Being a divorced parent, I am use to telling my boys goodbye. Goodbyes over the summer, spring break, and alternating holidays have been routine for me for 13 years. This time though, the goodbye is different. My twin teens took off for their Christmas holiday to Utah. They both went away, but only one is coming back. Cody has decided to spend the rest of the school year living with his dad.
I thought I would be bawling by now. I thought I would be an incapacitated wreck of a person, wandering around in pajamas all day. This isn't the case. Right now, I just feel numb. The reality of sending two boys out and having only one come back hasn't hit me yet. I just keep wondering why he would want to leave. The questions have been percolating in my brain. What did I do wrong? Could I have done something different? Why didn't I spend more quality time with him when I could have? Wasn't he happy here?
I know all those questions are self-indulgent emotional wrecking balls; personal instruments of torture for quiet, rainy days. He has told me that his leaving has nothing to do with me, or our family here. To an extent, I believe him. I know that teenagers have restless spirits. I use to be one. Believe me, if I had had somewhere to run during those years--I would have. But even more than the natural restlessness of adolescence, I believe in the genetic connection between a father and a son. As much as my blood courses through my sons' veins, the blood of their father runs in them as well. Despite my reservations about letting him leave, Cody is feeling the primitive pull of relation.
Who am I to keep a boy from his father?
But what has his father done to deserve him?
I don't have the emotional capacity to contemplate those questions right now. Like I said, I'm numb. At least the weather is doing it's job in reflecting what I should be feeling. Another storm front is moving in and there will be heavy rain for the next few days...
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Metaphorically Challenged
Okay, I'm a political junkie--I confess. Politics to me is like what fantasy sports is to all those people that obsess about fantasy sports, know what I mean? I watch cable news channels, listen to talk radio, check Rasmussen Reports almost daily, and read up on all the Props before I voted. Some may call that pathetic and boring, but I call it ignorance avoidance. Anywhoo, because I am such a political junkie, I have become familiar with all the stupid talking points and metaphors the politicians have been using as of late. I could bore you and list them all off, but instead I'm going to "focus like a laser" on just one, and give some possible alternatives that politicians could use that might spice up the political dialogue a little.
So, the metaphor I am so tired of hearing is one I'm sure, if you have even paid the slightest bit of attention to politics, you would recognize. Here it is:
"The economy is a car and the Republicans have driven it into a ditch."
Now, the above point can be argued, but I'm not here to prove my political leanings. Because the Democrats have been the party using that statement the most, I will offer alternatives for their point of view--just to show that I am capable of reaching across the aisle.
Here are some alternatives to the whole economy/car/ditch metaphor:
Next time, I will discuss the quandering question: Who, if not the taxpayers, will pay for Nancy Pelosi's private jets, tailored pantsuits, and ever-obvious plastic surgery now that she is no longer Speaker of the House?
Stay tuned...
So, the metaphor I am so tired of hearing is one I'm sure, if you have even paid the slightest bit of attention to politics, you would recognize. Here it is:
"The economy is a car and the Republicans have driven it into a ditch."
Now, the above point can be argued, but I'm not here to prove my political leanings. Because the Democrats have been the party using that statement the most, I will offer alternatives for their point of view--just to show that I am capable of reaching across the aisle.
Here are some alternatives to the whole economy/car/ditch metaphor:
- The economy is a cake and the Republicans haven't put enough leavening agent, like baking soda, in the batter so now the cake isn't rising. We Democrats need to discard that cake completely, and make a new one with a recipe from Rosa Luxemburg's "Cooking with Communism".
- The economy is a ficus tree that the Republicans have over-watered, now the leaves are curling and we, the Democrats, have to administer Miracle-Gro, Bonsai pruning, and plant resuscitation in order to keep the ficus from perishing.
- The economy is a chick in a bikini, and the Republicans have kept her in the sun too long and now she's got a terrible sunburn. It's up to the Democrats to keep her indoors and apply aloe vera to her blistered epidermis until she is a healthy, pale pallor again.
- The economy is an Eames era antique oak coffee table that the Republicans bought from a local boutique. Instead of treating the coffee table with teak oil and using coasters, the Republicans have been setting their scotch on-the-rocks directly on the table leaving horrible water stains. It's up to us, the Democrats, to sand out those stains and re-treat the wood; restoring it to its original splendor.
- The economy is a muddy ditch. The Republicans got drunk on Gentleman Jack and drove a 1972 Ford Pinto into the ditch, ruining the natural filth that is the ditch. It's up to the Democrats to pull the car out of the ditch with an awesome tow truck that's got hydraulics, roll bars, and flame decals. Once the 1972 Ford Pinto is out of the ditch, Americans can bath nude in the muddy ditch while smoking illegal cannabis. Kind, duuude!
Next time, I will discuss the quandering question: Who, if not the taxpayers, will pay for Nancy Pelosi's private jets, tailored pantsuits, and ever-obvious plastic surgery now that she is no longer Speaker of the House?
Stay tuned...
