ye get a good photo of a True Rainbow, ye'r said to be ensured o' luck in marriage and livestock. Oh, an' don't ferget th' Pot o' Gold (see below) at th' end!

Pots o' Gold: all ye hafta do t' find a Pot o' Gold is t' find th' end ofa True Rainbow. Once ye find one, ye'r sure t' have, well...lots o' gold! Good luck with dat!

And luckiest charm ofall?....

Th' oft-heard of but rarely seen 21-Leaf Clover.

If ye actually get t' hold one o' these beauties in yer hand, ye'll have a lifetime o' luck in life's most important tings: sex, sanity, an' metabolism.

I'M JUST SAYIN'

Now that ye have all th' luck ye kin stand, here's a few handy traditional Irish phrases an' stuff ye kin use t' brighten th' day of yer favorite Irishmen (and women):

Top o' th' mornin' to ye! (with enthusiasm an' emphasis on th' morn) -- dis is a highly cheerful an' appropriate ting t' say t' any friend ye meet, any time o' day. Ye'll be sure t' draw a smile with dis one!

Pog mo thoin (pronounced "pogue mahone") -- dis is a friendly Irish greetin' dat ye kin use in any situation. Roughly translated it means "pleasure t' meetya!"

Cead mile failte (pronounced "Hey!") -- quite commonly used t' insult yer friend's mum. Roughly translated it means, "a pox on yer sheep!"

***dis post is dedicated to me dear Oirish friend, Pghelinbhnmbh Volshghbhaosbh (pronounced "Helen Walsh")***

Sunrise, Sunset

2010-03-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

And the sun sets on the Black Belt testing.

Helen and I went up to Overlook Park, in Burlington, and watched the sunset that Sunday, after my parents had gone home and the Blue Wave Winter Camp was over, and the biggest physical challenge I've ever attempted or accomplished had been conquered. Nothing speaks to my soul more than a beautiful sunset. It was the perfect ending to a pretty perfect weekend.

Kick Board

2010-03-15T18:01:00.000-07:00

I've had a request for some pics and discussion of my black belt test. Well, as you can imagine I have about a thousand pics from various people who were there, so it was hard to choose just a couple, but here are two of my favorites.

The one on the bottom is of me breaking the second of a two-board combination. The first kick was a roundhouse kick, and the guy kneeling down was holding that board (which broke like a good little board should!). This picture is a perfectly placed back kick and my foot going through the second board. I was actually pretty nervous about this combo because the night before I had gotten a verbal beating from one of the higher ranking black belts about my form. This woman (we sometimes call her "Bad Cop") went on and on about how I wasn't chambering my back kick and how I wouldn't break a board like that, and I had to practice the combo like seven or eight times, each time waiting for her critique. It was unnerving to say the least, especially the night before the test. But during the actual test I just cleared my mind and focused only on the task at hand -- which is huge for me.

The one on the top is Master Gordon White tying on my black belt as my good friend (and fellow tester), Ramsey Papp, looks on. I have to say that I have never felt more proud of myself than I did at that moment. I thought I would actually cry, but I didn't. If this had been one of those underdog-overcomes-obstacles-and-wins-game/contest/prize movies, though, I'd have been a blubbering mess. It was a very emotional moment, though, joking aside. And what made it even better was that I had so many friends and family watching me (and testing with me)...not only am I a badass, but I am loved.

Tie Breaker

2010-03-13T17:05:00.000-08:00

Well I noticed that I'd written 9 blog posts in 2009 and 9 in 2010, so I thought it was time for a tie breaker. Not that I necessarily have anything important to say.

At the moment I'm sitting in Barnes and Noble because, ever since my neighbors moved and disconnected their internet service, this is the only place I can consistently get online. Why don't you just get your own internet connection? one might ask. Ah, yes, that is a question for the ages, isn't it?

In the meantime, the booksellers and barristas here at B & N have come to recognize me on sight, and I fear first-name basis will be soon to follow. But Saturday night is a fascinating time to be here, I must say. Not like Friday night (see previous post: Friday Night Lights). No, it appears that Saturday is for the ultra cool -- people merely stopping at B & N on their way to somewhere bigger and better, like, oh say, a movie or bowling perhaps.

Tonight the Most Intriguing People Hanging Out in B & N on a Saturday Night Award goes to: four teenage boys to my right -- 15? 16? -- who are trying desperately to look like they are some of those people who have merely stopped here on their way to something better, but who, with the wave of a hand and a sheepish cut-away of the eyes, have just given away the ugly truth that they are, in fact, here with their mother. Clearly none of them can drive. But they are exhibiting the requisite I'm-not-here-for-the-books behavior: lots of espresso (very mature), non-fru-fru, "safe" cafe foods (bagels with cream cheese), four tables thrown together that make a perfect paper football playing field (no books in sight), and lots of looking around feigning boredom. My guess? Somebody thought this would be a great place to meet "mature" women. And in that case, they're in luck, because other than them and me, no one here is under the age of fifty. Score!

