For reasons I can’t properly explain, I have always liked boots. I’m not talking about stiletto-heeled pointy-toed ankle booties. Those make me throw up a little in my mouth. But I like regular boots – cowboy boots, riding boots, Frye boots, combat boots, Wellington boots.
Boots make an outfit. A shirt and jeans is just a shirt and jeans. But a shirt and jeans and boots? That’s a look. Boots are sturdy. Boots are warm. I even like the word “boots.” But I never wear them.
I can’t.
I don’t mean that I can’t in a fashion-phobic sense. I don’t mean that they make me look short or anything like that. What I mean is that I literally can’t. Apparently in the world of shoes, calf size does not grow with foot size, with the result that I can’t fit my (what must be) freakishly large calves into any pair of boots I’ve tried on.
I got a pair of boots (my father called them Nazi boots) when I was about fourteen years old. They zipped up the sides. They looked perfectly normal in the catalog but when they came in the mail, I found that they didn’t zip higher than four inches above my ankle.
I tried to wear them anyway, unzipped. I looked like a bloody fool. But I wanted to wear boots so badly! I was even skinny then. And still they wouldn’t zip.
I’ve tried since then to find boots that fit over my calves. I’ve never thought I had abnormally large calves; on the contrary I think they’re fairly proportionate to the rest of my body, including my feet. So why is this so hard? I can’t even get Wellies to fit. I got a pair from Old Navy that I thought must certainly fit me, as the opening at the top was oversized. No such luck. I could get them on, but the top of the boots was scrunched under my calf.
So you can imagine how pleased I was to discover these boots. They wrap! Meaning they will fit my legs. The problem of course is that they’ll run me a hundred bucks give or take, and I’m unemployed.
I’m going to save up. I have to. They may not be comfortable, I haven’t a clue. But I don’t care. This is my one chance in life to wear boots and I’m not going to miss it.
19 January 2009
15 January 2009
“O,” it’s a Mexican food restaurant!
I was headed north on Val Vista one weekend in December, headed for the freeway on-ramp. At Baseline I passed Nando’s, a Mexican restaurant my mother is fond of. Just down the street is a Filiberto’s. And about 200 yards from that? Julio’s.
I’m not a big fan of Mexican food so I’d never thought about it before, but passing those three caused a little “click” in my brain. All three restaurants’ names end in an O sound. Well, more particularly an “o’s” sound.
Merely a coincidence, I thought. Until later that evening I saw a TV commercial for Macayo’s, and my mom mentioned eating at Serrano’s. And the more I thought about it the more names came to me. Some Burros. Popo’s. Abuelo’s. Los Dos Molinos. Rito’s. Los Olivos. Mi Amigo’s. Federico’s. Armando’s. Rubio’s. Bertos. Dos Gringos. Raliberto’s.
I can understand some of them. I have a rudimentary understanding of the Spanish language. They’re men’s names – Federico, Filiberto, Julio, and the restaurants “belong” to the men, hence the possessive form. But does every restaurant have to be Some Guy’s restaurant? Can’t we get a little more original than that?
I know that there are non “-o’s” Mexican restaurants in the Phoenix area. Hey, there are plenty of “-a’s” out there too. I know, I know, there are others. Arriba, Z Tejas, Baja Fresh and Chipotle come to mind. But so many Mexican restaurants go with the “-o’s” suffix. It’s so *boring*. Why not go with “Raul’s House of Tacos” or something like that? And even that has a man’s name in it … Let the women play too, guys, okay? How about Rosa’s? Maria’s? Juanita’s? Or we could keep names out of it all together. I’m still waiting for a “Comida Bonita” or a “Burrito Bueno” or a “Casa de Arroz y Frijoles.”
I think I’m going to be waiting a while. Just as well, really, because I may have spotted a trend in the names of Italian restaurants and I have to investigate.
I’m not a big fan of Mexican food so I’d never thought about it before, but passing those three caused a little “click” in my brain. All three restaurants’ names end in an O sound. Well, more particularly an “o’s” sound.
Merely a coincidence, I thought. Until later that evening I saw a TV commercial for Macayo’s, and my mom mentioned eating at Serrano’s. And the more I thought about it the more names came to me. Some Burros. Popo’s. Abuelo’s. Los Dos Molinos. Rito’s. Los Olivos. Mi Amigo’s. Federico’s. Armando’s. Rubio’s. Bertos. Dos Gringos. Raliberto’s.
