Same Maturity Level Since High School

Yeah, I'm sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, listening to my dogs snore while I dork away on the internet. I was just on facebook and got sucked into friending all my old high school acquaintances; the missed, long-lost friends as well as the "omigod we had english together junior year" ones.
The other day when I was working a shift at Lola Coffee, a girl that I remembered from high school came in for coffee. She didn't recognize me but I said hi anyway, and it became clear after a few sentences that she couldn't remember who I was but continued our conversation kindly and politely. It felt totally lame to be serving a peer coffee while she was very obviously on some kind of business break. I was annoyed at myself for speaking up. I should have just served her the coffee and left it at that.
As I'm searching and finding these friends of mine on facebook, I feel similar to that day at Lola: You know, that vague sense of inadequacy and discomfort, wondering if you're cool enough to communicate with people you once knew who appear to have a more interesting life than you do? Won't there be a time, finally, when I will have gotten past that kind of sheepish, adolescent behavior? I mean, Jesus, I'm not ashamed of myself! I think I'm an interesting person... Not super sure, but pretty sure.
And by God I hope they don't ever catch me blogging about it! What a dork. Sheesh, I was a dork then, and I'm a super-dork now. Why do I still put myself through this?

underappreciated haiku

I really love haiku, the Japanese 5-7-5 non rhyming poetry format. The Japanese art of composing haiku is to cram as much meaning into these 17 syllables as possible, but I like haiku because it's easy to write and even easier to be silly. Here are some good ones brought to you by the internet:

A mourning dove feeds
In a marijuana bush
And sings a high coo.

by Tad Lawson

Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don't make sense
Refrigerator.

In Japan, they are considering replacing the impersonal and unhelpful Microsoft Error messages with Haiku poetry messages:
Serious error
All shortcuts have disappeared
Screen. Mind. Both are blank.
or
With searching comes loss
And the presence of absence:
"My Novel" not found.

Here's one from a daily Beer Haiku website:
That joke from last night
Is even less funny now
Than when you told it.

Aaanyways, you get the idea. Haiku tend to be either irritating puns or totally stupid. But some are funny, though not gut-busting role on the floor side-aching funny. More like "hehe that's funny" funny: just enough to elicit a quiet grunt of appreciation.

Tasteful Necking

David always wants me to watch all these old movies with him. I never really want to, and I can never quite figure out why I have such aversions to these films. I mean, it's not like people were less interesting or funny 30 and 40 plus years ago. And David gets really into these movies; he takes it personally that I don't like them.

As I'm watching "Magnum Force" with Clint Eastwood, I'm totally drawn into the plot, despite my initial unwillingness. And then I realize why these movies bug the shit out of me. They're totally sexist and essentially portray all women as easy big-chested fucking bimbos who have no sense whatsoever and always get hysterical, while the men are all stoic, quick-witted, in charge and always keep their cool.

And today's films are completely gender-sensitive, thoughtful and innovative. Riiight. But at least there are some movies being made now that don't completely make me want to retch.

By the way, the title of this blog refers to a comment David made about a disputed sex scene in Magnum Force. I felt that the director tastefully alluded to sex by showing a couple making out and then cutting to the next shot, but David facetiously argued that there was no way they could have had sex because they were just "tastefully necking."

Stupid Words That Are Hard To Spell

exersize/exercize/excersize = EXERCISE

counsellor/counciller/counseller = COUNSELOR

definately/defenitely = DEFINITELY

Stupid English language.

D & J

In a few moments, after Ilse wakes up, I will be picking up two friends and taking them to a food bank where they can pick up a box of groceries. Both suffer from illness, mental and physical, and are newly recovering addicts. Trying to carry on a conversation with them is like having the TV and radio on while reading a book, cooking, and exercising: their attention spans are limited and they each dart in different directions from topic to unrelated topic. Sometimes they're cheery and excited about everything, other times despondent and hopeless. Every time you see them some new drama is unfolding, and their oft-repeated stories and memories shift and change direction, making them seem like either liars or just plain confused. They wear the same clothes every day. They are estranged from their families. They are unemployed.