What Now?

2010-03-11T10:25:00.000-08:00

Well, now that I've gotten my black belt (YAY!), I'm a little lost. I've been working toward that goal for so long, and now I feel like I "should be doing something big" but when I wrack my brain trying to think of what it is, I draw a blank. Helen says I'm suffering from "reaction"...not sure about that. But I'm sure about one thing: I feel restless. I feel like I have it in me to accomplish something great, and I'm just sort of stuck in a kind of limbo. Time to set a new goal I guess.

Final Black Belt Essay

2010-03-01T08:52:00.000-08:00

Indomitable Spirit

“Any wisdom that exists, exists in what we already have. Our wisdom is all mixed up with what we call our neurosis. Our brilliance, our juiciness, our spiciness, is all mixed up with our craziness and our confusion, and therefore it doesn’t do us any good to try to get rid of our so-called negative aspects, because in that process we also get rid of our basic wonderfulness. We can lead our life so as to become more awake to who we are and what we’re doing rather than trying to improve or change or get rid of who we are or what we’re doing.”

“A further sign of health is that we don't become undone by fear and trembling, but we take it as a message that it's time to stop struggling and look directly at what's threatening us.”

-- Pema Chodron

I have never been comfortable in my own skin. I have struggled all my life with insecurities about my physical appearance and limitations. I haven’t always been overweight, but I’ve always been “bigger” than everyone else, or disproportionate in some way. I’ve always stood out in the crowd, in unflattering ways, and because of this, every time I endeavor to do something physical, I come face to face with some very deep-rooted fears and anxieties: I don’t want to look stupid; I don’t want to be last; I don’t want to mess up; I don’t want to let anyone down. I’ve always thought of myself as the “weakest link,” physically speaking, and that perception has been reinforced repeatedly over the years, whether through external influences or self-fulfilling prophecy.

People often say that unrelenting perseverance is one of my best qualities: I simply decide what I want and then do whatever it takes to make it happen. And while this is true, it’s also true that in the cerebral areas of life – academics, art, writing, music, teaching – I am blessed with significant natural talent and mental agility, so I can usually achieve goals related to those areas more readily. For some reason, though, I have not been able to apply that same goal-driven mentality to anything in the physical realm. Part of this, I know, is that, proportionately, I’ve attempted so many more intellectual pursuits that I’m just used to doing well quickly, so it always surprises me how much work and effort yields so little success in physical activities. Another part is that my perfectionistic nature won’t let me participate in something at which I cannot be “one of the best.” The combination of these factors has led me, in the past, to conclude that sports and exercise simply aren’t my “things,” to accept that I just wouldn’t ever be successful at those kinds of activities.

Those thoughts are probably what kept me out of a dojang until I was twenty-eight years old, despite the fact that I’ve felt drawn to martial arts since I saw Karate Kid when I was ten. Those same fears have plagued me throughout my Taekwondo training, but they’ve become especially loud and aggressive since I obtained my red belt and began the journey to black belt. In fact, my “training” has really been more about overcoming the obstacles in my mind than about preparing my physical body. And I have only just recently realized that I don’t actually think like that anymore. It’s not that I can’t be successful at physical activities; it’s that achieving those goals takes more time, sweat, and tears than anything else in my life. Instead of a month or a year, it’s taken a lifetime. Taekwondo has taught me that. Master White and my Blue Wave family have taught me that.

Early in the fall, when I was having extra difficulty drowning out those aggressive fears, Master White responded to my concerns by asking me a question: “When you make a fist, which finger is the weakest?” The answer?: The one that’s not participating. This was a pivotal moment in my mental development. I realized that, for the first time in my life, I am part of a team – not just because they have to let me play, but because I am integral; my participation is an important part of what makes the team work. Granted, Blue Wave is not a team in the traditional sense; Taekwondo is, at heart, an individual sport. But in a broader sense, I have not made this journey alone. In one way or another, everyone in my testing group – my “team” – has helped me overcome an obstacle or two, and I have done the same for them. Along the way, we have all been guided and encouraged by the Burlington black belts, as well as those from other gyms. When we stand before the board at testing, we represent ourselves, individually and collectively, and all those who have helped us get to this point. That makes Blue Wave Taekwondo the best of both worlds: a team that works together, uniting in mutual friendship, to encourage individual and group success.