I can understand some of them. I have a rudimentary understanding of the Spanish language. They’re men’s names – Federico, Filiberto, Julio, and the restaurants “belong” to the men, hence the possessive form. But does every restaurant have to be Some Guy’s restaurant? Can’t we get a little more original than that?
I know that there are non “-o’s” Mexican restaurants in the Phoenix area. Hey, there are plenty of “-a’s” out there too. I know, I know, there are others. Arriba, Z Tejas, Baja Fresh and Chipotle come to mind. But so many Mexican restaurants go with the “-o’s” suffix. It’s so *boring*. Why not go with “Raul’s House of Tacos” or something like that? And even that has a man’s name in it … Let the women play too, guys, okay? How about Rosa’s? Maria’s? Juanita’s? Or we could keep names out of it all together. I’m still waiting for a “Comida Bonita” or a “Burrito Bueno” or a “Casa de Arroz y Frijoles.”
I think I’m going to be waiting a while. Just as well, really, because I may have spotted a trend in the names of Italian restaurants and I have to investigate.
11 January 2009
I can still play a mean “Clair de Lune”
A few weeks ago I read an absolutely amazing book. “Outliers” is the latest from the incomparable Malcolm Gladwell – the man responsible for “Blink” and “The Tipping Point.” In “Outliers,” Gladwell looks at what makes people successful in their respective fields.
What makes a man (or woman) successful, Gladwell says, is not so much where he was born, if he got good grades, what school he went to, or even his God-given talent in his area of expertise. Gladwell relates story after story to prove that what matters is as arbitrary as the month a person was born – or quite frequently the year – and how much time he or she puts into his work.
Gladwell cites what he calls the 10,000-hour rule. The idea here is that regardless of natural ability, what is really necessary for mastery in a given area is 10,000 hours of practice. Here’s an example: Music students were divided into two groups – one group of children with a natural musical ability, and another group of children who simply enjoyed playing. Over time, it became clear that the students with the natural ability had *nothing* on the other children if they didn’t put in the practice. Less-talented children who practiced did just as well if not better than the children with natural ability who practiced sporadically.
The Beatles, in their early years, had a gig in Germany that required them to play for 8-hour stretches. Bill Gates had access to computers at a time when such a thing was unheard of, especially for a 13-year-old boy. “Outliers” gives example after example of successful people who had the right opportunities in front of them to make them great. I know I’m not doing this book justice; I couldn’t possibly do it justice. This is one of those instances where I’m afraid I must insist that you read it for yourself. It will blow your mind to bits. But there is a point to my story lurking on the horizon, and I’m getting there.
I took my first piano lesson at the age of three. I loved playing and I had a knack for it and in particular for sight reading. I took lessons every week from age three to age … fourteen, probably. And even after I quit I continued to play at home for my own enjoyment – and still do. I had good instructors – great instructors, themselves gifted musicians. And I practiced at home, I really did. But I find that, at the age of twenty-five, I’m simply not that good. There are a number of twelve-year-olds out there playing as well as I do. I don’t mean to put myself down; I can tackle Rachmaninoff and Debussy with the best of them. But twenty-two years after my first lesson, I am not a concert pianist. It used to bother me, and I used to get depressed when I heard a piano played well. But no longer, for I now know why.
I’ve calculated that over the years, I’ve practiced 6,000, maybe 6,500 hours. Quite a lot, but not enough. It isn’t that I lack the talent or the skill set. I simply never spent enough time at the piano. My gift for sight-reading meant that more often than not, if I didn’t like a song I was assigned, I’d glance at it on my way to my lesson, and play it for the first time for my teacher (and I got away with it about 75% of the time). Had I really applied myself, practiced the piano instead of reading or turning cartwheels, I could easily have gotten to 10,000 hours, and I’d be at a concert hall somewhere, dazzling a well-dressed crowd.
I knew I didn’t practice enough. But I didn’t just want to play the piano. I wanted to be a kid. I wanted to play softball and read and dress up my Barbie dolls and color and swim and laugh and play. So many times I’d set a timer for the hour of piano practice I’d been prescribed, only to succumb to soul-sucking tedium after thirty-five minutes.
So I’m not a concert pianist. You know what? I’m okay with that. My vanity is such that what matters is not what I have achieved but what I could achieve if only I’d apply myself. I’m okay with that.
