Over the past couple of days, basketball star Shaquille O'Neal has been catching it from all sides regarding his Kobe rap. While I agree he should be chastised publicly and privately, I don't find his words as offensive as his freestyling abilities. At one point during this rudimentary rap, he used the word "horse" in an effort to rhyme a word with divorce. Horse belongs in a country and western song, not a hip hop tune. Weren't there any other words at his disposal? Of course. Source. Force. As a matter of fact, force would have been an excellent choice, but instead we got horse and that's just wrong.
Who's to blame? While Shaq was the source of a most egregious lyrical moment, the audience members have the blood of hip hop on their hands too. Friends don't let friends rap poorly. It's an offense against nature. Booing should have commenced almost immediately to discourage Shaq from continuing the nasty display. At the very least, a super-sized hook should have emerged from backstage to pull him away when the horse comment came out. Was everyone drunk at this event? Were there no responsible persons available to stop one of the worst public freestyles in history? Whoa to the management of that establishment. I will be writing them a very stern letter on behalf of hip hop lovers everywhere. This type of irresponsibility cannot be tolerated.
Finally, after all the talk about the unfortunate remarks about Kobe, I wondered if it was worse to be the author of a horrible rap or be accused of licking ass. Shaq in-eloquently asserted throughout the course of the freestyle that Kobe was an ass licker. After careful contemplation, I will have to regretfully choose to be Kobe in this sad tale. He can most certainly deny the allegations. Shaq, however, will always and forever have the recording of his torturous tune on TMZ.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Can I Be Your Friend?
It was an absolutely gorgeous day in New York City today and I made the best of it by walking as much as possible. As I enjoyed the sights and sounds of the city, I noticed a particularly interest chorus of hoots and hollers from men traveling or working on the street. Usually I get a kick out of seeing and hearing the variety of ways men try to get attention, but after several hours in the Penn Station area, I'd had enough. "Hey baby, hey baby, hey baby" had gotten old and "Lord have mercy" started to sound almost blasphemous.
There were a few tactics, however, I found particularly striking. Today's blog is about my favorite - "Can I be your friend?" Even with New York's inhospitable reputation, several times throughout the day I was approached by men wanting to be-friend me. It was almost as if the city hired these characters as a makeshift welcome wagon committee to improve community relations. They were all so very excited to make a connection with a speed walking stranger. Of course, those who had the cardio training to keep up with my stealth-like pace, not only wanted my friendship, but my phone number as well.
The more this phenomena occurred, the more I wondered if this was a strategy that produced any results. Did men get women's phone numbers by offering to become best buds? I tried my hardest to think of any good friends I'd acquired from brief street interactions. Surprisingly, I couldn't think of one person. For me, friendships are based on common interests and not common routes to the train station. Did these men think I believed comradery was their focal point?
At my final train stop, I was approached by the last overly friendly New Yorker. When he offered to give me a call sometime, just to hang out, I asked if he really thought we could be friends. He said "sure, why not?" I said "great, my husband and I have been looking for some friends to hang out with." Suddenly, he lost interest in being my BFF. Perhaps in the five minutes that he got to know me better, he found my personality unappealing. I'm sure it wasn't the fact that I was married, since as far as I know married people have homies. Sadly, this marked the quickest friend break up of my life. Don't cry for me though...I have to run some errands tomorrow and I'm sure I'll get five construction workers, two cab drivers, three pedestrians, and one delivery truck driver to replace him. I only wish I had this many friends on myspace.
There were a few tactics, however, I found particularly striking. Today's blog is about my favorite - "Can I be your friend?" Even with New York's inhospitable reputation, several times throughout the day I was approached by men wanting to be-friend me. It was almost as if the city hired these characters as a makeshift welcome wagon committee to improve community relations. They were all so very excited to make a connection with a speed walking stranger. Of course, those who had the cardio training to keep up with my stealth-like pace, not only wanted my friendship, but my phone number as well.
The more this phenomena occurred, the more I wondered if this was a strategy that produced any results. Did men get women's phone numbers by offering to become best buds? I tried my hardest to think of any good friends I'd acquired from brief street interactions. Surprisingly, I couldn't think of one person. For me, friendships are based on common interests and not common routes to the train station. Did these men think I believed comradery was their focal point?
At my final train stop, I was approached by the last overly friendly New Yorker. When he offered to give me a call sometime, just to hang out, I asked if he really thought we could be friends. He said "sure, why not?" I said "great, my husband and I have been looking for some friends to hang out with." Suddenly, he lost interest in being my BFF. Perhaps in the five minutes that he got to know me better, he found my personality unappealing. I'm sure it wasn't the fact that I was married, since as far as I know married people have homies. Sadly, this marked the quickest friend break up of my life. Don't cry for me though...I have to run some errands tomorrow and I'm sure I'll get five construction workers, two cab drivers, three pedestrians, and one delivery truck driver to replace him. I only wish I had this many friends on myspace.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Life Before the Net
It's almost 7:00 p.m. and I'm just getting to my daily on-line reflections. Why? Well, the internet was down most of the day, so my normal routine came to a screeching halt. While I looked around the apartment thinking of what I could do until service was restored, I began to think about what life was like before the net - paper was king and librarians taught students how to conduct research using the Dewey decimal system.