Of all the verbal definitions we have to learn for the gup rank tests, the meaning of taeguek four seems to be the most confusing to people. They scratch their heads and snicker a little when they read that jin, thunder, is the “element of fear and trembling,” and that “because Taekwondo is comprised of virtuous actions, it defines fear as courage.” I suppose to many people fear and courage seem to be at cross-purposes, but to me the definition makes perfect sense. Courage is the flip side of fear. Courage is being terrified of falling but putting one foot in front of the other anyway. Courage is picking yourself up off the floor and doing another spin hook kick, even though you know you might end up on the floor again. For me, sometimes courage is just showing up. I still get anxious when I walk into the dojang; at times I’m still afraid that I’ll make a fool of myself or that I won’t be able to do something. But I still come to class. I do my best to silence that old negative tape in my head and work through the fear. I kick harder, kiyup louder, and refocus my anxious energy toward improving my technique. I am jin.

When I successfully attain first dan rank on March 5, 2010, it will be the first time I have ever achieved a major physical goal, the first time I have ever persevered, gone the distance, and refused to let my fears get the best of me. But it definitely won’t be the last.

What Time Is It?

2010-02-22T08:29:00.001-08:00

Recently I was eating lunch with a good friend at a local Chinese restaurant. I was yammering on about the daily saga that is my life, and she was politely listening and occasionally making the requisite comments: "Uh huh," "Yeah," and "That's not right!" Then the fortune cookies came, and she opened hers while I continued with my drama. Suddenly she got this smirk on her face and cut her eyes over to me with a mischievous look.

"What?" I said. "What does it say?"

She just handed it to me so I could read it myself: "Now is the time to make new friends."

I Give Up

2010-02-18T17:02:00.000-08:00

Best conversation to come out of my job teaching high school English this year:

(while doing Mad Libs)
Me: I need a verb.
Student: Corn!
Me: [trying not to mock] Corn is not a verb.
Student: Yes it is.
Me: [now debating whether I should continue this line of discussion] No, it's definitely not.
Student: Yes it is!
Me: [now trying to control fists of death] A verb is something you do. You can't corn something.
Student: Yes you can.
Me: How? How can you corn something?
Student: Like if you throw a corn cob at someone. You're corning them.
Me: If you throw a corn cob at someone, throw is the verb!! [clearly having lost my cool]
Student: Well, you can "do corn," just like you can "do pot."
Me: [still wondering if I should continue] Not that I want to encourage any discussion about doing pot, but if you do pot, DO is the VERB! You can't pot something, unless it's a plant!
Student: Well, pot is a plant...come to think of it, so is corn.

Damage Control

2010-02-11T17:15:00.000-08:00

And onward I go trying to compose this essay for my black belt scrapbook. I am a writer -- I did not expect this to be difficult. But today I wrote this:

My parents love to tell the story about my escapades as a Little League softballer in the fifth grade. According to their tale, which elicits copious laughter every time, I would spend most of the game sort of twirling around in the outfield, looking up at the sky and singing to myself, sometimes not so softly. I think they mean to use this charming anecdote to highlight my sensitive, artistic nature, and to illustrate that well-known truth that we all have our strengths, and mine was obviously never athletics. I don't blame them. I know their intentions are good. And I guess to someone who buys into the innocence of that image -- the simplicity of an eleven-year-old too distracted by the beauty around her to notice something like a softball game in which she is supposed to be participating -- that story would be cute and funny.

But I was there. And it's not funny to me because I know the truth. At the time I only knew the details of the situation: 1) I loved softball and wanted desperately to play (my parents had not made me join the team); 2) I was awkward and gangly and could not run fast -- I was a 5'6" eleven-year-old trying to reconcile a pair of giraffe-like legs and a double-barrel chest with a uniform that was clearly never intended for such beasts; and 3)at that point in my life, I had already suffered so much ridicule about my physical appearance at the hands of my "peers" that I was terrified of anything that would draw more attention. Now I know that those moments on the field -- those silly, childish moments that make such good stories -- defined me in ways I'm still trying to understand and reverse.

So there I was, literally and metaphorically out in left field, trying desperately to drown out the words in my head that had me pleading with God not to let a ball come my way. I would do anything, I promised. Anything if He would just keep me safe from that humiliation (obviously just making me a good player was not an option). It was damage control, just as the coaches' decision to make me an outfielder was. I looked around, trying to focus on the trees or the sky. Sometimes I tried really hard to listen to the "chatter" of the other players supporting our pitcher. Sometimes I sang softly to myself.

Damage control.

And now I'm beginning to wonder just how far back this black belt journey is going to take me. And just how much longer it will go on.

Touchee

2010-02-04T17:31:00.001-08:00

I thought I'd share with you two of the best topics to come out of my recent assignment to my college students. The assignment was to write a short argument piece on any topic of their choice, to demonstrate their best abilities with being persuasive:

1. Pot should be legalized because if everyone were high, there would be less crime, which would ultimately result in world peace.

2. In order to stop overpopulation and provide a solution for caring for the elderly, we should send the elderly into space as untrained astronauts, where they would live in space sattelite stations and be ejected into space when they died.