Friday, October 22, 2010
Being on the Bottom
Many of you who know me know I reside in the awesome Californication that is the South Bay. The South Bay is a beautiful little chunk of land that stretches from Santa Monica to San Pedro Bay. Geographically, this area is gorgeous--just what you imagine when you think of California: beaches, palm trees, sunshine, and happy people (mostly). A lot of people really love it here—I’m one of them. However, because of the many people living here, the population is pretty dense. And, like most densely populated areas, the South Bay is home to many apartment dwellers. I’m one of them, and this is my story:
Anywhoo, the apartment I live in is behind the landlord's house. (It's kind of like servants quarters, except I don't do anything for my landlord except pay her exorbitant rent. She, in return, puts a roof over our head. I guess you could call it a win-win.) The apartment we live in contains two residences, ours which is the ground-level unit, and our neighbors in the upstairs unit. So, we don't share common walls, but we do share common ceilings and it is these common ceilings that are driving me uncommonly crazy.
[Now, I'm going to get into too-much-information territory, but not graphic--so if you aren't in to reading about strangers’ strange strangenesses, or people’s gross ickiness, then you should probably stop reading now. Head on over to Nick Jr., I hear they have some wonderful online games, at least that's what Carter tells me.]
Okay, back to the common ceilings. Our neighbors above us moved in about five months ago, and for the first few weeks they were living above us I didn't have any complaints. But after that something awful started happening. The ceiling above my bedroom is the ceiling common with the couple upstairs. And, let's just say the couple upstairs has a very noisy bed. Yes, I know, you're all running away from the computer right now to throw up in some type of waste receptacle. Go ahead, I'll wait for you. Okay, done? Pansies.
I'll stop right there with the innuendos and just cut to it: MY UPSTAIRS NEIGHBORS HAVE SEX LIKE A MILLION TIMES A DAY! Seriously, a million. Okay, they don't really go at it that much, but I swear it's like three times a day I hear their shag wagon rattling away. It's so gross. They freak in the early morning (like four freaking a.m.!), then in the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening. They might do it more than this, but those are the times I have been unfortunate enough to be in my room sleeping, or on the computer, or something and hear their bed-creaking passion. In fact, as I type this, I think I hear the muted rhythm of Olivia Newton John coming from upstairs [let’s get physical, physical...]. Blech!
Here’s my conundrum: Neighbors who have a barking dog can be confronted. Neighbors that play their music too loud can be confronted. Neighbors that play Rock Band at two in the morning…well, you can call the cops on them. Neighbors that get it on A LOT in a noisy, noisy fashion--how do you confront that? It's not as if I can go up there with a wrench, knock on the door and say, "Hey there neighborin-o! I couldn't help but notice you have a bed with some loose joints. Mind if I tighten up those lug nuts for yah?" No. I can't do that. And legally, I can’t send up a plate of cookies laced with sexually repressing antidepressants. I guess there’s some law about poisoning your neighbors or something stupid like that.
So, what am I, as a bottom dwelling apartment resident with unsavory neighbors to do? I’ll tell what I’ll do: I’ll write a blog about it and share my suffering with the world. That's what I’ll do.
Anywhoo, the apartment I live in is behind the landlord's house. (It's kind of like servants quarters, except I don't do anything for my landlord except pay her exorbitant rent. She, in return, puts a roof over our head. I guess you could call it a win-win.) The apartment we live in contains two residences, ours which is the ground-level unit, and our neighbors in the upstairs unit. So, we don't share common walls, but we do share common ceilings and it is these common ceilings that are driving me uncommonly crazy.
[Now, I'm going to get into too-much-information territory, but not graphic--so if you aren't in to reading about strangers’ strange strangenesses, or people’s gross ickiness, then you should probably stop reading now. Head on over to Nick Jr., I hear they have some wonderful online games, at least that's what Carter tells me.]
Okay, back to the common ceilings. Our neighbors above us moved in about five months ago, and for the first few weeks they were living above us I didn't have any complaints. But after that something awful started happening. The ceiling above my bedroom is the ceiling common with the couple upstairs. And, let's just say the couple upstairs has a very noisy bed. Yes, I know, you're all running away from the computer right now to throw up in some type of waste receptacle. Go ahead, I'll wait for you. Okay, done? Pansies.
I'll stop right there with the innuendos and just cut to it: MY UPSTAIRS NEIGHBORS HAVE SEX LIKE A MILLION TIMES A DAY! Seriously, a million. Okay, they don't really go at it that much, but I swear it's like three times a day I hear their shag wagon rattling away. It's so gross. They freak in the early morning (like four freaking a.m.!), then in the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening. They might do it more than this, but those are the times I have been unfortunate enough to be in my room sleeping, or on the computer, or something and hear their bed-creaking passion. In fact, as I type this, I think I hear the muted rhythm of Olivia Newton John coming from upstairs [let’s get physical, physical...]. Blech!
Here’s my conundrum: Neighbors who have a barking dog can be confronted. Neighbors that play their music too loud can be confronted. Neighbors that play Rock Band at two in the morning…well, you can call the cops on them. Neighbors that get it on A LOT in a noisy, noisy fashion--how do you confront that? It's not as if I can go up there with a wrench, knock on the door and say, "Hey there neighborin-o! I couldn't help but notice you have a bed with some loose joints. Mind if I tighten up those lug nuts for yah?" No. I can't do that. And legally, I can’t send up a plate of cookies laced with sexually repressing antidepressants. I guess there’s some law about poisoning your neighbors or something stupid like that.