One spectacular moment of my childhood occurred the day my World Book encyclopedia set arrived. I planned to read each book so I could be the world's smartest person. A few pages into "A", I decided that I would just refer to the entries as needed. At that moment I would never have imagined I could type a word into a machine and get all the information World Book provided for me. Now, I find myself confused and frustrated when I can't access unlimited web information 24 hours a day. How do I find phone numbers or directions without my trusty search engines?
My sophomore year of high school, I took "Introduction to Typing" with Mrs. Pace. She'd convinced everyone who planned to go to college that this was the most important class of the semester. Typing would be essential to quickly producing research papers. We made love to those keys every day after lunch, never believing in a few years time kids would laugh when someone pulled out a typewriter. The next year, I learned MS DOS in Mrs. Hagger's computer lab. When she wanted to give us a special treat, we'd get to print a banner on the dot matrix printer. I became quite proficient that year at making jewelry from the tear off sides of each sheet of paper.
For many people only a few years younger than me, several of the terms in the last paragraph might as well be alien speak. Technology has increased at such a unbelievable rate that it's hard to think back to a time when dial up was the only way. My sophomore or junior year of high school, I coaxed my mom into getting the internet. Because there was no local service in our rural community, our computer had to dial out on a 1-800 number. It was so slow you could take a nap while it loaded up each page. My friends and I didn't care, we had no idea there could be anything better or faster. A few select cronies would come over to work on papers at my house. Instead of picking up the World Book encyclopedias two feet from our fingertips, we'd sit and wait...and wait...and wait for the Mac LCD to connect.
One spectacular moment of my childhood occurred the day my World Book encyclopedia set arrived. I planned to read each book so I could be the world's smartest person. A few pages into "A", I decided that I would just refer to the entries as needed. At that moment I would never have imagined I could type a word into a machine and get all the information World Book provided for me. Now, I find myself confused and frustrated when I can't access unlimited web information 24 hours a day. How do I find phone numbers or directions without my trusty search engines?
My sophomore year of high school, I took "Introduction to Typing" with Mrs. Pace. She'd convinced everyone who planned to go to college that this was the most important class of the semester. Typing would be essential to quickly producing research papers. We made love to those keys every day after lunch, never believing in a few years time kids would laugh when someone pulled out a typewriter. The next year, I learned MS DOS in Mrs. Hagger's computer lab. When she wanted to give us a special treat, we'd get to print a banner on the dot matrix printer. I became quite proficient that year at making jewelry from the tear off sides of each sheet of paper.
For many people only a few years younger than me, several of the terms in the last paragraph might as well be alien speak. Technology has increased at such a unbelievable rate that it's hard to think back to a time when dial up was the only way. My sophomore or junior year of high school, I coaxed my mom into getting the internet. Because there was no local service in our rural community, our computer had to dial out on a 1-800 number. It was so slow you could take a nap while it loaded up each page. My friends and I didn't care, we had no idea there could be anything better or faster. A few select cronies would come over to work on papers at my house. Instead of picking up the World Book encyclopedias two feet from our fingertips, we'd sit and wait...and wait...and wait for the Mac LCD to connect.
Monday, April 7, 2008
My Yankee Afternoon
This past Sunday, my husband and I hopped on the "D" train uptown to Yankee Stadium. It was a bitterly cold afternoon in the historic stadium where only 75 more regular season games remained. I could see that many of the die hard Yankee fans were a bit overwhelmed when Yogi Berra started the "countdown to close" clock. While I understood the importance of this special place for New Yorkers, I was too cold to be sentimental. The bits of peanut shell that rained down on me throughout the game didn't help either.
Perhaps I'm too soft for New York baseball. I grew up in a small town in Virginia where the big baseball games were hosted by the department of recreation. Then one year, the Phillies franchise planted a minor league team in our sleepy community. My dad secured season tickets the first year and though we only attended a few games, I remember how simple it was to drive up, park, and enjoy reasonably priced snack foods. To my recollection there was more socializing going on at these events than anything else. God forbid anyone "boo" too hard. These outings were about family fun, not heckling.
Our New York baseball experience started with a fierce subway ride with thousands of other Yankee fans. One would have expected to see comradery among the jersey wearing clans who entered the train, but for the most part typical subway etiquette prevailed. There was much pushing, eye rolling and angry ranting. (Sadly, I did take part in this behavior. I guess I'm a product of my environment.) At the 161st street stop, we all tumbled out of the train. Whoa to the children or elderly who may have been in the crowd. This was not a place for the weak or feeble.