But they are sweet and charming. They are eager to please and eager to be of service. They are hilarious! They have wonderful senses of humor, and considering their lives, I am thoroughly amazed. It makes me happy to know that in this huge, unfriendly city these two have found our little community and feel welcome and accepted. Such a feeling of longing and a desire to be loved emanates from them, yet their skin is thick: their choice of lifestyle often leaves them feeling alienated, even despised, and so they quietly slip out and search for a new community to join.

They are almost precious to me, though the words sound strange as I'm typing them. I want to do everything I can to help them become healthy emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Caution is needed, I've been burned before; there are no Pollyanna endings. But I believe that people are called to service and drawn towards particular individuals for specific purposes. And so carefully I will continue to support my new friends in whatever capacity I am able, and I will hope for the best.

Self Reflection While Baking

I'm feeling pretty uninspired, and I want you all to know about it. I feel guilty for not writing something totally freaking amazing, so I'm just going to ramble on for a while. Currently I am making a birthday cake for a Bollywood-themed birthday bash this Friday. I just googled "Bollywood cakes" and got a ton of ideas. I never even knew Bollywood cakes existed until today. Go on, google image "bollywood cakes."
I guess I'm a little disappointed that I'm not living a more exciting life; or at least a life that is blog-worthy. Personally, I think my life is amazing right now. My baby daughter Ilse is so incredible; watching her develop and grow is truthfully the most satisfying things I've ever done. She pretty much consumes my whole day, or rather my life's events, tasks, errands, etc all have to revolve around her, for the time being. I guess I just don't want to become that mom who creates facebook pages for her baby and can't shut up about how her baby is this and that and how her baby is better than your baby. Nor do I want to be the mom that blogs about her baby. I already have one entry and this is fast becoming the second.
I'm trying really hard to balance my life between "individual" Anna and "mother" Anna, but lately it seems that "mother" Anna has gained control of my mind and body (those post-baby pounds have yet to budge). I guess I just don't want to be discounted because I'm female (with all that that role entails). Don't get me wrong, I love being a mother and wouldn't trade it for anything, but lets be honest: no one is banging down doors of stay-at-home-moms for in-depth interviews or fantastic job offers or anything.
I just don't want to become a stereotype because although I think being a mother is a wonderful yet oft-underappreciated and difficult endeavor, there are a lot of women who sadly do think their children are God's gift to mankind. Stereotypes exist for a reason: because they contain a hint of truth.
So bear with me. If I veer too far towards the obnoxious, hopefully I'll notice and right myself back to balanced. Hopefully somewhere in there I'll find my equilibrium along with a treasure trove of blog-worthy topics.

Thin Is In!

Anyone want to start up a "Lose Weight Fast" club? I'm looking for people who can explain the use of drugs and laxatives and demonstrate the most effective ways to binge and purge. Maybe we could get some Hollywood star to endorse us. Any takers?

Third World Stove Soot Is Target in Climate Fight by Elisabeth Rosenthal

I enjoy being able to blog in freedom and everything, and am grateful for the right to vote and worship whichever god I want, blah blah blah, but America really sucks sometimes. A lot. I'm going to take the next few moments and bitch about my country, so if you love America, read no further.

The New York Times printed a story today stating that after CO2 emissions, black carbon (soot produced by open cooking fires) is the number 2 cause of global warming, and eliminating these emissions would improve climate conditions. I guess black carbon contributes something like 18% and CO2 emissions something around 40%. Most of black carbon emissions from small coal fires are produced in small villages in the poorest of areas, like rural India and China.

The United States got some token Indian guy to return to India to help in a new project to get stoves for all these people in all these villages. I can only assume they run on propane or some other kind of gas, because it's probable that these villages don't have electricity. So the idea is to give them the free stoves, and hope they can pay for the fuel it takes to run them. I suppose that won't be an issue, especially since the fires they cook with now are fueled mostly by animal dung. The reporter was quick to note that while a mother cooked the food for the day over the fire her children were coughing from the smoke.