So, what am I, as a bottom dwelling apartment resident with unsavory neighbors to do? I’ll tell what I’ll do: I’ll write a blog about it and share my suffering with the world. That's what I’ll do.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Liar, Liar, Parent on Fire
I’ve been thinking a lot about lying the past few days. I haven’t been planning and scheming about who I’m going to lie to, and what I’m going to lie about—I’ve been pondering lying in general, and how it’s sometimes a necessary evil when it comes to being a parent. At least it is for me.
For example, the other day I took Carter for an ice cream cone at McDonald’s. Now, I dread going in to McDonald’s for so many reasons, most of which stem from a short employment stint when I was 15-years-old (but that’s a whole other story). The sounds, the smells, the mauve and yellow décor at McDonald’s, it all causes my stomach to curdle a wee bit upon entry. McDonald’s represents so much that is wrong in the world: grease, gluttony, binge-marketing, cheap plastic toys, senior menus. If Dante had lived in the 21st Century, I’m sure he would have cast Ronald McDonald, Grimmace and The Hamburglar as his assailants in the Inferno. There’s evil in them there costumes.
So, instead of going in to McDonald’s, I went through the drive-through. As we pulled up to order, Carter told me that he wanted to go in to the play place. Hoping to avoid confrontation, I kept it sweet and simple by saying, “Carter, we’re not going in today.” Of course, when you’re dealing with a toddler, nothing is ever simple. Carter responded in a higher, more brain-jabbing pitch, “I wanna play in McDonald’s!” I again answered him simply by saying weren’t going in. Carter, being the rationalist that he is, wasn’t going to accept this for an answer, he needed a reason—a reason that would soothe his troubled toddler soul. So, I lied and told him, “We can’t go in to the play place because it’s closed.”
“Why is it closed?” he asked.
“Um, it’s uh, closed because, because, uh…because a kid peed in there and they have to clean it up. See that sign on the window,” I said pointing to a large poster of an egg McMuffin, “It says, “Play Place Closed for Cleaning.””
Well, that seemed to be a sufficient answer. Of course the play place was closed. The McDonald’s crew was in there sopping up puddles of urine. No tot in their right mind wants to go exploring plastic, urine-soaked catacombs—that’s no fun. Yep, kids are smart creatures. Carter accepted the clean-up answer and even repeated to himself a couple of times, “Somebody peed in the play place.” He’s so freaking adorable!
Anyway, the fact is, I lied to Carter to avoid a confrontation and possible meltdown. Does that make me a bad person? There are other things that could qualify me as bad person, like the years between ages 13-24, but I don’t think my white lies are one of them. I could be way off on this, but I think it’s pretty much standard to lie to your kids. Here are a few more examples of how I have deceived Carter:
• I tell him there are “candy bugs” in his teeth to get him to brush them.
• I’ve told him as soon as it’s dark outside; cartoons on the TV go to sleep.
• When Anthony is away for a few days on business, and Carter asks when he’s coming home, I just say, “In a few hours.”
• I told him that the mouse we saw skittering about at the farmer’s market the other day was Jerry from Tom & Jerry.
I know! I should totally be ashamed, shouldn’t I? I am bringing this child up in a web of filthy, stinking lies! I don’t know how I look myself in the mirror sometimes (not necessarily because of the lies, but because of the crow’s feet around my eyes; I should really start looking in to Botox).
You’re probably wondering, what about Cody and Colton? Does she lie to them too? Well, somewhere between the time the boys were tots, to their current cynical teen years, I started being truthful with them. Maybe too truthful. Without going in to hysterical detail, we’ll just say they know a hell of a lot more about the world than I knew at their age. So, I’m honest with them now about most things, but I lied to them too when they were little. To this day, they probably still think that when they turned two, their bottles took a magical ride on the “Baba Train”, never to return again. And those toys, the toys they wouldn’t put away, they were taken by the ever-notorious, yet oh-so-elusive “Snitcher Snatcher”. It’s no wonder they don’t believe me when I tell them I use to be cool.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you: Is it really so bad to disperse white lies to your children? I swear I only lie to them when it’s to my benefit—uh, I mean their benefit. Were your parents 100% honest with you when you were a wee one? I’m betting if they were totally truthful, they avoided all manner of “birds and bees” subjects until you were 21 years old, am I right? Don’t lie to me.
Speaking of honesty, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t feel bad about telling these things to my kids. In fact, I think it would be pretty lame to have a parent that was honest all of the time. How boring and unimaginative. Hey, that’s it! If I’m ever confronted by the boys about these fibs, I will just tell them, “I wasn’t being dishonest—I was being imaginative.”
Now, if I could only imagine my way out of the why the laundry, after three days, still hasn’t been folded…
For example, the other day I took Carter for an ice cream cone at McDonald’s. Now, I dread going in to McDonald’s for so many reasons, most of which stem from a short employment stint when I was 15-years-old (but that’s a whole other story). The sounds, the smells, the mauve and yellow décor at McDonald’s, it all causes my stomach to curdle a wee bit upon entry. McDonald’s represents so much that is wrong in the world: grease, gluttony, binge-marketing, cheap plastic toys, senior menus. If Dante had lived in the 21st Century, I’m sure he would have cast Ronald McDonald, Grimmace and The Hamburglar as his assailants in the Inferno. There’s evil in them there costumes.
