Can a Soul Reside in a Cookie?

One holiday my mother forgot to make her famed “whirligig” cookies, and all hell broke loose.

“Where’s the whirligigs?” a cousin asked as they searched the dessert counter for the chocolate swirled cookies.

“They have to be there somewhere! Obviously Kathy brought them,” said my aunt, her back to the others as she washed the never-ending pile of dishes.

“What?! No whirligigs?” another cousin echoed, panic in her eyes as she approached the typical holiday spread of pumpkin and apple pies. She muttered in disapproval as she lifted, poked and prodded for the goods.

The news quickly spread around the kitchen and others joined in, elbowing and searching for the desired treats. Like San Fermin they rushed the orange counter, hunting high and low for the obviously misplaced rubber Tupperware container they had become so familiar with year after year.

Standing between the kitchen and far room, I could see my mother sinking in her chair, pretending to be preoccupied in conversation with a relative who had not yet heard the disastrous news of the missing cookies. I watched her as she took off her glasses, pulled a half-used tissue from the pocket of her leaf-embellished vest and gingerly cleaned the gold-rimmed spectacles as a riot ensued in the kitchen.

Had she not heard? Does she not sense the tension? Peeking back through the saloon-style doors that lead from the living room to the kitchen where the food was laid out, I watched in horror as cousins, aunts, uncles and family friends began to get up in-arms over the absent cookies. Arms gesticulated, the wooden cupboards were opened and slammed shut, people looked atop appliances and in closets, all in a vain attempt to find the missing treats.

“They have to be here somewhere!” said a cousin as she went into the coat room. “Maybe Kathy left them in here.”

“Did you look on top of the fridge?” another snapped.

“Of course I looked on top of the fridge! What do you think I am?”

“Hey, you don’t suppose she didn’t make them, do you?” The room gasped at the idea of my mother, The Whirligig Queen, forgetting or, worse yet, just plain not making the traditional peanut butter and chocolate swirl treasures.

I tugged at my sagging tights and brushed back my hair with small hands. Looking from my mother and back through the cracked wooden doors, I knew confrontation was just a matter of minutes because she hadn’t made them. I knew she hadn’t. She had decided not to bother this year for some adult reason I couldn’t comprehend. And now, well, now, all hell was breaking loose.

Swallowing hard, I looked with wide-eyes back to my mother. She was calm; her brown hair curled and mounded around her head, she sat with one leg curled under her and laughed a hearty, toothy laugh. Her cheeks blushed rose which made me think that yes, of course she can hear them. She knows the mutiny that is brewing in the other room. But what is she going to do?

“Hey, Molly!” called an elder cousin in my direction. I stumbled backward, realizing that the saloon doors in all their swinging coolness had left the entire bottom half of my body exposed and was, perhaps, not an ideal hiding place to stay uninvolved in the whole ordeal. I was called into the kitchen and was soon interrogated as a material witness to either the making, or lack thereof, of the cookies.

“I dunno,” I answered coyly as they asked me where the whirligigs were. I looked from one face to the other as they towered over me in a cookie-induced delirium like addicts needing a fix. I shuffled from one foot to the other, avoiding eye contact.

“Maybe you should ask my mom?” I suggested, sweat pouring under my flannel dress. I searched for my brother in the crowd. Where’s Angus? Angus will help me! I don’t want to be the one to break the news, to oust my mom. But he was nowhere to be found. Apparently he was much smarter than I, and had made himself scarce.

In all the confusion I managed to slink away back through the doors and retreated to my mother who still sat safely in the far room.

“Mom, they want to know where the whirligigs are,” I whined.

“Do they?” she asked half amused. “I didn’t make any whirligigs this year.”

“I know that, but… But…” I tried to find the right words.

“Just tell them that they can wait ‘til Christmas. I didn’t feel like making them,” she said coolly, stroking my hair with her hand as she held a cup of Pepsi in the other.

But it was too late; the forces had spilled into the room in search of answers, demanding reason for this potential ruination of their holiday feast. They surrounded us like accusatory vultures and I buried my head into my mother’s shoulder. She smelt of Anis Anis perfume and fabric sheets.

“Kathy, where’s the whirligigs?” a cousin pleaded.

With one dismissive wave of her hand, my mother frankly explained that she had not made the cookies and that everyone would have to wait for Christmas to have them. A silence fell over the room and the cousins looked at each other in shock, disbelieving.

“But, but, you have to make them,” they begged. “It’s Thanksgiving. They’re tradition.”

“You’ll have them at Christmas. Eat some pie,” my mother said lightheartedly. I took a deep breath and watched as the family, although disappointed, smiled, accepting the grave fact that the cookies were not to be enjoyed this Thanksgiving, and perhaps appeased by the promise of enjoying them in just a few short weeks at Christmas time.

For years to come, relatives would regale at the year my mother failed to make whirligigs and teased that she couldn’t come to holidays without them. Now, that jocular threat has been passed down to me.