Particularly since I was born in the wrong month for ice hockey.
What makes a man (or woman) successful, Gladwell says, is not so much where he was born, if he got good grades, what school he went to, or even his God-given talent in his area of expertise. Gladwell relates story after story to prove that what matters is as arbitrary as the month a person was born – or quite frequently the year – and how much time he or she puts into his work.
Gladwell cites what he calls the 10,000-hour rule. The idea here is that regardless of natural ability, what is really necessary for mastery in a given area is 10,000 hours of practice. Here’s an example: Music students were divided into two groups – one group of children with a natural musical ability, and another group of children who simply enjoyed playing. Over time, it became clear that the students with the natural ability had *nothing* on the other children if they didn’t put in the practice. Less-talented children who practiced did just as well if not better than the children with natural ability who practiced sporadically.
The Beatles, in their early years, had a gig in Germany that required them to play for 8-hour stretches. Bill Gates had access to computers at a time when such a thing was unheard of, especially for a 13-year-old boy. “Outliers” gives example after example of successful people who had the right opportunities in front of them to make them great. I know I’m not doing this book justice; I couldn’t possibly do it justice. This is one of those instances where I’m afraid I must insist that you read it for yourself. It will blow your mind to bits. But there is a point to my story lurking on the horizon, and I’m getting there.
I took my first piano lesson at the age of three. I loved playing and I had a knack for it and in particular for sight reading. I took lessons every week from age three to age … fourteen, probably. And even after I quit I continued to play at home for my own enjoyment – and still do. I had good instructors – great instructors, themselves gifted musicians. And I practiced at home, I really did. But I find that, at the age of twenty-five, I’m simply not that good. There are a number of twelve-year-olds out there playing as well as I do. I don’t mean to put myself down; I can tackle Rachmaninoff and Debussy with the best of them. But twenty-two years after my first lesson, I am not a concert pianist. It used to bother me, and I used to get depressed when I heard a piano played well. But no longer, for I now know why.
I’ve calculated that over the years, I’ve practiced 6,000, maybe 6,500 hours. Quite a lot, but not enough. It isn’t that I lack the talent or the skill set. I simply never spent enough time at the piano. My gift for sight-reading meant that more often than not, if I didn’t like a song I was assigned, I’d glance at it on my way to my lesson, and play it for the first time for my teacher (and I got away with it about 75% of the time). Had I really applied myself, practiced the piano instead of reading or turning cartwheels, I could easily have gotten to 10,000 hours, and I’d be at a concert hall somewhere, dazzling a well-dressed crowd.
I knew I didn’t practice enough. But I didn’t just want to play the piano. I wanted to be a kid. I wanted to play softball and read and dress up my Barbie dolls and color and swim and laugh and play. So many times I’d set a timer for the hour of piano practice I’d been prescribed, only to succumb to soul-sucking tedium after thirty-five minutes.
So I’m not a concert pianist. You know what? I’m okay with that. My vanity is such that what matters is not what I have achieved but what I could achieve if only I’d apply myself. I’m okay with that.
Particularly since I was born in the wrong month for ice hockey.
06 January 2009
I need your money!
Two posts in one day, aren't y'all lucky! But I have a good reason. I need your money.
Well, not me specifically, although I'd not say no to a cash gift.
The BC (British Columbia) Cancer Foundation needs your money. I'm not a resident of America's Hat, myself, but any organization that's working against cancer is good in my book.
My brother - no, not that brother, the other one - is participating in the Ride to Conquer Cancer. Apparently he's taken up cycling, don't ask me why. But he's decided to do something with it, so more power to him, I say.
Anyway, here's the link to his donation page. If you've got an extra fiver, give a fiver. Ten, twenty, even better. Every penny helps, seriously. If you don't have any to give, pass the link along to someone who does.
Cancer killed my paternal grandfather at 62, my favorite aunt at 58, and my daddy one month after his 52nd birthday. Cancer sucks. Let's do something about it, okay?
Well, not me specifically, although I'd not say no to a cash gift.
The BC (British Columbia) Cancer Foundation needs your money. I'm not a resident of America's Hat, myself, but any organization that's working against cancer is good in my book.
My brother - no, not that brother, the other one - is participating in the Ride to Conquer Cancer. Apparently he's taken up cycling, don't ask me why. But he's decided to do something with it, so more power to him, I say.