So, instead of going in to McDonald’s, I went through the drive-through. As we pulled up to order, Carter told me that he wanted to go in to the play place. Hoping to avoid confrontation, I kept it sweet and simple by saying, “Carter, we’re not going in today.” Of course, when you’re dealing with a toddler, nothing is ever simple. Carter responded in a higher, more brain-jabbing pitch, “I wanna play in McDonald’s!” I again answered him simply by saying weren’t going in. Carter, being the rationalist that he is, wasn’t going to accept this for an answer, he needed a reason—a reason that would soothe his troubled toddler soul. So, I lied and told him, “We can’t go in to the play place because it’s closed.”
“Why is it closed?” he asked.
“Um, it’s uh, closed because, because, uh…because a kid peed in there and they have to clean it up. See that sign on the window,” I said pointing to a large poster of an egg McMuffin, “It says, “Play Place Closed for Cleaning.””
Well, that seemed to be a sufficient answer. Of course the play place was closed. The McDonald’s crew was in there sopping up puddles of urine. No tot in their right mind wants to go exploring plastic, urine-soaked catacombs—that’s no fun. Yep, kids are smart creatures. Carter accepted the clean-up answer and even repeated to himself a couple of times, “Somebody peed in the play place.” He’s so freaking adorable!
Anyway, the fact is, I lied to Carter to avoid a confrontation and possible meltdown. Does that make me a bad person? There are other things that could qualify me as bad person, like the years between ages 13-24, but I don’t think my white lies are one of them. I could be way off on this, but I think it’s pretty much standard to lie to your kids. Here are a few more examples of how I have deceived Carter:
• I tell him there are “candy bugs” in his teeth to get him to brush them.
• I’ve told him as soon as it’s dark outside; cartoons on the TV go to sleep.
• When Anthony is away for a few days on business, and Carter asks when he’s coming home, I just say, “In a few hours.”
• I told him that the mouse we saw skittering about at the farmer’s market the other day was Jerry from Tom & Jerry.
I know! I should totally be ashamed, shouldn’t I? I am bringing this child up in a web of filthy, stinking lies! I don’t know how I look myself in the mirror sometimes (not necessarily because of the lies, but because of the crow’s feet around my eyes; I should really start looking in to Botox).
You’re probably wondering, what about Cody and Colton? Does she lie to them too? Well, somewhere between the time the boys were tots, to their current cynical teen years, I started being truthful with them. Maybe too truthful. Without going in to hysterical detail, we’ll just say they know a hell of a lot more about the world than I knew at their age. So, I’m honest with them now about most things, but I lied to them too when they were little. To this day, they probably still think that when they turned two, their bottles took a magical ride on the “Baba Train”, never to return again. And those toys, the toys they wouldn’t put away, they were taken by the ever-notorious, yet oh-so-elusive “Snitcher Snatcher”. It’s no wonder they don’t believe me when I tell them I use to be cool.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you: Is it really so bad to disperse white lies to your children? I swear I only lie to them when it’s to my benefit—uh, I mean their benefit. Were your parents 100% honest with you when you were a wee one? I’m betting if they were totally truthful, they avoided all manner of “birds and bees” subjects until you were 21 years old, am I right? Don’t lie to me.
Speaking of honesty, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t feel bad about telling these things to my kids. In fact, I think it would be pretty lame to have a parent that was honest all of the time. How boring and unimaginative. Hey, that’s it! If I’m ever confronted by the boys about these fibs, I will just tell them, “I wasn’t being dishonest—I was being imaginative.”
Now, if I could only imagine my way out of the why the laundry, after three days, still hasn’t been folded…
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Island: Me
Recently I've become aware of the fact that I am somewhat of a social recluse. It's funny because I don't remember when I became this way, or what exactly started my transformation from public participant to a self-made semi-shut in. I suspect maybe it has to do a lot with a change in lifestyle when I got married. A change for the better in so many ways, yet, a change that took me away from familiar faces and comfortable friends. People that have known me and been there for me for years are now miles and miles away. Of course, I keep a little in touch through the phone and that necessary social evil that is Facebook, but it's not the same as sitting down across a table from someone.
I've found myself pretty lonely lately. Not in a depressing, head in the oven, kind of lonely. More of a whistful, nostalgic lonely. I feel like the more I try to inject myself into the "social scene" around here, the more I want to just hold on to the memories of the people I use to spend time with.
Today I took Carter to the park. A bunch of the Baby-Mammas from church take their kids on Fridays, and I feel like it's an opportunity for me to work on my rusty social skills while getting Carter out of the house. I admit, I do like some of the Mammas. I don't really know any of them very well, which I guess is pretty pathetic after living here for over 6 years. But, anytime I'm with a group of them, I find myself bored to death and just wishing I were somewhere else. I don't know what it is about them, I guess they're just so positive, whole, and together. I like my people deep, damaged, and on the verge of insanity--like me. I know being around these people is supposed to be healthy, but when I hear them ramble on about the cute things their kids say, how their food storage is coming along, and church activities I can't help but feel nauseous. What is wrong with me? These people are genuinely nice people, but I just don't bond with them at all. Worse of all, I feel they have all bonded somehow and I'm the odd woman out. It makes me sad to not have many friends, but at the same time I don't find many of the people around me lately very interesting at all.