After the hurried march to the stadium, we climbed to the tip top level to our seats. I won't say that we would have a better view of the game on our television at home because that is obvious. We relied on the tired PA system to stay abreast of the inning highlights and player information. Just as the game picked up steam, my husband trekked down to the concession stand to purchase some refreshments. Two innings and $30 later, he returned with two sad, but tasty hot dogs, a cup of cheese fries, and a large drink with no lid. It didn't take long for the peanut shells scattered over the floor of the stadium to drift into our beloved Coke. Moments after we discovered the litter in our beverage, the Coke met with a most horrid fate - it toppled over onto my shoes and the floor around our seats. Gravity caused the spill to impact fans at least three rows below. Our unquenched thirst and the nasty looks we received from our neighbors created a genuinely unpleasant environment.
At the top of the 8th, we called it quits and headed back to the train. It was just too cold for us and I feared I'd become blind if another peanut shell hit me in the eye. As we rushed out to catch the train, I said my good-bye to old Yankee Stadium. After my day, I figured I'd wait until the new facility opened before I support the home team in person. To the die hard, peanut eating, trash talking Yankee fans who will fill the stadium this year...best wishes. I'll be watching from home.
Perhaps I'm too soft for New York baseball. I grew up in a small town in Virginia where the big baseball games were hosted by the department of recreation. Then one year, the Phillies franchise planted a minor league team in our sleepy community. My dad secured season tickets the first year and though we only attended a few games, I remember how simple it was to drive up, park, and enjoy reasonably priced snack foods. To my recollection there was more socializing going on at these events than anything else. God forbid anyone "boo" too hard. These outings were about family fun, not heckling.
Our New York baseball experience started with a fierce subway ride with thousands of other Yankee fans. One would have expected to see comradery among the jersey wearing clans who entered the train, but for the most part typical subway etiquette prevailed. There was much pushing, eye rolling and angry ranting. (Sadly, I did take part in this behavior. I guess I'm a product of my environment.) At the 161st street stop, we all tumbled out of the train. Whoa to the children or elderly who may have been in the crowd. This was not a place for the weak or feeble.
After the hurried march to the stadium, we climbed to the tip top level to our seats. I won't say that we would have a better view of the game on our television at home because that is obvious. We relied on the tired PA system to stay abreast of the inning highlights and player information. Just as the game picked up steam, my husband trekked down to the concession stand to purchase some refreshments. Two innings and $30 later, he returned with two sad, but tasty hot dogs, a cup of cheese fries, and a large drink with no lid. It didn't take long for the peanut shells scattered over the floor of the stadium to drift into our beloved Coke. Moments after we discovered the litter in our beverage, the Coke met with a most horrid fate - it toppled over onto my shoes and the floor around our seats. Gravity caused the spill to impact fans at least three rows below. Our unquenched thirst and the nasty looks we received from our neighbors created a genuinely unpleasant environment.
At the top of the 8th, we called it quits and headed back to the train. It was just too cold for us and I feared I'd become blind if another peanut shell hit me in the eye. As we rushed out to catch the train, I said my good-bye to old Yankee Stadium. After my day, I figured I'd wait until the new facility opened before I support the home team in person. To the die hard, peanut eating, trash talking Yankee fans who will fill the stadium this year...best wishes. I'll be watching from home.
Doug's New Direction
Last week I had the good fortune to speak with one of my former students at Cornell. Doug, an amazingly bright and focused senior is preparing for life after college. He spent the last four years being a leader, mentor, and research assistant in a chemistry lab. From the moment I first started supervising him, it seemed that he was one of the few students who had a very clear direction for the future. Doug's analytical mind and disciplined personality steered him toward a life as a scientist. While others floundered, his path appeared to be well-defined.
However, during our most recent conversation, Doug explained to me that his vision for the future had changed. With graduation only a few months away, he decided to apply to jobs in a variety of different fields. I'm sure there were many in his life who found this news disappointing, but I was thrilled. I could not wait to hear about the diverse array of opportunities he planned to explore. I knew this excursion away from the perfect life he planned was just what he needed to create his own very special path.
Our discussion conjured up several memories of when I've changed directions in life. Unlike Doug, I can't recall a time when I have been absolutely certain about anything. I kept my college advisors and the Registrar's office hopping all four years of undergrad. I had several different majors and even more career interests. After two years of intense graduate work at an ivy league institution, I got married and headed to the Bay Area where my husband lived and worked. My precious graduate degree was relegated to being a nice wall decoration as I could not secure a job in my intended field. We relocated so many times after that, my family began to write our address in pencil. With each move, I had to discover or rediscover an interest. The journey was both frustrating and exhilarating!
All the transitions let me know that I'm not only as flexible as a 12 year old gymnast, but also that I create my happiness. A job, career, or hobby can never define me. I am able to see each endeavor as a part of a specific component of a larger picture. Regardless of how many times I move from one component to another, my purpose is still the same. As I shared with Doug, what you do is not nearly as important as what the job means to you. When you find something meaningful to commit yourself to, you've found something more powerful than a simple occupation could ever be.