Here's what really pisses me off: Here we are in our first rate, top-producing, top-earning, wealthiest-demographics-in-the-world country, deciding that a great way to save the environment is to make the poor women who COOK ALL THEIR MEALS ON A CAMPFIRE become the people who must take responsibility for global warming and change their routines. Thankfully we as Americans can still drive inefficient cars and have air conditioning and a refrigerator and a billion other things that take a shit load of energy to produce and run and not have to change any part of our lifestyle. Oh wait! I take my own reusable grocery bags to the store instead of using wasteful plastic ones! We Americans sure are doing our best to alert other nations on how they can do THEIR part to curb global warming.

I think Team America sang it best when they said "America! Fuck yeah! Coming again to save the mother fucking day yeah!!"

Read the article here.

In Defense of Marraige...

My husband is driving me absolutely nuts right now. I love him to death, but I have to admit, there are times (times like this, I might add) when I wonder if our marriage will last. Sometimes it just feels like the love and respect are gone from the relationship, even though we still go through the motions of saying 'I love you' and try to go on a date every now and then.

Believe me, I could go on for about a hundred pages of all the stupid shit he does that annoys the hell out of me, and list all the things he doesn't do that I wish he would. But that won't solve anything. It won't even make me feel better. In fact, it would only bring to mind even more circumstances that I hate about our relationship. So I won't waste my time.

What I do know is that I'd rather work through all the messes and hurts of our lives and our marriage, even though it will most likely be painful and difficult, than ever consider a divorce. It's true, marriage is much harder than just being in a committed relationship, but I guess that's what marriage is for: helping two people who belong together remain in a life-long partnership, no matter what.

Substance Abuse In The Wild

I was at Lola today getting a coffee with my little bean Ilse when my friend Zak wandered in after just waking up. He partied a little too hard, apparently. "It's Thursday," I said. We talked for a little while about his camping trip, which, he informed me, was spent mostly blitzed and baked. I thought that sounded totally miserable, being that you have no proper toilet or soft warm bed to make you feel better the next morning. But Zak disagreed saying, "You never get hung over in nature." I LOVE that statement.

He means of course that with all the exercise and fresh mountain air it's just not possible. I thought it over and figured he must have been right. I remembered a few drunken camping trips on the beach in Mexico that ended up surprisingly in my favor. But what really matters about the conversation is that he said "You never get hung over in nature." Genius.

I love Barack Obama

A friend and I were agreeing on how much we like our new president and were amazed to learn that we are both currently reading his memoir "Dreams From My Father." If you haven't read it, I must insist that you do, because then you will love Barack Obama as much as I do. First and foremost, his writing style is eloquent, clear, and beautiful. As far as I'm concerned, I've already been to Indonesia, his storytelling was so transporting. And as my friend observed, he ends each chapter with an ending so poignant, you're left with your guts in your lap and a tear in your eye.
His life experience has been so rich and unique, I would venture to say that he is the most unique president we've had since JFK. Blah Blah I know a million other bloggers have already said it. Therefore it must be true.
Race relations between black and white having always been somewhat unknown to me, I find the ruminations and reflections of his life experience to be extremely insightful, the acceptance of his mother's idealistic notion of blacks to be comforting and justifying.
Of course, this is a memoir, and memories can be distorted, exaggerated, blurred, or diminished by time, but his account seems fitting. I am more confident in his abilities as President than ever and know that his visions and goals are not just idealistic fluff, they are grounded and validated by his curious upbringing.