I need deep conversation. I want to talk to people about politics, philosophy, art, and life in all it's gritty details. I want to be able swear here and there without feeling like I'm going to melt off ears. I want to have people over and not worry that the walls of my apartment aren't plastered in stupid decals that say "Family" "Laugh" "Love" and that kind of vinyl manufactured affection.
I guess I should just go hang out at AA meetings. Those people are interesting.
I've found myself pretty lonely lately. Not in a depressing, head in the oven, kind of lonely. More of a whistful, nostalgic lonely. I feel like the more I try to inject myself into the "social scene" around here, the more I want to just hold on to the memories of the people I use to spend time with.
Today I took Carter to the park. A bunch of the Baby-Mammas from church take their kids on Fridays, and I feel like it's an opportunity for me to work on my rusty social skills while getting Carter out of the house. I admit, I do like some of the Mammas. I don't really know any of them very well, which I guess is pretty pathetic after living here for over 6 years. But, anytime I'm with a group of them, I find myself bored to death and just wishing I were somewhere else. I don't know what it is about them, I guess they're just so positive, whole, and together. I like my people deep, damaged, and on the verge of insanity--like me. I know being around these people is supposed to be healthy, but when I hear them ramble on about the cute things their kids say, how their food storage is coming along, and church activities I can't help but feel nauseous. What is wrong with me? These people are genuinely nice people, but I just don't bond with them at all. Worse of all, I feel they have all bonded somehow and I'm the odd woman out. It makes me sad to not have many friends, but at the same time I don't find many of the people around me lately very interesting at all.
I need deep conversation. I want to talk to people about politics, philosophy, art, and life in all it's gritty details. I want to be able swear here and there without feeling like I'm going to melt off ears. I want to have people over and not worry that the walls of my apartment aren't plastered in stupid decals that say "Family" "Laugh" "Love" and that kind of vinyl manufactured affection.
I guess I should just go hang out at AA meetings. Those people are interesting.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Ameriphobia: The New Face of Prejudice
Do you cringe at baseball games when the “Star Spangled Banner” is sung? Are you afraid of small government and individual freedom? Does the sight of US Presidents on your currency cause your hands to become clammy? Do Tea Parties give you facial ticks? If you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, you could be an Ameriphobic.
Ameriphobia is generally defined as: An irrational fear or hostility of America, Americans, and the individual freedom America provides her citizens. Negative feelings or attitudes towards patriotic behavior, the United States Constitution, and American citizens, can lead to Ameriphobic behavior. Ameriphobia is the root of the discrimination experienced by America, as a country, and her millions of proud American citizens. Ameriphobia manifests itself in different forms, for example: jokes about Americans, political attacks, media misrepresentation, organic t-shirts with sarcastic phrases, judgmental bumper stickers, NPR, and exclusion at Sunday afternoon drum circles are just to name a few.
There are many factors that can cause a person to be Ameriphobic. Research has shown that prejudice against Americans and patriotism can be linked to several factors:
Resentment towards the superiority of The United States of America
Having strong political beliefs or ideologies that discriminate against Americans
Having little or no contact with proud Americans
Attending public schools or public universities
Belonging to a liberal/progressive political party
Having been raised by communists, socialists, fascists, or theocratic dictators
Living on the East Coast, or California
There are a variety of ways Americans experience Ameriphobia, including: name-calling, dirty looks, assaults by shrill Code Pink members, discrimination at local co-op java shops, and airplane attacks on tall buildings. All forms of Ameriphobia are destructive, not just for people living openly as proud Americans, but for the free world as a whole.
Living in an Ameriphobic environment forces many proud American (PA) people to conceal their patriotism, for fear of the negative reactions and consequences of coming out. For people who have been brought up to believe that American exceptionalism is wrong, the realization that they might be a PA can cause feelings of independence and liberty, leading to pride in one’s country. The dilemma of whether to ‘come out’ as a PA or not can cause a great deal of personal distress.
Jason, a resident of Santa Monica, CA, shares his coming out experience:
I remember the first time I displayed my patriotism in public. It was the 4th of July and I decided to put an American flag up in my yard. Sadly, the flag waved on its pole for about a day before it was stolen. Soon after that, I started receiving disturbing calls from people telling me to, “Go back to Texas!” I assume they were referring to Texas’ reputation for being PA-friendly. Word spread quickly about me being a PA. I got anti-PA pamphlets in the mail from Moveon.org and ACORN. It even got so bad that KCRW revoked my membership without any reason. That really hurt because I love “Morning Becomes Eclectic”, and the no nonsense reporting of “All Things Considered.”
Unfortunately, John is just one of the many people who have been led to believe they should feel guilty for being American. Sarah, a student at NYU said,
“I was thinking of getting a “Join or Die” tattoo on my wrist, but I was afraid of what some of my school instructors would think—so I got it on my shoulder where nobody but my close friends would ever see it. Now that I’ve come out as a PA, I wish I had put the tat on my wrist in the first place so everyone could see I was American and proud!” So sad.
So how, as a society, do we combat Ameriphobia? Below are a few ideas:
Ameriphobes should begin by practicing tolerance. Just because you’re ashamed to be an American doesn’t mean others have to be.
If you know someone who is a PA, talk to them openly about their proud American lifestyle and ask questions. It may be uncomfortable at first, but the more an Ameriphobe learns about a PA, the more likely he/she will get to know them for who they are—not for the negative stereotypes that have been created about them.