Before my mother passed, she taught me how to make whirligigs. Too sick to stand by my side while I made the cookies, she directed me from the couch, calling out ingredients and tricks she had learned by trial and error over the many years of preparing the cookies for the holidays. Amused with herself, she revealed the secret ingredient, something she had not shared with anyone else. And although her appetite was diminishing, she still enjoyed licking a beater with me and even indulged in a slice of the raw dough.

It’s true, I had learned to make them before. Each holiday season I’d help my mother sift the flour and melt the chocolate, but there was something more serious when recently she suggested we make them together. Maybe she felt that this was an important legacy I needed to carry on. Maybe she just didn’t want another mutiny in her memory.

That last cookie-making moment was sacred to me, is sacred to me. And as the holidays approach, my first holidays without my mother here, I find myself hesitant to make them. But I know with each bite, each savory morsel of swirled goodness, she’ll be with us.

I like that.

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Do you think there will be hesitation for those voters who have to enter schools as the polling place?

I mean, the media has made schools out to be breeding grounds of the swine flu. News flash! Schools are breeding grounds for all sickness- they're kids. Tell me the last time you saw a child sneeze all over themselves. Pick their nose? Cough on a friend? Puke without warning? And all this without washing their hands afterward.

Swine flu or no swine flu, bring hand sanitizer.

In Search of a Green Thumb

I’ve decided to “go green” for the winter. No, I’m not buying a hybrid car or recycling my grey water. I’m simply bringing as many plants inside as I can. I'm greening up the pad, if you will. The only problem is my track record as an indoor gardener is a bit rough.

It’s a love hate relationship, really: I love the plants, they hate me. A bit of a bummer to someone who enjoys indoor plants a whole lot, but this time I’m going to get it right. I can feel it.

Perhaps it’s the hour-long conversation with the gardening experts at Algren Appliance that boosted my confidence; their no nonsense advice in potting soil and fertilizer feeding really revved me up. But whatever the catalyst, I’m happy to have started this journey into purification of air and just plain lushness to contrast with the barren, disgusting bleakness of winter.

It all started with an inherited spider plant that has been around since I can remember. It sits in the corner of my kitchen, long overgrown tentacles drooping to the floor and mixed in with the growth are little spores just waiting to be plucked and potted. So I did just that and plunking them into pots, I eagerly waited for them to grow.

They died. No matter how much I cooed and coaxed the little buggers to fight, they just kept losing their green and started sagging in the leaf department. It was quite disappointing, really. But I did walk away with a lesson learned: Too much water and not enough sun is a bad combination. Duh.

So when I went to the local farm stand the other day and saw that herbs were 3 for a dollar, I just couldn’t resist. I mean, who can pass up fresh herbs in the kitchen, right? Maybe herbs would be the revival (or creation of) my green thumb!

After potting and planting, fertilizing and watering, transplanting and arranging, I’ve created a little green oasis in my home. I have herbs aplenty, spider plant spores galore, relocated outdoor plants and even some clippings of a Hydrangea tree from my mother-in-law I’m attempting to root and plant as my own. Now I just hope this thumb turns green, otherwise I’ll have quite the mess on my hands.

Sockin’ It To The Dempsey Challenge

 

It’s still raw, the fact that I lost my mother. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I think I hear her calling to me, the way she used to when I took care of her. Other times I lay in bed, haunted by things I should have done better, could have done better, and I cry. It’s this overwhelming feeling of guilt, not because I’ve done something wrong, but because there was nothing more I could do.

She passed away. Moved on. Whatever you want to label it, the truth of the matter is that she is, in fact, gone. I can’t touch her. I can’t smell her. I can’t complain to her, laugh with her, cry, cook, clean, dance, bitch, yell or share with her tangibly. All I have is her memory, and I’m scared of it fading.

My heart hurts—literally hurts—with a longing to see her again, to have a spare second, another moment… anything. I wrestle with my emotions, try to put them in check to my current reality, but grief always seems to seep in unannounced and pungent.

When I was living and taking care of Mum this past year, I ran in the mornings. I ran to relieve the pressure; to take a breather from being a caregiver. The mornings I’d slack, not wanting to put on my sneakers and hoof it outside, she’d nudge me out, reminding me to go because she knew I needed it. And truthfully, she probably needed it as well, to know I was doing something for myself and coming back to her refreshed. It was an important part of our new relationship, those morning runs.

This past Sunday I ran. I ran for my mother as part of Team Black Socks, fourteen friends and family members banded together in honor and memory of her, participating in The Dempsey Challenge. A walking, running and bicycling event, it’s in support of those fighting cancer, those who have survived it and the families of those affected by the disease.

The air crisp and the sky overcast with a blanket of grey, it was ideal weather for a 5k run. I started out with the hundreds of other participants, my pace steady and my breathing only slightly labored, and as another hill rose on the horizon, I dug in, determined to finish the entire course. At times tears swelled up and that hurt, that hurt in my heart, made it difficult to go on. Memories flooded back to me, grief bubbled up, but I continued for her: For every smile she gave in the face of grave diagnosis, for every joke she made to deal with her pain, for every bit of fight she tackled the illness with bravely and courageously and for everything she was and always will be.