Stuff Anna Likes

I'm in the middle of reading "Stuff White People Like" by Christian Lander. I saw it in Borders and was suckered into buying it off of the "buy one get one half price" table along with David Bach's smug "Go Green, Live Rich" book. At first I thought the SWPL book was sooo funny, but as I'm reading it I'm realizing that apparently I am the white stereotype this book is making fun of. I never suspected I'd become the typical white girl, but according to this book I'm 100% white. I can't get enough New York Times, Japan, Liberal Arts Degrees, IKEA, Barack Obama, Criterion Collection, and Public Radio. I never suspected I'd be reduced to a stereotype, and suddenly the book doesn't seem as funny. Should I lighten up? Damn you, Christian Lander!

Ode to Dr. A

I just read an entry from the blog of one of my devoted followers (you know who you are), and it was so strange because it very nearly paralleled feelings of my own that I experienced just yesterday: That gut-gnawing feeling of weird and/or painful memories brought to the surface by a visual prompt, in this case, the walk from my car to the office door of my counselor. About 7 years ago, I went off the deep end (depression, anorexia, etc. etc.) and came out of it thanks to my counselor, Dr. A, my faith, and my now-husband David. The source of all this unhappiness lies not in one place but many, so I won't go into how I fell so low. The point is, those years were very hard for me and my mind has done me a great service by pretty much erasing those events of my life from ages 19-21. Thank you, brain.
I now am happily married with a beautiful baby daughter, a mortgage and car payment, and two brown boo boos (dogs - my other babies). But I have come to the point in my life where I've experienced enough tumult to make me wonder what I ought to be doing with myself and who I ought to be. I don't want to be the angry, bitter, and worthless mother to my daughter that I feel like I currently am. So after seven years, I called up Dr. A again and set up an appointment.
I had been looking forward very much to returning to counseling, and counted the days until the appointment. But as I pulled up to the office building for the first time in all those years, I grew anxious. Just returning to the neighborhood in which the office was located stirred up the bleakest of memories. I think having Ilse there helped me to not launch into the anxiety attack that I typically suffered from during those times, but the butterflies remained.
I gathered all Ilse's baby paraphernalia and walked slowly to the front door. I awkwardly held the door for some middle-aged businessman coming in behind me, who clearly needed my help less than I needed his. "I got it." he said flatly. To stall a little, I took the stairs instead of the elevator - two flights with my arms full. Brilliant, Anna. The very best thing, I thought to myself, would be to increase the chances of harming my precariously balanced daughter by tripping and falling down the stairs. But we made it.
At last, that lonely hallway, with its bad corporate art and blank, and nondescript doors staggered on either side. I reached one of the blank, nondescript doors marked "220," looked across the hall to the bathroom I frequented in those early days (an annoying consequence of drinking all your food instead of eating it), and finally turned the handle and entered the office.
It was just as I remembered: the dark green carpet, cushy waiting chairs, children's toys, car enthusiast and fretful mom magazines, the giant Latin map of the world, and 95.5 playing in the background. The receptionist's desk was empty - it was after 5pm. So I sat there with sweaty palms and squirmy stomach and busied myself with Ilse and her toys.
At last Dr. A emerged smiling, looking essentially the same, and invited me back to his little office. It was essentially the same, too, with the addition of an ikea chair. So I plopped down in the same old over-sized couch that I had plopped down in all those years ago as if it were yesterday. We went through the niceties of typical conversation as he prepared his clipboard, after which he too took his seat. Now it came down to it. I had no idea where to begin, and hoped he would help me by asking me why I was so crazy. He just smiled, though, and we sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few more moments; it was probably some sneaky counselor's trick to determine your personality or how much of a pain in the ass you were or something. So I began, stating why I had come and explained the form of the beautiful person I wanted to be molded into through these sessions.
I won't bore you, O Reader, with an entire transcript of the session, but what I will tell you is this: In spilling my guts of all the things I'd been doing over the last 7 years, I realized that I was no where NEAR what I used to be. That small, empty, tortured gollum-like creature withered away at some point, and I was left in her place. In fact, my file was so old that Dr. A hadn't been able to locate it right away. I was starting with a completely new folder! In one hour I was cured! Well, no, I still have a little way to go. But I have no desire to ever revisit the life of that old Anna creature. The only habit I will be repeating is the one where I walk from my car to the office building, up the stairs, down the hallway, through door "220" across from the bathroom and into the office of Dr. A. Hopefully there I will discover the Anna that's inside me right now, just waiting to be found.