Education. Many people are Ameriphobes just because they are misinformed. Did you know some people think that you can become a PA just by crossing the U.S. border? The fact is, for most people, the only way to become PA-positive is through the U.S. citizenship process*.
Read about the American founders and what they wanted to achieve by establishing the United States of America. Study up on the Civil War, Revolutionary War, and WWII. Learn what it is that makes millions of people so proud to be American, they are willing to risk their lives. Talk to an immigrant who went through the citizenship process. All of these things will give you perspective as to why many people choose to be PAs instead of Ameriphobes.
Play a game of baseball. Eat an apple pie. Start a small business. Buy a gun. Speak freely. Vote in an election. Practice the religion of your choice. These are some of the many things PAs enjoy—and if you try, you might find out you do too.
Ameriphobia can be conquered. If you have an open mind, are willing to educate yourself and explore the world of patriotism, who knows—maybe one day you may even come out as a PA. After all, it is a free country.
*Once given citizenship, many have been known to quickly contract patriotism and become a PA.
Ameriphobia is generally defined as: An irrational fear or hostility of America, Americans, and the individual freedom America provides her citizens. Negative feelings or attitudes towards patriotic behavior, the United States Constitution, and American citizens, can lead to Ameriphobic behavior. Ameriphobia is the root of the discrimination experienced by America, as a country, and her millions of proud American citizens. Ameriphobia manifests itself in different forms, for example: jokes about Americans, political attacks, media misrepresentation, organic t-shirts with sarcastic phrases, judgmental bumper stickers, NPR, and exclusion at Sunday afternoon drum circles are just to name a few.
There are many factors that can cause a person to be Ameriphobic. Research has shown that prejudice against Americans and patriotism can be linked to several factors:
Resentment towards the superiority of The United States of America
Having strong political beliefs or ideologies that discriminate against Americans
Having little or no contact with proud Americans
Attending public schools or public universities
Belonging to a liberal/progressive political party
Having been raised by communists, socialists, fascists, or theocratic dictators
Living on the East Coast, or California
There are a variety of ways Americans experience Ameriphobia, including: name-calling, dirty looks, assaults by shrill Code Pink members, discrimination at local co-op java shops, and airplane attacks on tall buildings. All forms of Ameriphobia are destructive, not just for people living openly as proud Americans, but for the free world as a whole.
Living in an Ameriphobic environment forces many proud American (PA) people to conceal their patriotism, for fear of the negative reactions and consequences of coming out. For people who have been brought up to believe that American exceptionalism is wrong, the realization that they might be a PA can cause feelings of independence and liberty, leading to pride in one’s country. The dilemma of whether to ‘come out’ as a PA or not can cause a great deal of personal distress.
Jason, a resident of Santa Monica, CA, shares his coming out experience:
I remember the first time I displayed my patriotism in public. It was the 4th of July and I decided to put an American flag up in my yard. Sadly, the flag waved on its pole for about a day before it was stolen. Soon after that, I started receiving disturbing calls from people telling me to, “Go back to Texas!” I assume they were referring to Texas’ reputation for being PA-friendly. Word spread quickly about me being a PA. I got anti-PA pamphlets in the mail from Moveon.org and ACORN. It even got so bad that KCRW revoked my membership without any reason. That really hurt because I love “Morning Becomes Eclectic”, and the no nonsense reporting of “All Things Considered.”
Unfortunately, John is just one of the many people who have been led to believe they should feel guilty for being American. Sarah, a student at NYU said,
“I was thinking of getting a “Join or Die” tattoo on my wrist, but I was afraid of what some of my school instructors would think—so I got it on my shoulder where nobody but my close friends would ever see it. Now that I’ve come out as a PA, I wish I had put the tat on my wrist in the first place so everyone could see I was American and proud!” So sad.
So how, as a society, do we combat Ameriphobia? Below are a few ideas:
Ameriphobes should begin by practicing tolerance. Just because you’re ashamed to be an American doesn’t mean others have to be.
If you know someone who is a PA, talk to them openly about their proud American lifestyle and ask questions. It may be uncomfortable at first, but the more an Ameriphobe learns about a PA, the more likely he/she will get to know them for who they are—not for the negative stereotypes that have been created about them.
Education. Many people are Ameriphobes just because they are misinformed. Did you know some people think that you can become a PA just by crossing the U.S. border? The fact is, for most people, the only way to become PA-positive is through the U.S. citizenship process*.
Read about the American founders and what they wanted to achieve by establishing the United States of America. Study up on the Civil War, Revolutionary War, and WWII. Learn what it is that makes millions of people so proud to be American, they are willing to risk their lives. Talk to an immigrant who went through the citizenship process. All of these things will give you perspective as to why many people choose to be PAs instead of Ameriphobes.
Play a game of baseball. Eat an apple pie. Start a small business. Buy a gun. Speak freely. Vote in an election. Practice the religion of your choice. These are some of the many things PAs enjoy—and if you try, you might find out you do too.
Ameriphobia can be conquered. If you have an open mind, are willing to educate yourself and explore the world of patriotism, who knows—maybe one day you may even come out as a PA. After all, it is a free country.