The quiet rhythm of feet on pavement was broken by a woman behind me as she shouted encouragement to herself: "You can do this! Only one more mile to go! My father went through three years of pain, I can go through 3 miles. Dig! Dig in!” It struck deep inside me and through her words, we came together as mourning daughters, fighting the road under our feet just as our parent had their battle with cancer.

Crossing the finish line, tears streamed my face. I was both relieved and saddened that the race was over. I had been dedicated to this event for the past five months, a way for me to keep my mother alive in my everyday thoughts, to keep her memory from fading. No what?

As I found a spot near the finish line, I watched as my brother and his girlfriend, my friends, mother-in-law, my mother’s college friends, my husband and father-in-law crossed the finish line, each proud to have completed the course, each touched by the reason we were united today.

 

 

Our team raised over 5,900 dollars for the Dempsey Center, a lifeline for me during my mum’s illness, and in total the event raised more than 1 million. Generous donations from friends and family to our team over the past five months inspired us on a daily basis.  But more than money, the donations remind us of how loved our mother was, how she touched peoples’ lives. We will never forget that. We will never forget her. Ever.

I’ll keep running.

Art in the Afternoon

Andrew Mc kenzie and Jason Squamata. Rad new art conglomerate.

As I wandered the streets of Rockland, Maine, my mind yawned at all the moose-themed pajamas in storefront windows and redundant coffee spots. Perhaps it was the rain, the dulling grey sky, but killing time really felt exactly like that: killing time, only I was murdering it with coastal Maine monotony.

That was, until I found myself wedged in a precarious hallway called the "in between gallery" with some of the coolest art/narrative collaboration from Maine boy Andrew Mc Kenzie and Oregonian Jason Squamata(whose name, by the way, was incredibly hard to spell on a Blackberry with auto-text).

Just wanting to find an alternative exit to the jammed front door of Rock City Coffee Roasters where I got myself a pick-me-up coffee, I stumbled into said hallway and was blown away. The art movement is called HYPNO. What exactly it is, I'm not sure, but I like it.

Here's an explanation you can have a stab at from HYPNO artist Sir Richard Wentworth's blog and HYPNO-Wiki(http://rwentworth.blogspot.com/):

HYPNO is the current default designation for a style, aesthetic and worldview that has its roots in Entropian and Hypgnostic salons, hatched in front rooms, secret gardens and humid discotheques across Boston, Brighton, Allston and Everett Massachusetts in the late 90s. The vision of the original movement informed the group's musical, artistic and narrative output, and generated recording projects, comic books, graphic design, short stories and even dance nights.

The original group's activities culminated in the summer of 2002 with a live presentation of Orji Walflauer's radical response to H.P. Lovecraft's From Beyond. This mass hyposis "happening" was staged and performed by members of the World Hypgnostik Order and featured spontaneous sound design by the ritual improvisation group Clue Display. The intensity of the evening's entertainment splintered the movement and placed an emphatic ellipsis on the future of HYPNO.

Lined with poster-sized artwork the "in between" hallway was a confusion of black and white swirls, dizzying and captivating. Each image seemed to tell a story.

Andrew's Art is like a myriad of smashed spider-veined windows and rippling water obscuring the succession of layered pictures overlapping in one's inner mind. It's rapid-fire thoughts interrupted with paused questions and an over-stimulated 1990's era MTV-head, of Pop Culture imagery and contorted everyday subjects.

Jason Squamata is Head Writer and Creative Director of HYNOKOMIX, the art movement these works belong to, and the author of the narratives that accompanied each artwork. Dark and sinister, like a good Chuck Palahniuk novel, it pulls you in with its tense and intelligent writing, its interesting story line and character traits that are a reflection of everything about oneself you don't want anyone to know.

Standing in that pale yellow hallway, totally immersed in the story and artwork of these two was the best hour of my day. For a little while, on a drizzly afternoon, I went somewhere else -- and that's exactly what art is supposed to do.

To find out more check out the artist's webpage:
http://web.me.com/squamata/HYPNOCRACY/HYPNO_is....html
http://web.me.com/squamata/HYPNOCRACY/HYPNOZINE.html

“We’ve Got the Biggest, Balls of Them All” – AC/DC

Whoa, whoa. whoa… Wait just one darn minute as I wretch in disgust —is that a scrotum hanging from the rear of your rusted out, 1995 Chevy truck? 

(Image from Your-Nuts.com)

I try to follow behind in my car at a safe distance, but the mesmerizing rocking to-and-fro as the Chevy accelerates and decelerates with the pace of traffic has the oddity swaying, hypnotizing me into a trance and I find myself drawn to it, unable to look away.

I get it, alright. You’re tough. You’re rugged. Your vehicle “has balls”. But to actually go all the way and adhere  faux testes to the trailer hitch or undercarriage of your vehicle in an effort to communicate that with the public? That takes, well, balls.

I’m both disgusted and intrigued by the person who would commit such an ocular crime.