More Fun from Laundry Day

2010-02-01T18:08:00.000-08:00

So I thought I'd include for your reading pleasure a partial transcript of the conversation that took place between the laundry girl and her dad on Skype (see "Criminally Mediocre" below). I wrote this down because...well, I'm a writer, and writers do weird stuff like that:

Girl: Hey, Dad! I'm at the laundromat.
Dad: What? Why are you getting a new doormat?
Girl: Huh? No...laundromat. I'm doing laundry.
Dad: Oh. What's the quandary?
Girl: No...Dad...I said LAUNDRY!!!
Dad: Oh, laundry, right. Hey, I hope you're not washing your underwear there. [**personal thought: I hope she is...or at least washing them somewhere]
Girl: Dad! WTF? Other people can hear you, you know! [**personal thought: of course other people can hear him, you moron, which would be one of the many reasons I would not choose the laundromat as the forum for my Skype convo. Just sayin'.]
Dad: What does WTF mean?
Girl: Dad, I gotta go.
Dad: What did I say? I just asked a simple question.
Girl: I'm hanging up now.

Blacklisted

2010-01-31T10:13:00.000-08:00

Over the last year I've been preparing to test for my black belt in Kukkiwon Chung Do Kwan Taekwondo. Now that the actual test is 33 days away, I'm beginning to have to face some things I thought were long gone. Stuff I thought I'd successfully buried and repressed like any sane person would. But over the last few weeks, I've been trying to write my black belt essay (in which we're supposed to talk about why we want to become black belts and what Taekwondo means to us), and in brainstorming for that essay, I've come face to face with some very ugly truths about my own self concept.

People have asked me how I feel about the test -- what I'm nervous about (if anything), what I feel most confident about, etc. And as I've been about to spout off routine answers, like, I'm nervous I'll forget the moves or I'll freeze up and not be able to perform or I won't be able to break my boards, or I feel really good about the poomsae (forms), I've realized a couple of key things:

1) My fears are my strengths; my weaknesses are my wisdom. That might not make much sense outside my own head, but it's similar to a lesson I learned a long time ago from Pema Chodron (wise Buddhist teacher). In the last few months, I've had to relearn that lesson over and over again.

2) The thing that scares me the most -- the thing that stops me in my tracks when I'm going to the gym to build endurance or when I'm stepping up to a set of boards to break them -- is the fear that I don't belong here. That I'm trying to wedge my way into a milieu, an arena in which I simply don't fit, have never fit -- a party to which I am not, never have been, and never will be invited.

In short, to my great surprise, my biggest obstacle in achieving black belt is...myself.

Criminally Mediocre

2010-01-31T09:46:00.000-08:00

So last night I took a look at a friend's blog and noticed that not only does she continuously say witty, clever things, but she also does high-tech stuff like posting pictures and videos and various links to cool sites and whatnot. And I thought, hey, how come I don't do that? (A lot of times when I have a thought it starts with hey.) Which then brought me to another thought: what is a blog "supposed" to be like, anyway? And because I basically can't be bothered posting pictures and videos and whatnot, I'm going to go ahead and say a blog is whatever it is. That leaves things nice and wide open so that success is almost a given. I like it when success is a given.

At the moment I sit in a 24-hour laundromat wondering why I didn't push for an apartment with washer-dryer connections. Of course there's the traditional hum and whir of the industrial sized washers and dryers, and at the moment there are people waiting in line to use such things -- it's Sunday, so of course the laundromat's packed. But just to give a picture of the rest: to my right sits a twentysomething attempting to talk to her dad on Skype, and by "talk" I really mean "scream at the top of her lungs so as to out-volume the washers and the all-'80's radio playing above us." Three kids all under the age of five are frantically and happily doing figure 8's among the machines while their alleged parents chastise them in another language. Very loudly. My laundry detergent is safely stored next to me -- occasionally I put my arm around it to make sure it's still there. Last week someone stole my detergent right off the top of the washer where my clothes were. You gotta wonder what kind of person does that -- I mean, if I were going to allow myself to stoop to a criminal level, I think I'd pick something a little more worthy of bragging rights than Mountain Fresh Tide 2x strong. Not to mention it was almost empty.

Woman vs. Machine

2009-10-11T15:23:00.001-07:00

Wow. I cannot believe it's been so long since I've posted anything. I guess I've been busy or something.

Well, in the time since we last interfaced (we being myself, the computer, and the hordes of adoring fans I have out there reading this masterwork of literature), I've had to lay another pair of pants to rest -- this time, Levi's. Again it was a sad day, but this time more embarrassing than last. Whereas the last pair ripped clear down the leg and did so at night when I took them off in the privacy of my home, the Levi's in question mysteriously ripped while they were lying on a bench waiting for me to finish my Taekwondo class and change back into them. I discovered said rip, which extended from the top of one of the back pockets straight down to the center of the butt, when I put them on after class and noticed a "draft." Seeing as it's unlikely that the pants actually split on their own, during class, my immediate thought was, how long has the city of Burlington been privy to such "scenic" views? Unfortunately, that is a mystery which will never be solved. Needless to say, it was not as difficult this time to hurl the pants into the dumpster with an emphatic, "And don't come back!"