*Once given citizenship, many have been known to quickly contract patriotism and become a PA.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
This One's for the Pelicans
My sister and I often obsess about current events. Right now, not unlike many people, our brains have been hyper-focused on the oil spill in the Gulf. If you don't know what I'm referring to, please crawl back in to the catacombs from whence you came. Seriously, I'm not even going to hyperlink to a news source for you.
Anyway, yesterday on the news they flashed some footage of a bunch of oil covered pelicans that had been rounded up I'm assuming to be cleaned. They were pelicans, but they were mud brown and looked terribly sad. I know it sounds funny to refer to a pelican as looking sad because on a pelican's best day it usually only manages to look slightly amused, but nevertheless, these pelicans looked sad. I imagine that it must suck to have your feathers weighed down with heavy, toxic sludge. I would be sad too...
No, wait. I wouldn't be sad--I would be freaking pissed off! I would be so pissed off that I would be jumping up and down, squawking and flapping my sludge covered pelican wings. I would probably also conspire with my fellow crude covered cohorts, and eventually formulate a plan to crash all the clean-up sites and have a Dawn drenched clean-up orgy.
But that's just me. And I'm not a pelican (at least last time I checked).
Anyway, I'm thinking of taking up donations so my sister and I can fly to Louisiana, eat some shrimp, drink mint juleps, and clean those pelicans that are too sad to be pissed. You can donate to me via PayPal.
I'll let you know if I make it there before Obama and BP have gotten the spill under control. (Harharharharharhar!)
Anyway, yesterday on the news they flashed some footage of a bunch of oil covered pelicans that had been rounded up I'm assuming to be cleaned. They were pelicans, but they were mud brown and looked terribly sad. I know it sounds funny to refer to a pelican as looking sad because on a pelican's best day it usually only manages to look slightly amused, but nevertheless, these pelicans looked sad. I imagine that it must suck to have your feathers weighed down with heavy, toxic sludge. I would be sad too...
No, wait. I wouldn't be sad--I would be freaking pissed off! I would be so pissed off that I would be jumping up and down, squawking and flapping my sludge covered pelican wings. I would probably also conspire with my fellow crude covered cohorts, and eventually formulate a plan to crash all the clean-up sites and have a Dawn drenched clean-up orgy.
But that's just me. And I'm not a pelican (at least last time I checked).
Anyway, I'm thinking of taking up donations so my sister and I can fly to Louisiana, eat some shrimp, drink mint juleps, and clean those pelicans that are too sad to be pissed. You can donate to me via PayPal.
I'll let you know if I make it there before Obama and BP have gotten the spill under control. (Harharharharharhar!)
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Soccer on This
So, the World Cup is on right now in the other room. Yeah, I think it's really cool that South Africa was able to get the Cup there, and football is pretty hip...I'm just really not that big in to sports which is why I'm sitting here in the other room blipping a blog.
Question: What's with the horn blowing at soccer games? It sounds like what I imagine Jericho sounded like right before the walls went down. Here's the thing, if I were at the game, I would so totally want one of those horns. But, since I'm at home, the sound is just flipping annoying. I guess it's sort of like secondhand smoke; I would rather smoke a cigarette myself than sit next to someone and inhale their secondhand smoke. I'm not a smoker, so that tells you how much I hate secondhand smoke. Well, okay, that's not totally true. I like catching whiffs of secondhand smoke when I walk past someone on the street because it gives me pleasant memories of my misspent youth. I also like smelling it faintly in Vegas casinos. Other than that, I hate it.
Anyway, in addition to secondhand smoke, I'm not fond of secondhand horn blowing.
That is all. Over and out. Go USA!
Question: What's with the horn blowing at soccer games? It sounds like what I imagine Jericho sounded like right before the walls went down. Here's the thing, if I were at the game, I would so totally want one of those horns. But, since I'm at home, the sound is just flipping annoying. I guess it's sort of like secondhand smoke; I would rather smoke a cigarette myself than sit next to someone and inhale their secondhand smoke. I'm not a smoker, so that tells you how much I hate secondhand smoke. Well, okay, that's not totally true. I like catching whiffs of secondhand smoke when I walk past someone on the street because it gives me pleasant memories of my misspent youth. I also like smelling it faintly in Vegas casinos. Other than that, I hate it.
Anyway, in addition to secondhand smoke, I'm not fond of secondhand horn blowing.
That is all. Over and out. Go USA!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Saturday's Warrior? (Circa--2009, sometime)
It's one of those mornings. You know, one of those mornings where one of your 11-year-old sons is hassling you for the back-allowance you owe him from last week, the other one is trying to fib his way out of a been-caught-cussing incident, and the baby just came home with a fever and a runny nose after an all-nighter at Disneyland. You know, we all go through these days sometimes, right?
To make matters so much better, DH is conveniently needed at work until late tonight. The phrase "it's busy season" is a get out of jail free card for the guy. I mean, who wouldn't want to head to the quiet sanctity of an office with a view right now? And did I mention he has all the Mountain Dew he can drink there? I would call him a lucky bastard, but his parents were happily married when they conceived him.
So, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I also decided to tell the boys that the Xbox needs to go off for the afternoon so they can go outside and play for a few hours. You would have sworn I had just forcibly converted them to Judaism, sent them back in a time machine to 1944, and given them a one way train ticket to Buchenwald. Can we say meltdown city? Sometimes it worries me how emotional kids can get over a white box with a small green button on it.