However, during our most recent conversation, Doug explained to me that his vision for the future had changed. With graduation only a few months away, he decided to apply to jobs in a variety of different fields. I'm sure there were many in his life who found this news disappointing, but I was thrilled. I could not wait to hear about the diverse array of opportunities he planned to explore. I knew this excursion away from the perfect life he planned was just what he needed to create his own very special path.
Our discussion conjured up several memories of when I've changed directions in life. Unlike Doug, I can't recall a time when I have been absolutely certain about anything. I kept my college advisors and the Registrar's office hopping all four years of undergrad. I had several different majors and even more career interests. After two years of intense graduate work at an ivy league institution, I got married and headed to the Bay Area where my husband lived and worked. My precious graduate degree was relegated to being a nice wall decoration as I could not secure a job in my intended field. We relocated so many times after that, my family began to write our address in pencil. With each move, I had to discover or rediscover an interest. The journey was both frustrating and exhilarating!
All the transitions let me know that I'm not only as flexible as a 12 year old gymnast, but also that I create my happiness. A job, career, or hobby can never define me. I am able to see each endeavor as a part of a specific component of a larger picture. Regardless of how many times I move from one component to another, my purpose is still the same. As I shared with Doug, what you do is not nearly as important as what the job means to you. When you find something meaningful to commit yourself to, you've found something more powerful than a simple occupation could ever be.
Friday, April 4, 2008
The People BEHIND the Stars
Have you ever watched a television show or movie and wondered about the random subway riders or dog walkers in a scene? Probably not, huh? Well, thanks for nothing. Today's peak into my world is about those anonymous blurs on your screen - background actors!!! We are fillers of space and doers of everything and nothing while the stars steal the show.
The first question you may ask yourself...or rather should ask yourself is how does an absolutely stunning and fabulous woman end up in the background of anything? Well, my story begins several months ago when I decided to take up acting as a hobby. I had absolutely no clue how to start the process. Furthermore, I had more lofty ideas than training or experience. So like most people with no inkling, I turned to Craigslist. I found an abundance of ads for background actors with promises of big bucks and steady work. BINGO! I just knew I was on my way to being discovered by some famous director who peered through the mass of extras to see me...looking like Halle Berry's 3rd cousin.
Of course, I nearly tripped over my own feet running to the nearest background agency. Just as I planned, I was sent off to the set of a new television show immediately. (Little did I know the writer's strike would dry up the abundance of work promised in the ad and the big bucks part was a misprint all together.) While I assumed the agency saw I was a star in the making, I later discovered, many agencies simply look for warm bodies to fill spots in the abyss of nothingness. For the most part, one just needs to be sane to get sent out on these jobs. "Don't harass the stars." "Move where you are told to move." "And for God's sake...Be quiet." After you've learned those lessons, you are ready to work behind all the greats...Denzel, Tom, Halle, Russell, etc (of course I'm on a first name basis with all of them.)
Even with all my discoveries about my work in the dregs of the entertainment industry, I still fell in love. I enjoy rubbing elbows with people who have fan clubs, whether I'm seen or not. Regardless of how meaningless the work seems to the rest of the world, I know there is no office without workers, no clothing store without patrons, and no college campus without students. Extras provide context for the storyline. The most impressive part of it all is the bond that is shared between all the people in the periphery of a scene. We know at the end of the day, we're getting a pay check for pretending to do work. How many people can say that? Even if I'm put in the back of the background, I know that one day someone will see me pretending to read a newspaper or walking the dog behind Robert De Niro and say, "that girls got something special." "I haven't seen anyone so thoroughly read a newspaper...turned upside down!"
Want to see me working the background like a pair of discount pumps? Tune in to one of the following shows this month:
-Gossip Girl (dancing my buns off at the club)
-Law & Order (giving detectives the stink eye when they search through my office records)
-Law & Order SVU (protesting- Mariska Hargitay actually pushed me in this episode...ra, ha, ha)
-As the World Turns (shopping in "Old Town" and having some coffee in "Java")
The first question you may ask yourself...or rather should ask yourself is how does an absolutely stunning and fabulous woman end up in the background of anything? Well, my story begins several months ago when I decided to take up acting as a hobby. I had absolutely no clue how to start the process. Furthermore, I had more lofty ideas than training or experience. So like most people with no inkling, I turned to Craigslist. I found an abundance of ads for background actors with promises of big bucks and steady work. BINGO! I just knew I was on my way to being discovered by some famous director who peered through the mass of extras to see me...looking like Halle Berry's 3rd cousin.