In other news, my car has developed another idiosyncrasy worth noting. But before we get to that, let's just review the Land Shark's existing personality quirks (note: my license plate is LNDCHRK, which spells out Land Shark -- well, actually, it spells Land Chark, but LNDSHRK was taken so I had to get creative. For those of you who are dying of curiosity, allow me to prevent your untimely demise: it's a reference to my favorite Saturday Night Live skit from 1977.). Now, many of us have forgotten what it's like to drive a car without power steering. What's the big deal? you might say. And you'd go on: I've driven many a car without power steering in my day, and I'm no worse for the wear -- it's not really that much different. I might have even agreed with you at one point. But I think when you have to raise yourself up off the driver's seat in order to put all your weight on the steering wheel so you can make a left turn, that's a problem. I mean, I recently got a gym membership, not so I could get in shape or be healthy, but so I'd one day be able to parallel park. Maybe as a side benefit I'll also be able to roll down my windows. And let's talk about not having air conditioning. Yes, it's inconvenient in the summer, and yes, it definitely kept me from taking a road trip to Georgia in July, but that's not really the main problem. It's the caveman defrost system you have to execute when you don't have AC: a delicate balance of blasting hot air (on the highest temperature) on the front windshield and cracking the driver's side window just a smidge. This process is especially fun when it's raining, which, incidentally, increases the need to defrost. But the latest quirk is especially entertaining: the lever that controls the windshield wipers has apparently loosened its hold over the years, so that now whenever I travel over bumpy stretches of road, the lever naturally falls into place and the windshield wipers automatically start wiping at full speed. I mean, I guess I could look at it as a blessing -- you know how difficult it is to reach the wiper lever when you're trying to steer over bumpy roads and such, so really this is just a kind of "autopilot." Certainly gives new meaning to the descriptor "intermittent."

Top 15 Movies

2009-09-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

I was asked by a friend to post this list on my blog, so here it is:

1. The Princess Bride

2. Star Wars Trilogy (original)

3. Karate Kid

4. Mr. Mom

5. Young Frankenstein

6. Murphy's Romance

7. Pretty Woman

8. Dirty Dancing

9. What a Girl Wants

10. Breakfast Club

11. Miracle

12. Dead Poets Society

13. Mr. Holland's Opus

14. Searching for Bobby Fischer

15. Goonies

p.s. this is not an open invitation for film-preference harassment

Life is Fair

2009-09-07T05:31:00.001-07:00

I now have two followers, so I feel a responsibility to my audience...

Unfortunately, I have nothing earthshattering to say at the moment, so I'll just offer a few observations and notes on life in Burlington (here after, BTV) as of late.

As many of you know, I returned to school this week as a paraeducator at Burlington High School (BHS), and while I spent my days learning all the new rules and regs for various English and Social Studies teachers, my dog, Indy, spent hers playing and cuddling with her Back-to-School Cow. At the end of the week the BTS Cow had sustained major injuries and is now coalescing in the corner of the living room, hoping to avoid further attention. This troubles me somewhat, because BTS Cow (which is how Indy and I refer to him) looked so durable in the store -- like he could live forever -- but alas, his plush skin and cotton stuffing succumbed to the wrath of Indy the Fierce in a matter of days. Minutes, actually, if we're being completely accurate.

But never fear, because even in the animal world we see karma in action. When not consuming BTS Cow, Indy has been tormented and taunted by a mischievous and brave squirrel who likes to run back and forth across our little porch. Sometimes Squirrel looks in the window at Indy and shows his two front buckteeth, as if to say, "You ain't no diva, girl!" Indy responds by rocketing herself back and forth across our living room floor, stopping occasionally at the door to see whether she can break through. That's something that amuses me about dogs -- no matter how many times they run smack into a wooden door, they always seem to forget its density the next time they pass. Then when we go outside, Indy searches frantically for Squirrel, who by that time has scurried up a tree. Frustrating, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, for my second job, working for Kaplan test prep, I had the pleasure and privilege of spending three days at the Champlain Valley Fair, sitting at a little booth, trying to get people to sign up to take a free SAT, ACT, or test of their choice. Now, everyone knows that fairs are excellent places to do people-watching -- talk about seeing the world go by! But if you really want to see some amusing parts of humanity, try combining the types of people who generally populate fairs with the idea of choosing to take a standardized test. I saw everything from annoyance to shock to horror on the faces of people passing my booth. Often people who had previously been moving at what I'd call a meandering pace stepped it up to a full trot and suddenly became extremely interested in the Vermont Pure water booth directly across from me. Older people -- every older person, actually -- said, "Whoah -- I'm well past that nonsense." A few people told me they couldn't even score a 100 on the SAT, which I find hard to believe since you get 200 points for simply filling in your name. Teenagers who passed by were cool about it -- no running, no purposely avoiding eye contact, just a simple snort or chuckle and a, "Yeah, right." I managed to say hi to a few people and got a split reaction of either sheer relief that I was speaking but not asking them to sign up to test or polite but guarded communication which clearly said, "Don't even think about it."