I guess I just don't understand video games. Yes, I spent a little time on the Nintendo when it first came out, but mostly my video game experience has been limited to me sitting on the couch watching my older brothers play Zelda or Kid Icarus. There were only two game controllers, and I had three older brothers so, you do the math. It was seldom that I played video games. Personally, I don't feel like I'm missing out on anything. I mean, what value is there in sitting in front of a screen pushing little buttons for hours and hours on end? [...she typed on to her computer screen.]
I don't know how, but sometime between the boys wailing about their forcible outdoor time and putting the hung-over baby down for a nap--it got quiet. Too quiet.
Ah, shi*. I shouldn't have typed that. The baby just woke up and the boys came in from outside.
Next time I'll just keep my big blog shut.
To make matters so much better, DH is conveniently needed at work until late tonight. The phrase "it's busy season" is a get out of jail free card for the guy. I mean, who wouldn't want to head to the quiet sanctity of an office with a view right now? And did I mention he has all the Mountain Dew he can drink there? I would call him a lucky bastard, but his parents were happily married when they conceived him.
So, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I also decided to tell the boys that the Xbox needs to go off for the afternoon so they can go outside and play for a few hours. You would have sworn I had just forcibly converted them to Judaism, sent them back in a time machine to 1944, and given them a one way train ticket to Buchenwald. Can we say meltdown city? Sometimes it worries me how emotional kids can get over a white box with a small green button on it.
I guess I just don't understand video games. Yes, I spent a little time on the Nintendo when it first came out, but mostly my video game experience has been limited to me sitting on the couch watching my older brothers play Zelda or Kid Icarus. There were only two game controllers, and I had three older brothers so, you do the math. It was seldom that I played video games. Personally, I don't feel like I'm missing out on anything. I mean, what value is there in sitting in front of a screen pushing little buttons for hours and hours on end? [...she typed on to her computer screen.]
I don't know how, but sometime between the boys wailing about their forcible outdoor time and putting the hung-over baby down for a nap--it got quiet. Too quiet.
Ah, shi*. I shouldn't have typed that. The baby just woke up and the boys came in from outside.
Next time I'll just keep my big blog shut.
Grumblings (Circa 2009)
Sometimes I don't feel like making dinner. Tonight is one of those nights I don't feel like making dinner. Maybe one of the reasons I don't feel like it is because I'm not hungry--I just ate a whole bowl of mini frosted wheat squares. Well, almost all of the bowl. Some of the little wheats and milk spilled onto the couch and on my jeans when Carter decided he wanted to mosh with my evening snack. Or, maybe he was just bitter that I had a whole bowl of cereal and milk to myself while he was left to forrage for leftover veggie chips that he threw off of his high chair earlier this morning. I don't blame him if he's bitter, I would be too if my mother cared more about what Bill O'Reilly's "Word of the Day" was than my nutritional needs.
Snap, Crackle...Not.
Some evenings I get motivated and bake treats for the kids--all housewifey and shi*. Well, tonight I decided would be one of those nights. Since it was later in the evening, I decided I would make something simple--your ordinary, everyday, all-around-loved cereal snack, rice krispy treats.
While I was gathering up my ingredients, Colton came in the kitchen and told me he wanted to make brownies. When I told him what I was making instead he replied, "Rice crispy treats suck!"
What. The. Eff?
Was I hearing correctly? A child that didn't enjoy the sticky sweet seduction of a square made from just three simple ingredients? My mind reeled, and I got a little dizzy. I somehow managed to walk out of the kitchen without throwing the large blue box of ricey goodness at my child's sweet, 13-year-old noggin. Lucky for him, because those boxes have sharp corners!
After I gave myself a minute or two to settle down, and I was thinking rationally again, I realized Colton's reply was a good thing. Follow me here...all kids love rice crispy treats, right? And Colton seems to think rice crispy treats "suck". Being the intelligent mother I am, I realize what this means. It means that Colton officially isn't a kid. He's an adult and it happened so fast I wasn't aware of it. Well sir, I am aware now.
So, after I type this up I'm going to go in to Colton's room to help him pack his stuff. Hopefully tomorrow he can find a place to live, get a job, and once he's all settled in to his new life--he can even make his own brownies!
While I was gathering up my ingredients, Colton came in the kitchen and told me he wanted to make brownies. When I told him what I was making instead he replied, "Rice crispy treats suck!"
What. The. Eff?
Was I hearing correctly? A child that didn't enjoy the sticky sweet seduction of a square made from just three simple ingredients? My mind reeled, and I got a little dizzy. I somehow managed to walk out of the kitchen without throwing the large blue box of ricey goodness at my child's sweet, 13-year-old noggin. Lucky for him, because those boxes have sharp corners!
After I gave myself a minute or two to settle down, and I was thinking rationally again, I realized Colton's reply was a good thing. Follow me here...all kids love rice crispy treats, right? And Colton seems to think rice crispy treats "suck". Being the intelligent mother I am, I realize what this means. It means that Colton officially isn't a kid. He's an adult and it happened so fast I wasn't aware of it. Well sir, I am aware now.
So, after I type this up I'm going to go in to Colton's room to help him pack his stuff. Hopefully tomorrow he can find a place to live, get a job, and once he's all settled in to his new life--he can even make his own brownies!
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