Of course, I nearly tripped over my own feet running to the nearest background agency. Just as I planned, I was sent off to the set of a new television show immediately. (Little did I know the writer's strike would dry up the abundance of work promised in the ad and the big bucks part was a misprint all together.) While I assumed the agency saw I was a star in the making, I later discovered, many agencies simply look for warm bodies to fill spots in the abyss of nothingness. For the most part, one just needs to be sane to get sent out on these jobs. "Don't harass the stars." "Move where you are told to move." "And for God's sake...Be quiet." After you've learned those lessons, you are ready to work behind all the greats...Denzel, Tom, Halle, Russell, etc (of course I'm on a first name basis with all of them.)
Even with all my discoveries about my work in the dregs of the entertainment industry, I still fell in love. I enjoy rubbing elbows with people who have fan clubs, whether I'm seen or not. Regardless of how meaningless the work seems to the rest of the world, I know there is no office without workers, no clothing store without patrons, and no college campus without students. Extras provide context for the storyline. The most impressive part of it all is the bond that is shared between all the people in the periphery of a scene. We know at the end of the day, we're getting a pay check for pretending to do work. How many people can say that? Even if I'm put in the back of the background, I know that one day someone will see me pretending to read a newspaper or walking the dog behind Robert De Niro and say, "that girls got something special." "I haven't seen anyone so thoroughly read a newspaper...turned upside down!"
Want to see me working the background like a pair of discount pumps? Tune in to one of the following shows this month:
-Gossip Girl (dancing my buns off at the club)
-Law & Order (giving detectives the stink eye when they search through my office records)
-Law & Order SVU (protesting- Mariska Hargitay actually pushed me in this episode...ra, ha, ha)
-As the World Turns (shopping in "Old Town" and having some coffee in "Java")
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Real Love with Flavor
At this very moment, I could turn on my television and find at least 20 different reality shows to watch. Every half hour a new set of "find a mate," "clean up you slob," or "I'm suing your sorry behind" show pops on the tube to make viewers feel like we're somehow in better shape than those featured on the program. I won't lie, I love reality t.v. even though it is slowly dissolving my opportunities as an actress. There is nothing better to me than curling up on the couch seeing some stranger get chewed out during a weight loss challenge. If ever there was any good, clean fun in this country...reality t.v. is it!
When I lived in Ithaca, New York, a town rated number one in the country for social activities - (NOT), I gathered with a group of friends on a weekly basis to watch the creme de la creme of reality t.v. "Flavor of Love." For those of you who have been living on Mars and have not heard of this boob tube gem, the show is about "D" list (now B list) celebrity Flavor Flav attempting to find his true love. While this seems as exciting as painting your toenails, you must watch the show to understand the psychological hold it has on those of us who view it religiously.
The crafty buggers at VH1 knew they had struck gold when Flavor Flav first appeared on their flagship celeb-reality show, "Surreal Life." He was the most outrageous "D-lister" ever and when he combined his over the top antics with "Red Sonia" herself, Brigitte Neilsen, magic happened. Everyone who had the good fortune and/or bad sense to watch knew this was the birth of something especially sick. Before you could snap out of the Flavor coma, VH1 gave Flav and Brigitte their opportunity to publicly explore their romantic potential on "Strange Love." Unfortunately for Flav, but fortunately for the rest of us, Brigitte chose to return to her sexy, fine boyfriend and leave the world's ugliest man out in the cold. (Sorry Flav...your skills as a hype man are unparalleled, but your sex appeal can be compared to that of a snapping turtle.)
Of course, VH1 was not going to let Flavor Flav find true love through traditional devices, so they came to the rescue with an assortment of Flav fans who would do anything to secure a place in his heart. For three seasons now, the clock wearing king of love, has been in search of someone willing to care for him (and his seven little Flavs) in a show that could be described as the "Bachelor" on crack. The show receive such high ratings that one of the former Flav seekers got a show. "New York" a two time loser with Flav, got her chance to publicly find true love too. My reality show compadres and I watched with much anticipation, hoping against hope she nor Flav would ever find a mate and we could go on feeling good about our social lives forever.
Now that you're all caught up, feel free to jump in to this season's "Flavor of Love" madness. If you don't connect with Flav's quest, never fear...there are a host of new love reality shows on the horizon. Look forward to "Farmer's Wife" on Fox, which will most likely be my next t.v. love addiction.
When I lived in Ithaca, New York, a town rated number one in the country for social activities - (NOT), I gathered with a group of friends on a weekly basis to watch the creme de la creme of reality t.v. "Flavor of Love." For those of you who have been living on Mars and have not heard of this boob tube gem, the show is about "D" list (now B list) celebrity Flavor Flav attempting to find his true love. While this seems as exciting as painting your toenails, you must watch the show to understand the psychological hold it has on those of us who view it religiously.