I did talk to one woman who wanted to know if Kaplan did any kind of classes for preparing to be a farmer. I said that I didn't know there was a test for that; she said, There isn't. I said, Well we do test prep; she said, Exactly. I nodded my head in large, sweeping movements and said, Ah-hah! She did the same and said, Ah? Ah-haaah. I said, Unh-hunh. This went on for some time until I began to feel we had just created a language right there, on the spot, although I had no clue what we were talking about. In the end she flashed me a toothless grin, tipped her hat, and mosied to the next booth.

I think the best feedback by far, though, was the ten-year-old girl who was being dragged by at a fairly rapid pace by her parents, but who stopped in front of me long enough to stick her tongue out, make that raspberry sound with it, and punctuate it with, "homework!"

Blah, Blah, Blahg...

2009-08-31T18:58:00.000-07:00

A blog on blogging. I suppose all bloggers, at one time or another, succumb to this dangling carrot, so why not me? After all, according to my subtitle I'm supposed to be exploring the subject of "liberty," and I do hate to be accused of impertinent subtitles.

In a recent conversation with one of my many followers (let's call her "Brunhilda" for the sake of shielding her identity, and because it's fun), Brunhilda said, "Well, I do like your [blog] layout and everything, but do you really want to divulge all that rawness? I mean some of it is just so dark and sad and I'd hate to think someone might read that and think you didn't have it all together." This comment, of course, caused me to read back through my posts, which then inspired the following thoughts: 1) I wouldn't exactly call anything I've written dark, per se, and only sad in that sort of healthy, self-deprecating way. OK, so I did use the phrase "rock bottom" in one post, but that's no measure. 2) all that "rawness," as Brunhilda put it, is a little thing I like to call "life," which brings me to the crux of this issue...

Wounds: to expose or not to expose. When one blogs, does one worry about such things as political correctness, "touchy" subjects, and nuggets of information that may or may not cause others to be saddened, alarmed, or otherwise disturbed? Well, the writer in me is, of course, screaming HELL no!!! If you're going to censor yourself, why write a blog? Isn't there enough censorship going on without bloggers censoring themselves? Come on, people.

But actually, the political correctness/slander angle interests me much less than Brunhilda's concern that I might be divulging a side of me that others would find too "dark" and perhaps depressing. Again, my inner writer's voice is here. I mean, what if Hemingway had felt that way?; what if he'd gotten to the end of For Whom the Bell Tolls and thought, Jesus, that is some dark shit I just wrote. That's really gonna depress the hell out of people. Let's just make a few changes here...[crosses out some lines, writes some stuff in the margins]...there! Now, that's better! Robert Jordan doesn't have to actually blow up the bridge -- they can just chill in the Spanish hills, guerillas and all, and work it out through peaceful and validating conversation! And what if Victor Hugo had decided Jean Valjean's inner struggles were just too damned depressing for people to handle -- that Les Miserables would be a better book if we just got to see Valjean in his halcyon days? Well, it'd be a shorter book, for one thing. And he'd probably have to change the title -- "The Miserable Ones" is no good (too dark) -- perhaps something a little lighter, like whatever's French for "The Ones Who Might've Had a Few Bumps and Bruises But in the End Made Lemonade Out of Lemons"?

I'm rambling a little, I admit, but here's my point: blogs are for thoughts on life. And sometimes life sucks. The best of times, the worst of times, you know...Dickens nailed it. If people only write about the best of times, the worst feel worse than they actually are, cause then you not only have to suffer through life's downs, but you feel like you're doing it alone. What's more is, if you don't find a way to live through the worst of times (and writing and reading are both excellent ways to do this), you never really fully relish the best. And sometimes you just downright miss them.

Ode to Cargos

2009-08-31T18:37:00.000-07:00

Warning: this post may be too distressing for weak-hearted readers.

It was a sad day today as I laid my beloved Old Navy cargo pants to rest. Khaki in color and the softest of cottons, these pants have really gotten me through some hard times. Five long years of ups and downs in weight, belts that have come and gone, a thousand trips through the washers and dryers of my life (including the industrial size/strength ones at the 24-hour laundromat); five years of solid, consistent support. So you can imagine how shocked I was when two days ago, as I was riding my bike back to my house, the pants (which are actually way too big for me now) just ripped, clear down the middle of the leg. Didn't even get caught on my bike or anything -- just died of natural causes. Let's face it, the pants just didn't have the will to fight anymore. And so I had to respect their wishes; I had to let them go.