Where does one even go to purchase truck/car testicles? Can I just waltz into the local V.I.P. or Pep Boys and pick up a pair? Does one saunter down the accessory aisle, scanning the shelves in hopes of locating the gem? “Let’s see there’s coconut-scented air fresheners shaped like sandals, metallic dolphin appliqués, your choice of Taz or Tweety car mats and, oh, here we are, plastic testicles. Look honey, they have them in blue as well.” 

Or even better, were they given as a gift? Perhaps at a casual birthday party at the double-wide? “Hey Tom. I know you’ve been working real hard on that there Chevy truck o’ yours and, woo-wee, does she go like hell! Thought of you when I saw these.” I can only imagine Grandma’s delight as the unwrapped box makes its way over to her for viewing.

Aghast from my near-scrotum experience, I found myself slyly eye-balling rear-ends of trucks recently. Was it in hopes of seeing another? Was I just so hypnotized by the bobbing pair I followed that I had become one of the scrotum minions, forever doomed to notice “trucks with balls”?

It’s amazing once you realize how many of these anatomically correct genitalia grace the backside of vehicles, the actual societal breadth that has been touched. I saw an especially impressive stringy-haired, Pall Mall smoking, sloppy T-shirt wearing class-act of a female driving a Jeep Cherokee with plastic enhanced hairy white nuts bobbing behind her vehicle. I also noticed a Toyota with a plank board bed sporting a pair of chrome ones, a  station wagon complete with children in the backseat with a not-so-discreet pair of hot pink danglers, and a teal blue colored Cavalier proudly oozing the testosterone that comes with owning a pair of vehicle testes.

Out of utter curiosity, a quick internet search lead me to find that there was several types of balls to be had: “Bull’s Balls Style” “Big Boy Style”, chrome balls in 1st AND 2nd generation, solid colors, metallic colors, balls for a keychain, balls for a motorcycle – Oh, the balls!

At one particular site, http://www.truck-nuts.com/balls.html, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the semantic tango attributed to each particular design. Here’s a sampling from the website:

“Black Tuxedo Nuts

SHOW UP TO THAT BLACK TIE AFFAIR IN STYLE. A SHARP DRESSED TUXEDO NUT. THESE ARE POWDER COATED IN A GLOSSY FINISH. PERFECT FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS.”

 

…Yes, perfect.

It appears that a strong following has developed for the visual flexing of machismo. But not everyone is a fan. In Maryland and Virginia bills were passed to the senate to make the dangling duo illegal. They were also given the shaft in Florida where a small fine was notched on for anyone seen flashing a pair. But apparently, not where I am.

We’ve obviously got big balls. Do you?

Rallying Support for Maine's Same-Sex Marriage Bill

Same-sex marriage rights have been a hot-button topic of late with California passing Proposition 8 and nullifying the 2005 same-sex marriage bill, Iowa and Vermont legalizing gay marriage this past month and now New York and New Hampshire considering their own state laws in support of gay marriage.

The call for action has not gone unheard in Maine. Equality Maine, based out of Portland, is the state's oldest and largest lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) advocacy organization and the only political advocacy program in the state. The group rallied statewide, calling on supporters to attend the April 22 hearing that took place at the Augusta Civic Center for Democratic Senator Dennis Damon's bill (LD 1020), which if passed, would provide legal protections for same-sex couples in Maine.

"It has been our mission for 25 years to affect public policy in Maine," said Betsy Smith, Executive Director at Equality Maine.  They are working closely with the Maine Freedom to Marriage Coalition, a group of 34 Maine based organizations in helping to make this bill a reality, and to offer protection to same-sex couples.

Two groups of participants were organized in support: those who testified in front of the Judicial Committee, and the much larger group of people who came —dressed in various shades of red clothing — to show their support. "We've asked couples who will be effected by this law, who currently don't have protection to raise their families in a healthy and secure way, to testify. We also have what we call content experts," she continues, "including child welfare advocates and the AACP." The content experts stressed the benefit marriage has on children, regardless of the parents' sexual preference, while other testimonies were based on personal experience.

Opposition was also on hand to voice their disagreement to the proposed bill. Many from religious backgrounds quoted The Bible as deeming homosexuality as a sin and same-sex marriage as unholy as their main arguments.

Other religious leaders noted the danger in quoted The Bible too closely. Casey Collins of the Lewiston Methodist Church was quoted in the Lewiston Sun Journal as saying, "If the Bible is taken word for word as it is written, adultery would be punished by death by stoning as would a woman getting married who is not a virgin. No one to my knowledge has recently been stoned to death for adulterous acts."

In a country whose Forefather’s wrote:  

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

It seems that the answer to whether this bill should or should not be passed was already answered on July 4, 1776.

The Declaration of Independence states that “…all men (and women) are created equal…” Then why should a minority lack the same protections and rights from their government than the majority? That is not equality, that is discrimination.

The argument that The Bible states that homosexuality is a sin and is therefore wrong should be completely disregarded in a political arena based on the saying attributed to Thomas Jefferson in regards to the First Amendment of The United States Constitution: Separation of church and state. If church and state are to be separate, then why bring religion into the argument at all?