The crafty buggers at VH1 knew they had struck gold when Flavor Flav first appeared on their flagship celeb-reality show, "Surreal Life." He was the most outrageous "D-lister" ever and when he combined his over the top antics with "Red Sonia" herself, Brigitte Neilsen, magic happened. Everyone who had the good fortune and/or bad sense to watch knew this was the birth of something especially sick. Before you could snap out of the Flavor coma, VH1 gave Flav and Brigitte their opportunity to publicly explore their romantic potential on "Strange Love." Unfortunately for Flav, but fortunately for the rest of us, Brigitte chose to return to her sexy, fine boyfriend and leave the world's ugliest man out in the cold. (Sorry Flav...your skills as a hype man are unparalleled, but your sex appeal can be compared to that of a snapping turtle.)
Of course, VH1 was not going to let Flavor Flav find true love through traditional devices, so they came to the rescue with an assortment of Flav fans who would do anything to secure a place in his heart. For three seasons now, the clock wearing king of love, has been in search of someone willing to care for him (and his seven little Flavs) in a show that could be described as the "Bachelor" on crack. The show receive such high ratings that one of the former Flav seekers got a show. "New York" a two time loser with Flav, got her chance to publicly find true love too. My reality show compadres and I watched with much anticipation, hoping against hope she nor Flav would ever find a mate and we could go on feeling good about our social lives forever.
Now that you're all caught up, feel free to jump in to this season's "Flavor of Love" madness. If you don't connect with Flav's quest, never fear...there are a host of new love reality shows on the horizon. Look forward to "Farmer's Wife" on Fox, which will most likely be my next t.v. love addiction.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
My "Expert" Opinion on Why Marriages Tank
Being married isn't easy. Perhaps this is why over 50% of all marriages end in divorce. The statistics get even higher when people make second and third attempts at conquering the beast. Every year the "experts" publish their theories of why couples can't make marriages work. As a married person, I'm always interested in gathering information about this sad phenomenon so at the very least I can strengthen my own union. While scientific studies on marriage may have the facts and figures of relationships calculated, they often lack heart. I read these overly complex research projects and wonder where the people are. In all the frustration of reading graduate students' dissertations on life and love, I decided to put together my own list of the top three reasons why marriages tank. There's no science behind it, just my own observations as a married person, which by default makes me an expert. Doesn't it?
3. "We are not who we said we were." In the dating world, our objective is to always put our best foot forward. Often times this means lying. "Oh, I love cooking" or "I'm an avid traveller." These little lies paint a great picture for our potential mate, but ultimately they are marrying someone they don't fully know. While dating is about good impressions, marriage is about being real. You want to be with someone who loves you for you...the real you, not the creation you presented on the first date. When people discover they are in love with the fictional character, not their spouse, they start looking for the exit door.
2. "Over thinking." Life is much simpler than we make it. We get caught up in the fast paced, over the top, strategic planning whirlwind sold to us by society. As a result, "yes" no longer means "yes" and "no" no longer means "no." We receive and transmit hidden meanings in our tones and non-verbal responses. Instead of admitting we are totally confused, we problem solve. We use misinterpretations and imaginary situations to concoct the story we think our spouse is sharing. We over think and ultimately "wrong think." Eventually, wrong thinking unravels the fabric of a relationship. We don't understand each other anymore and wonder if we ever did. The only clear concept we can communicate is "good-bye."
1. "Change of Heart." Whether it's "I want to be a trapeze artist in a lesbian circus" or "I want a woman with bigger breasts" a change in a person's vision for their future and/or future partner can end a relationship. When two people get married, they make certain stated and unstated agreements. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health is really just the beginning. Partners make agreements regarding where they will be located, their career path, and their sexual desires. When one team member decides that arrangement is no longer satisfactory, the agreement is altered or broken. For some, this means the contract is void and the marriage is over. The "I didn't sign up for this" mentality defeats love.
In the end, it all comes down to a personal choice. Do you stay in a situation that doesn't suit you anymore or do you move on to the next set of variables? While pursuing a new partner may seem like the easy answer the scientific data I vowed not to refer to in this blog, states that you may be on the market again before you know it. So what's the right answer? I have no clue. If I did, I would not be a measly blogger, I'd be on Larry King!
3. "We are not who we said we were." In the dating world, our objective is to always put our best foot forward. Often times this means lying. "Oh, I love cooking" or "I'm an avid traveller." These little lies paint a great picture for our potential mate, but ultimately they are marrying someone they don't fully know. While dating is about good impressions, marriage is about being real. You want to be with someone who loves you for you...the real you, not the creation you presented on the first date. When people discover they are in love with the fictional character, not their spouse, they start looking for the exit door.
2. "Over thinking." Life is much simpler than we make it. We get caught up in the fast paced, over the top, strategic planning whirlwind sold to us by society. As a result, "yes" no longer means "yes" and "no" no longer means "no." We receive and transmit hidden meanings in our tones and non-verbal responses. Instead of admitting we are totally confused, we problem solve. We use misinterpretations and imaginary situations to concoct the story we think our spouse is sharing. We over think and ultimately "wrong think." Eventually, wrong thinking unravels the fabric of a relationship. We don't understand each other anymore and wonder if we ever did. The only clear concept we can communicate is "good-bye."