Baby Girl

As I walked around our tiny condo for the tenth time, trying to get my exhausted daughter to sleep, I became more and more irritated. This kid was running on fumes, completely worn out, rubbing her bleary, puffy little eyes. Not only that, but it was 5 pm. She goes to bed at 8 pm, just three hours after that. Sweet. I love staying up all night with babies. But I could not deal with her awake and cranky, either.

So I angrily plopped down in the rocking chair in her darkened, cool room. I began lamenting how terrible it was that I didn't have Ilse on a schedule, and that she couldn't even soothe herself to sleep yet. I looked down and noticed that finally one of her eyes was closed, the other just barely open, her little eye ball looking around the room and at me, making sure I didn't go anywhere. My gaze moved down a little to her tiny nose, petite and delicate, with baby-sized nostrils. There was also a baby-sized booger in one, moving in and out with her breathing. I chuckled, and removed it. She brought her chubby arm up to rub my hand out of the way, and drowsily went back to her one-eyed vigil.

I realized that I was hunched over her, my face only inches away from hers, so I sat back and relaxed in the chair, looking her over from top to bottom. Brown soft spikes of hair, button nose, rosy round cheeks, tiny bow-shaped mouth, double chin, soft fat arms crossed delicately one on top of the other, round milk belly, enormous dimply thighs, and play-dough feet with tiny sausage toes. I almost laughed out loud, this kid was so damn cute.

Kissing her forehead gently, I realized that these were the last times she and I would be able to do this. Even a year from now, she will not need me to enfold her in my arms and help her fall asleep. Sure, she'll need me to hug and comfort her, and maybe occasionally she'll sneak into bed with David and I for a little snuggly time, but never again like this.

After I placed her oh so carefully in her crib, taking care to cover her as softly as possible with her Pooh blanket and backing slowly and quietly out of her room, I happened to glance at the clock. An hour and a half had passed by that I looked her over and over and she slept peacefully in my arms,

The sweetest of moments spent with my baby.

Nob Artiste

"What do you mean the perspective is off? I graduated from the Art Institute for God's sake! You wouldn't know a work of art if it slapped you in the face. Good day to you, Sir!"
Banksy.co.uk

Trash Monster

I have a hard enough time just taking my trash to the dumpster before it overflows out of the can and into the kitchen. Although the dumpster is a mere 30 yards away from the front door, I pretty much put it off until the last moment, which is usually the moment when the smell of the garbage hitting my face makes me grimace as I walk in the front door. It's even harder now that I have a baby, what with the diapers and all. Because of the diapers, I have been thinking about how much waste my family generates. It's a little scary when you think to yourself, "Where does my trash go?" I know, I know, it goes to the landfill. Being the mathematical thinker that I am, I came up with an equation to help clarify my thinking: (2+ trash bags/week/family) x (the whole city) = ???. Do we ever think where our garbage is going to end up when we're throwing it in the trash can? What's going to happen when this landfill is full?

The Eastern Garbage Patch is an area of dead current in the Pacific Ocean that is filled with dumped garbage and it is twice the size of Texas. It's pretty much a landfill in the middle of an ocean.

Kamikatsu is a village in eastern Japan that has adopted a "zero-waste" policy, meaning they sort all of their non-biodegradable garbage into 34 separate recycle bins and compost the rest. I know Americans are nowhere near this kind of effort, but we could be doing so much better! (My condo complex doesn't even have recycling; I have to take it to my parent's house in Glendale.)

We are meant to take care of this planet, and I hope we can control our huge garbage-producing appetites that are perpetuating a culture of waste.

The trash monster that you see above is courtesy of kozyndan.

I'll write something less preachy next time.

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Whoa shit. I'd better write about something soon.