April 28 is the earliest the Judiciary Committee is expected to vote. If approved, it still needs to go to the Senate, the House and then to Governor Baldacci.

Here’s to a tolerant America.

Burger Time

Hey, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry. But is anyone really hungry enough to eat a 4lb burger?

The Fifth Third Ballpark in Grand Rapids, Michigan has decided to offer up this heinous meal-time choice. Maxing out at a whooping 4,800 calories (that’s more than double the FDA’s daily caloric recommendation), this gargantuan burger defies a one-person consumption. Or does it?

We’ve all heard our mothers and our mother’s mothers groan on about the hungry children in Ethiopia when we’ve been forced to sit at the kitchen table for not finishing our peas, but those are a few measly peas. Think if we could pass this on to them! The joy! The celebrations that would ensue. I mean, this has the potential to feed a family of five— easily. Maybe even an army! A village!

Unfortunately, I think that if any of those poor starving children even attempted to eat this monstrosity, he or she would surely drop from the shock to the system that the reported 300 grams of fat, 10,000 mg sodium, and 744 milligrams of cholesterol would dole out. Obviously this age-old adage doesn’t work with this monstrosity. Sorry starving kids, I fear that this’ll freaking kill you.

Now keep in mind that this isn’t your normal burger. This puppy is loaded with oddities like corn chips, salsa and a cup of chili. Part of me wants to plead with them to stop the insanity. For crying out loud, corn chips? Frigging corn chips? Come on, that’s obviously just to up the ante on it’s disgusting unhealthiness, isn’t it?

I can see the cooks standing around the kitchen, each in stained aprons, hands wet from spreading chili over the five patties, hemming and hawing over the magnificent creation they just assembled.

“It just doesn’t look finished,” one cook says to another as he scans the shelves of food in front of him.

“Well, what else would you put on it, Jim*?”

“Screw it,” says the first, “let’s just throw whatever the heck’ll make this baby the most ridiculous thing people have seen in a while, and watch them flock!” Enter the corn chips to the equation.

And the funny thing? The funny thing is that people will flock to Fifth Third, just to try to the damn thing. Just as they did in Clearfield, PA to try the "Beer Barrel Belly Buster" or "The Big One" at Mama Lena's Pizza House in McKees Rock, PA (what’s up with your over-sized foods PA?). People big, bigger and relatively small will walk into the stadium with high hopes of ingesting the atrocity and waddle away bloated and full, perhaps even with the misguided idea of topping the whole thing off with the signature deep-fried Twinkie. (oh, yeah. They have those there too.)

This is one giant leap for obesity, and one small step for the evolution of the burger. I’m full just thinking about it.

Hypocrite This

So what? I got a phone. A freakin’ Blackberry Pearl. Am I a hypocrite? Yes, yes I am. But the good thing is that, unlike others, I can admit it. I can swallow it. And I can look at myself in the mirror.

I’m not going to bore you with a bunch of “I needed its” or “work required its” or other explanations or excuses. I got it, that’s that.

Call me.

Death of a Bagger

Dear Hannaford Bag Boy,

Why are you single-handedly trying to smother the Earth in plastic bags? Do you have something against soil? Grass? Pebbles? Stoneconcretesandflowerbedsgravelmulchflowingfieldsofwheat?

Was there some sort of traumatic experience you had as a kid that left you feeling less than snuggly toward our planet?

If so, digress. Please. Because as I see it, you’re on a mission to pollute. I mean, here I am, the lowly purchaser of grocer goods, trying to make my little dent in trying to save the world and all you do is nullify my every attempt.

Things you do that piss me off:

When I come to shop and try to check out with an annoying bulge of recycled Hannaford plastic bags from my house you ignore their very presence until I notice too late and have to accept that I have all new plastic packed purchases and my old bags.

When I request paper, you pack the paper bags in plastic bags? I mean, that defeats the whole purpose for me. Now I’m creating extra waste for crying out loud!

You insist on putting only a very few items into each bag. I’m not 80! Load that shit up!

One time you put the meat with the fruit and I almost barfed – not separated by the special plastic bag for meat. that, I understand. use that.

Why do I have to put all my produce in a separate bag, only to have you bag all the bags? Come on!

 

I have also noticed that Hannaford has stopped offering $.05 for every plastic bag customers bring in. I see your alliance. You are the Panthor to their Skeletor.

I really hope we can resolve this problem without me having to go out and buy those stupid little canvas bags with butterflies and catchy Earth Day sayings on them.

Until we meet again.

Suspiciously,

Molly

I Was Born For This.

So there I was, minding my own business on Facebook when all of a sudden a friend posted a link to The Best Job in The World.

Best job, huh? fine, I’ll bite.

After clicking on the aforementioned link and watching the spiel, I was hooked. Holy schnikes, I thought. I was born for this job! There was only one problem. How do I communicate all I need to say in the allotted 1 minute video… and where do I find a video camera?!