1. "Change of Heart." Whether it's "I want to be a trapeze artist in a lesbian circus" or "I want a woman with bigger breasts" a change in a person's vision for their future and/or future partner can end a relationship. When two people get married, they make certain stated and unstated agreements. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health is really just the beginning. Partners make agreements regarding where they will be located, their career path, and their sexual desires. When one team member decides that arrangement is no longer satisfactory, the agreement is altered or broken. For some, this means the contract is void and the marriage is over. The "I didn't sign up for this" mentality defeats love.
In the end, it all comes down to a personal choice. Do you stay in a situation that doesn't suit you anymore or do you move on to the next set of variables? While pursuing a new partner may seem like the easy answer the scientific data I vowed not to refer to in this blog, states that you may be on the market again before you know it. So what's the right answer? I have no clue. If I did, I would not be a measly blogger, I'd be on Larry King!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Tales from the Subway - The Ballin' Panhandler
If you've lived in or visited New York, you have definitely encountered people living on the street. Unless you have a heart two sizes too small, you probably felt great compassion for the hundreds of homeless men and women who request donations across the city. Today's entry is not about the many panhandlers who have mental and/or physical disabilities or life challenges which make securing traditional employment opportunities difficult. This blog is about and able-bodied hustler.
A few weeks ago, I hopped on the "F" train heading toward downtown during the lunch hour. At the Rockefeller Center stop, a casually dressed man stepped on the train counting a wad of cash easily amounting to $50 worth of singles. He tucked the money in his pocket as he finished up a conversation on his cell phone and the subway doors closed. Then the speech started. You could have bought me with a dime, because I was astonished that he was giving the "can you spare some change" speech when he had more cash on him than I typically carry. Furthermore, he started it by saying, "I'm not going to take up much of your time today, because I have a cold. You know me, I'm on the train every morning." Suddenly he stopped to check the time on his cell phone. Then continued, "If you have any spare change to help a person in need, I would greatly appreciate it." He closed out with, "I'll see you tomorrow."
What!!?? Was this guy serious? I'm not saying that $50 and a cell phone suggests a person is wealthy, but this guy certainly didn't need my money. In that moment, I thought back to a lesson my high school history teacher, Mr. Kovak taught us in the 11th grade. This poor soul was in charge of leading a group of country kids on a tour of the northeast. Our first stop was New York and in preparation for this grand event, he told us the rules of the trip. Interestingly, his first rule was not "don't stray from the group" or "don't go to the 8th Ave peep shows" it was "don't give money to people on the street." He then created a math problem which demonstrated how much money a person could make just sitting out on the street, even if they only got a penny from each passerby. The amount was far and above what I expect he made each year.
As harsh as it seemed at the time, Mr. Kovak's lesson was not about being stingy or heartless, it was about being discerning. Because he knew we were only a few steps from having the word "sucker" tattooed on our foreheads, he saved us the trouble of trying to figure out who was really in need and who was working the streets or the trains as the case may be!
A few weeks ago, I hopped on the "F" train heading toward downtown during the lunch hour. At the Rockefeller Center stop, a casually dressed man stepped on the train counting a wad of cash easily amounting to $50 worth of singles. He tucked the money in his pocket as he finished up a conversation on his cell phone and the subway doors closed. Then the speech started. You could have bought me with a dime, because I was astonished that he was giving the "can you spare some change" speech when he had more cash on him than I typically carry. Furthermore, he started it by saying, "I'm not going to take up much of your time today, because I have a cold. You know me, I'm on the train every morning." Suddenly he stopped to check the time on his cell phone. Then continued, "If you have any spare change to help a person in need, I would greatly appreciate it." He closed out with, "I'll see you tomorrow."
What!!?? Was this guy serious? I'm not saying that $50 and a cell phone suggests a person is wealthy, but this guy certainly didn't need my money. In that moment, I thought back to a lesson my high school history teacher, Mr. Kovak taught us in the 11th grade. This poor soul was in charge of leading a group of country kids on a tour of the northeast. Our first stop was New York and in preparation for this grand event, he told us the rules of the trip. Interestingly, his first rule was not "don't stray from the group" or "don't go to the 8th Ave peep shows" it was "don't give money to people on the street." He then created a math problem which demonstrated how much money a person could make just sitting out on the street, even if they only got a penny from each passerby. The amount was far and above what I expect he made each year.
As harsh as it seemed at the time, Mr. Kovak's lesson was not about being stingy or heartless, it was about being discerning. Because he knew we were only a few steps from having the word "sucker" tattooed on our foreheads, he saved us the trouble of trying to figure out who was really in need and who was working the streets or the trains as the case may be!