Anyway, here's the link to his donation page. If you've got an extra fiver, give a fiver. Ten, twenty, even better. Every penny helps, seriously. If you don't have any to give, pass the link along to someone who does.
Cancer killed my paternal grandfather at 62, my favorite aunt at 58, and my daddy one month after his 52nd birthday. Cancer sucks. Let's do something about it, okay?
Crikey!
I miss Steve Irwin.
I was channel-surfing a few days ago in the late afternoon and the only show on television that didn’t involve murder, police brutality, or illegal activities was “The Crocodile Hunter.” Not just any episode, either, but a special on baby animals.
I hadn’t watched the show in ages – probably not since the death of its star. I’d forgotten how insane Steve was. And how insightful, and knowledgeable - about every creature on God’s green earth.
He had no natural fear. He reached into a den of baby rattlesnakes and pointed to the mother snake’s monstrous teeth. “Never, ever try this. I’m a professional … no one should ever touch a rattlesnake.” He wrestled with crocodiles. He stuck fingers into mouths full of sharp teeth. He rubbed the bellies of big cats. “Lion cubs have got a great bite!” He picked up and carried hungry young black bears.
Steve found beauty in even the most hideous of animals. He pointed out the delicate nose of an orangutan, the tiny venomous teeth of a baby diamondback, the clumsy elegance of an elephant’s stride. He could find the hiding place of the stealthiest of animals, lure the shiest of marsupials from their home, identify specifically the most hideous and generic looking insect. He let iguanas sit on his arm and head or bats hang from his shirt while he explained to the camera the creature’s preferred diet (which seemed at time to include Steve’s hair and khaki shirt).
He used words like gorgeous, glorious, magnificent, beautiful, lovely.
Steve loved animals and he respected them. He didn’t fault an animal for behaving like an animal as so many idiots seem to do these days. If an animal bit him, he knew it was his fault for not being more careful. And he didn’t let bodily harm stop whatever he was doing.
“The Crocodile Hunter” was one of those shows that always seemed to be on. Anytime I needed something to watch, I could turn to animal planet and there it was. I watched a lot of television many years ago – much of it educational, believe it or not. I watched the Discovery Channel, the Learning Channel, the History Channel. I didn’t learn much. But somehow when I watched “The Crocodile Hunter” I remembered. I learned about the wombat, the iguana, the sloth, the possum, the sun bear, the armadillo and about twenty other animals. What Steve said stuck with me – perhaps because he said it with such enthusiasm.
It seemed particularly ironic that he died from the sting of a normally docile creature. I always thought he’d be eaten by a crocodile or torn apart by Tasmanian devils. But a stingray? It didn’t seem right.
I still watch Animal Planet sometimes, but it’s not the same without Steve. I miss his child-like delight and wonder and unwavering enthusiasm. No one on TV has been able to match it, and I don’t think anyone ever will.
I was channel-surfing a few days ago in the late afternoon and the only show on television that didn’t involve murder, police brutality, or illegal activities was “The Crocodile Hunter.” Not just any episode, either, but a special on baby animals.
I hadn’t watched the show in ages – probably not since the death of its star. I’d forgotten how insane Steve was. And how insightful, and knowledgeable - about every creature on God’s green earth.
He had no natural fear. He reached into a den of baby rattlesnakes and pointed to the mother snake’s monstrous teeth. “Never, ever try this. I’m a professional … no one should ever touch a rattlesnake.” He wrestled with crocodiles. He stuck fingers into mouths full of sharp teeth. He rubbed the bellies of big cats. “Lion cubs have got a great bite!” He picked up and carried hungry young black bears.
Steve found beauty in even the most hideous of animals. He pointed out the delicate nose of an orangutan, the tiny venomous teeth of a baby diamondback, the clumsy elegance of an elephant’s stride. He could find the hiding place of the stealthiest of animals, lure the shiest of marsupials from their home, identify specifically the most hideous and generic looking insect. He let iguanas sit on his arm and head or bats hang from his shirt while he explained to the camera the creature’s preferred diet (which seemed at time to include Steve’s hair and khaki shirt).
He used words like gorgeous, glorious, magnificent, beautiful, lovely.
Steve loved animals and he respected them. He didn’t fault an animal for behaving like an animal as so many idiots seem to do these days. If an animal bit him, he knew it was his fault for not being more careful. And he didn’t let bodily harm stop whatever he was doing.