Oh, how I cried! The last time I loved a pair of pants this much was 26 years ago, when I was 7 and carried on a lasting affair with a robust pair of Wrangler jeans. Come to think of it, what ever happened to those jeans? Beloved-Material-Item Disney World, perhaps? Probably hanging out with my complete collection of original metal Aladdin lunch-boxes-with-thermoses (Pink Panther, Ms. Pac Man, Star Wars, Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi). But I digress...

Farewell, Dear Cargos. You've served me well, and you will, of course, never be replaced.

Note to Self and World

2009-08-31T14:42:00.000-07:00

If a movie appears in the $5 bin at Walmart, there's a good reason for it.

Sometimes $5 really is too much to spend.

Walmart should rename the $5 bin as follows: Movies for People Who Can't Stand Having Money and Time on Their Hands and/or Prefer to Pay for a Swift Kick in the Shins.

Friday Night Lights

2009-08-28T18:44:00.000-07:00

Why is it so easy to spend money? Why is it so easy to spend money I clearly don't have? Why am I sitting here in Barnes & Noble on a Friday night, eating Cheesecake Factory Neopolitan (or as I used to call it, Napoleon) Cheesecake and drinking a Caramel Frappucino (both bought with money I don't have)? Why am I 33 and single, with no prospects to speak of, and getting more action from my dog than I have from anyone else in the past several months? Why do I drive a car with power nothing and a muffler that currently resides in my back seat? Why does my dog consistently take care of business on my bedroom floor, five seconds after coming inside? Why do I get excited about all the Back-to-School events even though I'm not going back to school? Why does Rice Pudding taste better than vegetables? Why isn't Rice Pudding considered a vegetable? Why are we starting to replace actual speech with text abbreviations? idk...

These and many other important questions plague me as I sit here among the Friday Night Crew at B & N. To my right sits a sketchy Burlingtonite; we recognize each other. He's often perched outside B & N, and he usually asks me for money for coffee as I pass. One time he said, "Hey, loser, got a quarter?" I kid you not -- those were his exact words. I did not give him a quarter. Anyway, he's chosen to sit inside on this fine Friday night, so currently he's at the table to my right sipping a latte very slowly. Across the cafe is a table full of people I can only assume escaped from a local half-way house or insane asylum. Yes, this is judging a book by its cover (hah! I'm in a bookstore!), but in this case I'm sure it's appropriate. They all have heavy coats and woolen hats on and, this being the summer and all, that might normally be enough. But this is Burlington, where half the people wear winterwear all year long, so that won't do it. Clue #2: two of them are playing some kind of mystical game of "push the napkin," wherein they methodically push a pile of napkins around the perimeter of the rectangle table. Exhilarating, I know. Here's the sad thing: I'm actually thinking, I wonder if they'd let me play.

Here's how I know I've hit Rock Bottom. I will supply for you a transcript of my thoughts: damn, that asiago pretzel looks good. Probably should've gotten that instead of the cheesecake. It's healthier -- less sugar and all. Maybe I'll get one now, in addition to my cheesecake. Oh, but I spent my last dollar on the cheesecake. Literally. Wonder if she's going to finish hers...should I ask? Nah, I'll just wait till she leaves, then go over there and just take what's left. But what if she throws it away before then? Look at her, she's just sitting there knitting, and that yummy pretzel's just out there, on the table, getting neglected...

And now you know what Rock Bottom really looks like. No, wait -- let me add my recent realization about the reason for my being here, in this store, tonight: it's the only place in Burlington, besides my own house, where I can go and be sure my ex won't be there. The ex doesn't read.

Now, about that pretzel...

Weight a Minute

2009-08-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

Recently I joined Weight Watchers...again. I am what they call a "repeat offender." In fact, I've joined so many times that I'm sure next time I enter a WW meeting with the intent to join again, they'll have to call in reinforcements. The lovely teachers and assistants will be instructed to whisper covertly into their headsets, "She's here. What should we do?"

And the authorities hiding behind the two-way glass will respond, "Just keep her talking, we're comin' in."

Then, before I even have a chance to recite, "If you bite it, write it," men and women in white lab coats armed with scales and pedometers will overtake me and shuffle me off to some isolated, hard-core program for those who just can't seem to gain enough "Momentum."

OK, so this is a slight exaggeration. But I have noticed that WW employees around the country seem to recognize me on sight, despite that I've moved several times. Now, none of this is to denigrate the program itself, and here's where I'll do a little non-compensated plug. The Weigh Watchers Way, whether it's Points or Momentum, or even old-school meat/veggie/bread rations, simply works. If you work it. Hmm...that sounds catchy: "It works if you work it." Where have I heard that before? Ah, yes...the AA mantra. Well, I'm not an alcoholic, but I suppose that's appropriate anyway.