Monday, March 31, 2008
They Called Me "Wolf Woman"
It's funny how your memory works. One event can trigger a string of thoughts that lead to a moment in your personal history you've long since forgotten. Last week I purchased a strapless dress for a show I was doing. As I examined myself in the dressing room, peering at every segment of my body, I paused when my eyes skimmed across my arms. While my daily workouts chiseled them out every so slightly, they were hairy as hell. (Yes, I have hairy arms - get over it.) At that moment, when I felt most defensive of my follicle covered forearms - the flashback came!
It was the summer after sixth grade and I was off to 4-H camp. Every year, I headed off into the wilderness for a week with my peers to learn about the great outdoors, but most importantly to escape the horrors of parental rule. At this point in my life, I was a plagued with acne and a bad hair cut. Even after a whole year of pimple jokes, I was not prepared for additional commentary on my awkward pubescent body. Nevertheless, I trekked to camp loving myself, flaws and all.
The second day of camp, we strolled down to the pool for some relief from the summer heat. It was everyone's first appearance in swimwear, so all the boys were soaking up every inch of each feminine form. Knowing it would likely be years before they'd see what was under the suits, they made it their task to look as closely as they could at the lycra that separated them from the treasure beneath. During the eye groping march to the pool, one boy shouted out, "look at those hairy arms and legs...it's wolf woman." I prayed he was referring to one of my compadres, but when I looked up the small taunting circle had already formed around me. "Wolf woman, wolf woman," they chanted all the way to the bottom of the hill.
Knowing that tears would only lead to more jeers, I decided to save my weeping for the night hours when no one could witness it. "Why me?" I thought. "Did God have to give me acne and wolf-like qualities too?" While the guys found other targets throughout the week, every once in awhile some insecure middle schooler would compose a wolf woman chant just for the heck of it. I stood strong in the face of the hecklers knowing I would never be called wolf woman again...as soon as I returned home, I planned to engage in a campaign against my body hair.
At the end of the week, our parents shuffled us into overloaded cars to transport us home. No sooner than my mom could ask about my camp experience, I informed her I was going to shave my legs. She used her standard reply of "you're too young" but I already had a barrage of arguments lined up for the battle. I told her about my horrible week and let her know that either she could help me or punish me for doing it on my own. Yes, this was a bold move that could have resulted in my whole summer being lost to house arrest, but I didn't care. What kind of summer could I have as "wolf woman"? Seeing the fire in my eyes, she knew I could not be stopped, so she reluctantly agreed to tutor me on the art of shaving.
While I littered the bathtub that evening with what seemed like pounds of leg hair, I never got around to disrobing my arms. No one really mentioned them after that summer, so I left them in their natural form all these years. For some reason, the strapless dress compelled to kill wolf woman completely. I looked down at those hairy arms in the dressing room and said "good-bye."
It was the summer after sixth grade and I was off to 4-H camp. Every year, I headed off into the wilderness for a week with my peers to learn about the great outdoors, but most importantly to escape the horrors of parental rule. At this point in my life, I was a plagued with acne and a bad hair cut. Even after a whole year of pimple jokes, I was not prepared for additional commentary on my awkward pubescent body. Nevertheless, I trekked to camp loving myself, flaws and all.
The second day of camp, we strolled down to the pool for some relief from the summer heat. It was everyone's first appearance in swimwear, so all the boys were soaking up every inch of each feminine form. Knowing it would likely be years before they'd see what was under the suits, they made it their task to look as closely as they could at the lycra that separated them from the treasure beneath. During the eye groping march to the pool, one boy shouted out, "look at those hairy arms and legs...it's wolf woman." I prayed he was referring to one of my compadres, but when I looked up the small taunting circle had already formed around me. "Wolf woman, wolf woman," they chanted all the way to the bottom of the hill.
Knowing that tears would only lead to more jeers, I decided to save my weeping for the night hours when no one could witness it. "Why me?" I thought. "Did God have to give me acne and wolf-like qualities too?" While the guys found other targets throughout the week, every once in awhile some insecure middle schooler would compose a wolf woman chant just for the heck of it. I stood strong in the face of the hecklers knowing I would never be called wolf woman again...as soon as I returned home, I planned to engage in a campaign against my body hair.
At the end of the week, our parents shuffled us into overloaded cars to transport us home. No sooner than my mom could ask about my camp experience, I informed her I was going to shave my legs. She used her standard reply of "you're too young" but I already had a barrage of arguments lined up for the battle. I told her about my horrible week and let her know that either she could help me or punish me for doing it on my own. Yes, this was a bold move that could have resulted in my whole summer being lost to house arrest, but I didn't care. What kind of summer could I have as "wolf woman"? Seeing the fire in my eyes, she knew I could not be stopped, so she reluctantly agreed to tutor me on the art of shaving.
While I littered the bathtub that evening with what seemed like pounds of leg hair, I never got around to disrobing my arms. No one really mentioned them after that summer, so I left them in their natural form all these years. For some reason, the strapless dress compelled to kill wolf woman completely. I looked down at those hairy arms in the dressing room and said "good-bye."
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