After much searching and procrastination, I finally shot, edited and uploaded my application video for The Best Job in the World. Take a look and please vote for me! (Click “rate this video”).

http://www.islandreefjob.com/#/applicants/watch/13Rx_PujIAo

I’m already packing.

For the Love of Valentine’s Day

When I think of Valentine’s Day, I think of little red, pink and purple construction paper hearts, white doilies and brown paper bag pseudo mailboxes. The Outcast song “Happy Valentine’s Day” plays repetitively in my head like some sort of day-long anthem: “Happy Valentine’s Day/ Every day the 14th/ I don’t think ya’ll heard me/ I just wanna say Happy Valentine’s Day…” It’s a day where everyone indulges in binge chocolate eating, and consciously or not, many people wear a variant of the color red. That’s a damn good holiday if you ask me.

What’s everyone’s problem with the day dedicated to love? The constant whinging on about how it is just a Hallmark holiday is nauseating. Everyone seems to be on a crusade to take down Valentine’s Day. Gangs of disgruntled lovers and those locked into singledom rue the day. They lurk around corners, stomp on roses and spit into cookie batter. They tear off the heads of teddy bears holding faux boxes of chocolate and request tortured songs of love on the radio like J. Geils band’s “Love Stinks”.

Anyone rhyming anything remotely romantic are ostracized, and those staring longingly and doe-eyed at their lover will be taken ‘round back and forced to wear sunglasses. What gives?

Now, don’t think I’m on the side of Valentine’s Day just because I’m happily married – although I’m sure it helps – but I honestly like the holiday. It conjures warm memories of childhood, like wishing Steve Lessard would drop the oh-so-wished-for note declaring his 6th grade crush on me, or filling out specially selected valentines at my kitchen table for friends while my Mother looked on and helped spell things such as, “I like you a wicked lot”.

I mean, what a time! The school day was basically a wash with kids all jacked up on Red Hots® and NECCO’s Conversation Hearts®. Little girls squealed as they read waaaaay to in to what each heart said as if they were some sort of secret message from a crush, and boys tried to act nonchalant about the whole thing, when in all actuality, they probably hand picked each heart. There were parties, activities, hours of scissor use cutting out hearts, and yes, Hallmark cards up the wazoo.

So what’s the big deal? Why hate on one day trying to bring a warm fuzzy feeling to people struggling in a world so afflicted with hurt and hate, crime and war?

It’s that age-old belief that being indifferent and revolting against traditional values is cool. These people who look down their noses at Valentine’s Day see it as a commercial holiday created by capitalistic America, and well, maybe it is, but look at the potential bigger picture. It gives this dirty and dysfunctional world we live in a glow, even if just for one day.

Maybe it shouldn’t be looked at as what you don’t have – but I don’t have a boyfriend/girlfriend, no one took me out to eat at a fancy restaurant, I didn’t get any notes from a secret admirer, there wasn’t a song dedicated to me on the radio this morning – and use the day as a tool in reminding you to be more polite to the toll booth operator, say thank you to a harried waitress, smile at a complete stranger. Instead of expecting, do the unexpected. Imagine if everyone used the day to be reminded of their manners, the heavy burdens of others and became easy going and forgiving – what a day that would be, eh?  Oh, that’s Valentine’s Day.

The origination of Valentine’s Day is shrouded in speculation, but reoccurring themes of heroism, sympathy, fertility and romance appear in all, whether you believe that the holiday was formed to celebrate one of the Christian martyrs named Valentine (or Valentinus), or that that it was a conspiracy to absolve the Roman Lupercalia festival. Each legend holds the silver lining of humanity. It was only in 498 A.D. that Valentine’s Day was declared an actual holiday and romance entered the picture when in the Middle Ages, people associated the day with the mating season of birds. Soon after, the first known valentines were sent professing love on the 14th of February.

Sure the commercial obsession with the holiday has muddled the true meaning of Valentine’s Day, but that’s the same for St. Patrick’s Day (beer anyone?), Christmas (presents, presents, presents!!!!), Easter (more candy?), etc. It’s our job as responsible consumers and self-thinking human beings of the 21st Century not to be too easily distracted and swayed by all the glitter and gold of the market. So if you’re one of the people out there cursing the holiday for it’s superficial and obvious failings, I suggest being an individual and looking a little deeper to see it for what it could be, not what it is to the masses.

I'm Going to Beat Up the Economy

 

Just so you know, I've been lifting weights. Yeah, that's right. I've started going to the gym again and when I get all buff and tough, I'm totally going to kick the economy's ass on the playground.

What has the economy done to me you ask? Pssht, what hasn't  it done to me lately. I feel like I'm in some sort of abusive relationship with it like I'm dating one of the girls from School of Rock. It's all hair pulling and naughty words and frankly, I've had enough.

Some may say that I'm resorting to childish means. I say screw 'em, I'm fed up. I'm desperate. I'm going to show that bully who's boss - fourth grade style. I mean, what am I suppose to do when I get handed a note from the Bush Administration that's all: "Jobs, sure we have jobs." Then later that same day CNN passes me a note saying: “Unemployment rate is the highest it's been in years." Well make up your mind, Economy, which is it? Am I to be employed or not?  I'm not talking a rinky-dink Burger King gig, I'm talking putting-my-two-degrees-to-use-and-earning-a-hefty-salary job. Whatever, I circle "no". As in "Oh, no you didn't!"