So I have been fighting my body for over twenty years. It's not my fault, I know this. I understand what needs to happen for me to lose weight; my body just disagrees. And, after twenty some years of looking to everything from Weight Watchers to Atkins to Oprah to books on emotional eating, self-love, and deep-seated psychological problems -- and even considering "dramatic" options like joining the military or physically cutting the pounds (note: this option was quickly discarded when I considered the pain and mess) -- I feel like I don't really have any more answers than when I began. Somewhere in there I briefly contemplated just loving myself the way I am, but then I got up from whatever book I was reading, took a look in the mirror, and those loving thoughts just seemed to fly right out of my head. I was hoping as I got older, I'd get wiser -- you know, like old people always say happens -- but so far no good on that front. I mean, granted I'm only 33, which by some estimations is still a "young'n," but looking back on twenty years of fighting the up-stomach weight battle makes me feel old.

In the last decade or so, I've noticed increasing focus on "America's Obesity Problem." Evidently the "problem" of people being fat, which I'm pretty sure has existed for quite some time, has gotten worse. I have several thoughts on this subject, as do plenty of other people (these don't all come strictly from my head, but it's hard to know which ones are which): 1) maybe the problem is with our idea of beauty or appealing body image, not with the number of plump fellow citizens we have. 2) if it's the health angle that you're coming from, how 'bout a little shout-out to America's Illegal Drug Problem, or America's Nicotine Problem, or America's Standard-80-Hour-Work-Week Problem, or America's Lack-of-Belief-in-Siestas Problem? 3) I wonder if America's Obesity Problem is a complex issue with many causes and effects? Hmm...now there's something to think about.

As one of these aforementioned "problem" citizens, I tend to be a little skeptical when I see these articles condemning the stick-frame-challenged. How many of those article authors are thin? How many of them have ever had a department store sales lady "gently guide" them with her eyes to the Plus Size department? How many of them have had to pretend not to notice the looks of horror on friends' or strangers' faces as they're about to sit on a plastic lawn chair? How many have caught themselves feeling "worthy" of the McDonald's drive-in worker's disapproving look as she hands them their burger and shake?

And those are just some of the more obvious public censures we Problem Citizens have to endure. Let the world know we're on a diet, or changing our lifestyle through something like Weight Watchers, and suddenly we have a whole new set of "well-meaning" comments to field: "Ooh...are you sure you can have that?" "Is that on your program?" "How many points do you have left for the day?" "Oh, I bet that would be worth, like, your whole week's worth of points!" "It's just a little bite, what could that hurt?" "If you could just exercise your will power a little, you wouldn't have to pay for these expensive programs!" "Just don't eat as much. It's that simple." These little jabs are almost worse because these people supposedly have good intentions. But since when did it become appropriate to appoint yourself Official Monitor of another person's body?

When you find out your best friend has lung cancer, you wouldn't say, "Well, yeah, I knew this was coming -- I mean, I told you to stop smoking a long time ago." And you also wouldn't say, "Hey, have you tried that chemotherapy stuff? I hear it's really effective if you just do what they tell you to do." And I'm guessing you wouldn't confront a paraplegic who's resting in his wheelchair after a couple hours of physical therapy and say, "God, if you could just exercise a little willpower, you'd be able to walk!" Yes, I believe these comments would be what we call "politically incorrect."

Weight problems are no less serious than lung cancer or other physical impairments. People who are overweight are struggling with something, be it medical, psychological, or just gastronomical. We are desperately fighting a battle, whether you can see the bloodshed and scars or not. Think about that the next time you decide to "inspire" someone with your "well-meaning" comments or glances.

Welcome to My World

2009-08-24T09:37:00.001-07:00

For those of you who are reading this blog hoping to 1) find out what John Maynard Keynes (of the original Keynesian Model) has been up to from the grave, or what his followers have been up to; 2) discover new insights into economics that will change your world and your pocketbook, or the pocketbook of the world; or 3) notify me that I have spelled "Keynesian" wrong in the title of my blog...let me save you some time.

I am NOT an economics expert -- far from it, I'm afraid. And this blog will have absolutely, unequivocally, NOTHING to do with economics -- unless you count the occasional bemoaning of my own empty wallet or the fact that I have lots of demand and no supply. I'm just a regular, average human being who understands very little about the way money works but instead has spent her life knee-deep in the Humanities, particularly literature, art, and philosophy, and understands considerably more about the way people work, and I figured this was a good chance to share some of my observations. I also happen to have a very unfortunate (or fortunate, depends on how you look at it) name (Keynsian, which is spelled correclty) that comes from a mother who, unfortunately, was taking an economics class when she was pregnant with me. As the story goes, she wasn't paying much attention to the class until the teacher mentioned John Maynard Keynes and his brilliant Keynesian model, and apparently she thought that was the most beautiful name she'd ever heard. So there you have it. Thank god she wasn't taking chemistry -- I could've been "Isotope" -- or European History ("Visigoth"). But that would just be silly.