“The Crocodile Hunter” was one of those shows that always seemed to be on. Anytime I needed something to watch, I could turn to animal planet and there it was. I watched a lot of television many years ago – much of it educational, believe it or not. I watched the Discovery Channel, the Learning Channel, the History Channel. I didn’t learn much. But somehow when I watched “The Crocodile Hunter” I remembered. I learned about the wombat, the iguana, the sloth, the possum, the sun bear, the armadillo and about twenty other animals. What Steve said stuck with me – perhaps because he said it with such enthusiasm.
It seemed particularly ironic that he died from the sting of a normally docile creature. I always thought he’d be eaten by a crocodile or torn apart by Tasmanian devils. But a stingray? It didn’t seem right.
I still watch Animal Planet sometimes, but it’s not the same without Steve. I miss his child-like delight and wonder and unwavering enthusiasm. No one on TV has been able to match it, and I don’t think anyone ever will.
04 January 2009
Take a Page from my book … and you can keep it
In my first ever Pathetic Blog Survey, one person cast a vote to have me write about why I never discuss life in the town in which I was born. I’ve put off doing so because … well, obviously I don’t like to discuss it, or that wouldn’t have been an option on the survey. But I’ve run out of things to blog about (television’s been dull lately) so here goes.
Imagine that you had an embarrassing, invasive, slightly painful medical procedure performed – a colonoscopy for instance. Maybe a lot of people know you went in for a colonoscopy. Maybe they’ve had colonoscopies as well. Maybe they’re wondering how yours went – after all, theirs weren’t bad at all, and some of these people liked them so much they decided to get one every day.
Would you actually consider discussing your colonoscopy with any of these people? Would you want to get into the details of it – removing your trousers, putting on a paper gown, having something inserted into an orifice that is for all intents and purposes a one-way street? Would you discuss individual polyps? How about the lingering arse pain that resulted?
I sure as hell wouldn’t. If I’ve experienced something humiliating and painful, I shut my gob about it and repress it until my therapist makes me talk about it. I don’t voluntarily bring it up and I sure as sod don’t bring it up every chance I get.
Living in Page was like an 18-year-long colonoscopy. It sucked. It was miserable. I hated it. It left its own kind of scarring. I’m happiest pretending that I didn’t completely exist until I moved to the Valley of the Sun six years ago. As far as I’m concerned, I never lived in Page.
And neither did anyone else. Being in Page can hardly be considered living. The place didn’t even get a Wal-Mart until I was seven or 8 (1990 or 91) and it wasn’t even Super. Just a regular Wal-Mart, and not a particularly good one. It had three aisles of pet beds and shelf after shelf of Black hair care products and relaxers despite there being at last count maybe ten black people (mostly men) in a town of 6,000.
There is one middle school and one high school. Two elementary schools, but for more than half of my schooling I was with the same group of jerks and idiots, almost none of whom cared if I lived or died. So the girls that were b****es to me in sixth grade got to be b****es to me in seventh and eighth grade, too, and throughout all four years of high school. I’m just saying, a change in bullies would have done me good.
I’m the youngest of four, which meant that every teacher I had thought of me instantly and prejudicially in terms of my sister or one of my brothers – unfortunate for me since the younger of my brothers (who is closest to my age) was a real arrogant jackass in high school and he failed to make a favorable impression on 90% of the teaching staff at the high school (Hi, Chris). Many a teacher looked at me on the first day of class and said, “Oh, you’re Chris’s sister,” in the same tone that one would use to say, “Oh, you’re a convicted felon.”
The one teacher who remembered Holly best was, sadly, my sewing teacher. My sister is a much better seamstress than I am on account of I have very little patience and I get lazy and cut corners. So with Mrs. Buck it was always, “Well when your sister was in my class she made the most beautiful (insert garment name here) …” and then she’d hold up whatever atrocity I’d serged together in a rush and suggest I not work with silks or satins for a while as she marked a “C” in her grade book. Well, I haven’t worked with satins since then, Mrs. Buck. I hope you’re happy.
I was the Rodney Dangerfield of Page, AZ. I got no respect. I had maybe three or four teachers in my entire academic career who actually endeavored to work with me as an individual (albeit one with exacting standards of morality and grammar for a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old). And even one of them often said, “When your brother was in my class …” although I have to admit I never asked which brother and silently hoped it had been Scott.