Enough already with all the false promises in The Land of (No) Opportunity and the constant picking-on-the-new-kid crap from tangled immigration laws. Not to mention the bailout of the popular "Big Three" car clique. Just because they have fancy designer suits and fly in private jets doesn't make it okay. Especially when we're being evicted from home room and could use a little support.

So I'm jabbing, punching, twisting, pushing, jumping, hooking, pressing, running, sweating and lifting my way toward total body workout all in the name of kicking the economy's derrière. Who's coming to the gym?

Oh, Mr. Postman. Bring Me a...

 

Maybe I'm alone here, but I enjoy the act of sending and receiving mail. Don't get me wrong, I have no issues with email and in fact, I use it all the time. But there's something nostalgic about gathering letters from a mailbox, off the floor after sliding through a slot in the door or from a lock-and-key box from the post office, that isn't comparable to the electronic version.

Perhaps it's a direct result of Americans using email so frequently that this nostalgia has even developed. We've started to look into our cyber-mailboxes multiple times a day instead of savoring the anticipation and enjoyment of collecting scattered envelopes after work. We've become mail-spoiled. Shame on us.

I'm not going to lie, I like getting Publisher's Clearing House prize patrol warnings — it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like seeing that pale yellow envelope to know you arrived. It's so grown up, so here and now, so trash chic. I feel validated as a human being. Yes, I'm here! Heck, they even know where here is, they know where I live! Send me the latest newsletter from some obscure organization I signed up for during my empowered college years, I still may want to save a starving child in Uganda and I love getting those little return address stick-'ems and matching stickers — keep them coming I say!

Sure, "going paperless" may be the hip save-the-environment way to go, but what's the fun in that? Instead of the satisfaction of ripping useless reminders to renew your magazine subscription, you have a full inbox. Hitting delete just doesn't do it. I actually like to stand with the trash can nearby, tearing apart useless information and chucking it into the bin until I'm left with a slim pile of credible mail. That way I know I've accomplished something. And it feels good.

And if not for the sense of accomplishment it gives you, then at least for the mail men and women. I like to think of them as a Norman Rockwell character from his paintings, trudging through knee-high snow in frigid temps just to bring you the daily telegraph. That's dedication. Come rain, come snow, come hail and sweltering heat they suffer so that you can stay communicated to your love ones... or prize patrols. Are we just going to ignore their century-long sacrifice?

Sometimes I even romanticize about the days of the Pony Express and how exciting mail used to be. (*Sigh*) If only we still had that allure: Racing through the mountains atop heated steeds, saddle bags bulging with love letters and prize announcements from Ed McMahon, constantly racing against the clock and the elements to make sure the mail arrived on time. Classy. That's what that is. It's classy. Where's the class in the electronic chiming of "You've got mail"?

The other day I was surprised to see that a job I was applying for requested I send my resume by post. Was it a fluke? I thought it strange at first and was even tempted to ignore the request and shoot my info off lightning-quick via email, but realized that this was a perfect opportunity to do my part in keeping the mail system alive.

I went to my friendly neighborhood post office to purchase a manila envelope for my mailings (you know the ones, they are brownish-yellow 9 x 12 folders with a flap and small clasp.), but I was surprised to find that there were none for purchase. They've all been replaced by flashy white cardboard sleeves, puffed bubble-wrap filled envelopes and origami-inspired boxes. Whatever happened to the discreet manila envelope?

"You can use one of those white jobbies there," said the woman behind the counter, "or you can jazz it up with that there Mickey Mouse or confetti colored one."

Uh, what? Seriously? Mickey Mouse? Yeah lady, that's right. I'm going to send my resume via Mickey Mouse envelope. That should really give me a leg up on the competition.

After much searching and some swearing under my breath I found the damned folders for $4.49 at Office Depot. I then returned to the post office to mail my documents. God forbid the post offices have ordinary envelopes in stock.

Why am I telling you this? Because it made me realize how the mail system is going downhill. Not only is it becoming obsolete, but Disney has taken it over as well and turned it into some sort of circus. I began thinking about paperless alternatives, postmen and women losing their jobs and the utter delight I get in receiving mail, no matter what it is.

Here's to mail!

A Pregnant Pause

 

Is it just me, or did you hear it too? The silence. The awe of billions as they watched America's newest president take his oath at the Capital Building.

Everywhere people fell silent, hunching forward in anticipation of The Change promised to come with Barack Obama's inauguration. Restaurants brimming with lunchtime patrons went quiet. Phones sat unanswered as office workers crowded around televisions or computers transmitting the historic event. Deserted four-square balls rolled through abandoned playgrounds as students huddled together in auditoriums to watch the momentous happening. The knitting needles of the elderly stopped clacking and chainsaws of lumber workers seized to growl as all ears were pricked to listen. Cash registers took a break from transactions as attention was drawn elsewhere. Gas pumps sat idle as people leaned through open doors of their cars to hear each word over NPR. College campuses held no lectures, as one of the biggest lessons of our lives was being broadcast.

Americans with tears in our eyes and hope swelling within our hearts, we watched in united silence. Smiles broke across chapped lips and pride surged through our crippled egos as his hand graced the velvet top of the Lincoln bible. We held our breath, all of us, the entire world, during those 35 words.

Holding Out... Just... a Little... Longer...

So what? I DON'T have a cell phone. Call me prehistoric. Call me technologically deficient. Call me lame and give me a funny sideward glance. But what you can't do is call me when I'm away from home.

It's one part defiance, two parts financial. It's become more of a snub to society and its need to be constantly contactable then me really giving a damn. Sure, I'd like to whip out my slim Motorola RAZR from the back pocket of my skinny jeans as much as the next girl, but why weigh myself down with the burden? Other people have phones; they can call. Is it for social status? To show how hip and techno savvy we are? Does owning a Blackberry put you into a higher social rung?

If so, damn.

Okay. So maybe it isn't as noble as I would have one think. Do I feel a little left out? Fine, yes. I'll admit it. I'm one of the few who still looks out the window at the passing buildings on the subway, rather than watching the latest episode of Heroes or texting my friend Tamika about the great chili recipe I just found. I'm forced to wait until my friends have finished texting to continue our conversation. I listen intently to others' cell conversations and ask "What'd they say?" annoyingly until I get the scoop. It's a little bit like being left out of a conversation, standing gawkily behind the inner circle of a great convo.

I will admit that getting stuck on the side of the road in a snow storm - sans celly - would blow a big one. And you got me at the cool factor and the ability to fill awkward voids. Another point gained for falsified excuses from lame dates and proving yourself immediately on bets. Admittedly it is pretty cool how you can find out what song is playing just by holding up your iPhone to the speaker, and I wish I could text someone with a one-word answer instead of wasting all that time in making a phone call.

On the other hand, I have my own (little as it may be) posse of non-cell phone users as well. We be crazy sons-a-bitches! We do wild things like use PAY PHONES! Oh, snap! That's right we use PAY PHONES. Unfortunately they aren't always easy to find because apparently they aren't being used anymore, but when we find them we USE THEM. Even though they cost us almost a dollar to place a local call, we look super retro standing in a booth. Beat that Samsung Propel user with your crazy text fingers.

I also have gained back incredible abilities – yes, that is right, incredible — one being the knack of numeric memorization, the other being the art of small talk. Oh, don’t doubt yourself. You once had these abilities as well. Remember when you were young and you picked up the receiver and dialed your best friend’s number from memory? Can't do that anymore can you? Lose the phone, you lose all the numbers. What about the crazy cycle of self-absorption this era of technology has got you in? Human connection is diminishing, but not for me, boy! I smile at the person sitting across from me. Perhaps we speak about the weather, bond over how grotesque the fat man in the back picking his nose is, share a chuckle over foreign policy — the norm.

See, we're playing hard to get, us non-cell phone users. You can't just call us up any time of the day and have us answer. There's no GPS navigation here. No widgets or simulated click of a computer mouse. We can't blog while on the pooper and we're sure as heck are not going to know what time The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is playing at the local cinema while driving home from work. Inconvenience? Perhaps slightly. But not to someone that is used to having to check the paper, use the phone book and wait a little while instead of getting instant feedback. It could be said that I am practicing the art of patience; becoming Zen-like in this era of go, go, go.

But In all my martyring, have I missed the cultural bus? According to a Gartner report from Cnet News’s website, "Sales of cell phones are on pace to reach a billion annually by the end of the decade, when nearly 40 percent of the world's population will own a mobile handset.” Forty percent? That’s it? I am NOT in the slow lane! Asia may be the biggest buyers of these handheld devices, but until all of China is chirping on their cellies, I’ll still remain one of the masses. Take that social pressure!

And what’s the deal with Bluetooth? Have we boarded the Starship? Talk about cancer in the brain caused by radio waves, that’s going right in the ol’ canal — direct route! How do you expect to be taken seriously? I understand the need for “hands free” as a non cell phone use, I use both hands regularly. Frankly I couldn’t imagine not. But really? Alien growth headset? I will give it points for being the perfect illusion of having an actually conversation. Sometimes I even think Bluetooth wearers are talking to me; I light up, I shoot back a witty answer, only to be met with rolling eyes and embarrassment. If every Schizophrenic in America was given a Bluetooth headset, we’d never know who the crazies were. And I’d stop being let down by fake conversations.

Bring back the Bat signal. Bring back smoke signals, but don’t force me to get a cell phone. Don’t make me feel inadequate for my lack of ownership just because I’m not getting free incoming calls and Verizon’s free nights and weekends. I get nights and weekends too, and guess what? They’re free anyway. Saturday always comes and Wednesday night is a regular occurrence. Even if I’m not making phone calls from the sidewalk.