I’ve glossed over the bullying and verbal abuse I was subject to because those were like a combination colonoscopy and gynecological exam – best left unvisited except by trained professionals like my intrepid therapist, John. Suffice it to say that there was many a morning I woke up angry that I hadn’t managed to die in my sleep the night before, and that I faked sick dozens of times to get out of going to school and facing such nastiness.
I concede, as a small child I was happy in Page. I didn’t know what a pathetic little hellhole I was in. I had my friends Carrie and Rachel and my blankie and my toys and my family and that was all I needed. But that was such a small fraction of my life that it hardly bears mentioning in this little rant.
I hope this satisfies the question as to why I never mention Page. And even if it doesn’t, tough. I’m not going to bring it up ever again if I can help it. And if I can’t help it … well, there are a number of psychotropic drugs out there that will help quell the urge.
It is human nature to avoid discussing unpleasant things. Living in Page (in my experience) is the most unpleasant thing I can imagine. So I avoid discussing it. And I may never discuss it again.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and, in the words of the starfish on “Finding Nemo,” find my happy place - which I can guarantee you isn’t in Coconino County.
Imagine that you had an embarrassing, invasive, slightly painful medical procedure performed – a colonoscopy for instance. Maybe a lot of people know you went in for a colonoscopy. Maybe they’ve had colonoscopies as well. Maybe they’re wondering how yours went – after all, theirs weren’t bad at all, and some of these people liked them so much they decided to get one every day.
Would you actually consider discussing your colonoscopy with any of these people? Would you want to get into the details of it – removing your trousers, putting on a paper gown, having something inserted into an orifice that is for all intents and purposes a one-way street? Would you discuss individual polyps? How about the lingering arse pain that resulted?
I sure as hell wouldn’t. If I’ve experienced something humiliating and painful, I shut my gob about it and repress it until my therapist makes me talk about it. I don’t voluntarily bring it up and I sure as sod don’t bring it up every chance I get.
Living in Page was like an 18-year-long colonoscopy. It sucked. It was miserable. I hated it. It left its own kind of scarring. I’m happiest pretending that I didn’t completely exist until I moved to the Valley of the Sun six years ago. As far as I’m concerned, I never lived in Page.
And neither did anyone else. Being in Page can hardly be considered living. The place didn’t even get a Wal-Mart until I was seven or 8 (1990 or 91) and it wasn’t even Super. Just a regular Wal-Mart, and not a particularly good one. It had three aisles of pet beds and shelf after shelf of Black hair care products and relaxers despite there being at last count maybe ten black people (mostly men) in a town of 6,000.
There is one middle school and one high school. Two elementary schools, but for more than half of my schooling I was with the same group of jerks and idiots, almost none of whom cared if I lived or died. So the girls that were b****es to me in sixth grade got to be b****es to me in seventh and eighth grade, too, and throughout all four years of high school. I’m just saying, a change in bullies would have done me good.
I’m the youngest of four, which meant that every teacher I had thought of me instantly and prejudicially in terms of my sister or one of my brothers – unfortunate for me since the younger of my brothers (who is closest to my age) was a real arrogant jackass in high school and he failed to make a favorable impression on 90% of the teaching staff at the high school (Hi, Chris). Many a teacher looked at me on the first day of class and said, “Oh, you’re Chris’s sister,” in the same tone that one would use to say, “Oh, you’re a convicted felon.”
The one teacher who remembered Holly best was, sadly, my sewing teacher. My sister is a much better seamstress than I am on account of I have very little patience and I get lazy and cut corners. So with Mrs. Buck it was always, “Well when your sister was in my class she made the most beautiful (insert garment name here) …” and then she’d hold up whatever atrocity I’d serged together in a rush and suggest I not work with silks or satins for a while as she marked a “C” in her grade book. Well, I haven’t worked with satins since then, Mrs. Buck. I hope you’re happy.
I was the Rodney Dangerfield of Page, AZ. I got no respect. I had maybe three or four teachers in my entire academic career who actually endeavored to work with me as an individual (albeit one with exacting standards of morality and grammar for a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old). And even one of them often said, “When your brother was in my class …” although I have to admit I never asked which brother and silently hoped it had been Scott.
I’ve glossed over the bullying and verbal abuse I was subject to because those were like a combination colonoscopy and gynecological exam – best left unvisited except by trained professionals like my intrepid therapist, John. Suffice it to say that there was many a morning I woke up angry that I hadn’t managed to die in my sleep the night before, and that I faked sick dozens of times to get out of going to school and facing such nastiness.
I concede, as a small child I was happy in Page. I didn’t know what a pathetic little hellhole I was in. I had my friends Carrie and Rachel and my blankie and my toys and my family and that was all I needed. But that was such a small fraction of my life that it hardly bears mentioning in this little rant.
I hope this satisfies the question as to why I never mention Page. And even if it doesn’t, tough. I’m not going to bring it up ever again if I can help it. And if I can’t help it … well, there are a number of psychotropic drugs out there that will help quell the urge.
It is human nature to avoid discussing unpleasant things. Living in Page (in my experience) is the most unpleasant thing I can imagine. So I avoid discussing it. And I may never discuss it again.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and, in the words of the starfish on “Finding Nemo,” find my happy place - which I can guarantee you isn’t in Coconino County.
01 January 2009
New Year’s resolution: edit my vocabulary
I should have expected it, really. 2008 was both an Olympic year and a presidential election year. It was bound to happen. It does every year. But this year was worse.
I am of course talking about overused words and phrases. Each year has its list – things that everyone is tired of hearing about but will talk about anyway. I’d imagine that my list is a little different than others’. I’m much more easily annoyed. But short fuse or not, there are a lot of things I’m sick of hearing, and I’m hoping that by listing them here, I can help raise awareness and expunge them from our social consciousness. And so here they are, in no particular order.
1. The Economy
2. Michael Phelps
3. Obama (I’m sick of hearing his name and he’s not even sworn in yet)
4. Joe the Plumber
5. Bailout
6. Miley Cyrus and/or Hannah Montana
7. Brangelina
8. Uncool (I’m looking at you, Aniston)
9. Britney Spears (she’s crazy, she’s not crazy, she’s crazy, she’s not crazy … how about we leave her alone and let her decide which it is?)
10. Jonas Brothers (that number on the tag of your jeans? That’s supposed to be waist size, not age)
11. Baby bump (if an actress has a decent meal, she's pregnant. If an actress had a baby two months ago and hasn't lost every pregnancy pound, she's pregnant. If an actress has a steady boyfriend, she's pregnant. How about we shut up and let them decide if they are or not?)
12. Lohan (any of them)
13. Pregnant man
14. Gas prices
15. Heath Ledger (can’t we let the man rest in peace already?)
16. SNL and/or Tina Fey
17. The Hills
18. Madonna (why is she still news?)
19. Paris Hilton (why is she EVER news?)
20. Twilight/Breaking Dawn/Robert Pattinson/etc etc etc
I’m sure I’ve missed one or two but those are the first ones that came to mind. Here’s hoping 2009 will be a Phelps-free, Miley-free, economic-crisis-free year.
I am of course talking about overused words and phrases. Each year has its list – things that everyone is tired of hearing about but will talk about anyway. I’d imagine that my list is a little different than others’. I’m much more easily annoyed. But short fuse or not, there are a lot of things I’m sick of hearing, and I’m hoping that by listing them here, I can help raise awareness and expunge them from our social consciousness. And so here they are, in no particular order.
1. The Economy
2. Michael Phelps
3. Obama (I’m sick of hearing his name and he’s not even sworn in yet)
4. Joe the Plumber
5. Bailout
6. Miley Cyrus and/or Hannah Montana
7. Brangelina
8. Uncool (I’m looking at you, Aniston)
9. Britney Spears (she’s crazy, she’s not crazy, she’s crazy, she’s not crazy … how about we leave her alone and let her decide which it is?)
10. Jonas Brothers (that number on the tag of your jeans? That’s supposed to be waist size, not age)
11. Baby bump (if an actress has a decent meal, she's pregnant. If an actress had a baby two months ago and hasn't lost every pregnancy pound, she's pregnant. If an actress has a steady boyfriend, she's pregnant. How about we shut up and let them decide if they are or not?)
12. Lohan (any of them)
13. Pregnant man
14. Gas prices
15. Heath Ledger (can’t we let the man rest in peace already?)
16. SNL and/or Tina Fey
17. The Hills
18. Madonna (why is she still news?)
19. Paris Hilton (why is she EVER news?)
20. Twilight/Breaking Dawn/Robert Pattinson/etc etc etc
I’m sure I’ve missed one or two but those are the first ones that came to mind. Here’s hoping 2009 will be a Phelps-free, Miley-free, economic-crisis-free year.
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