exposed

I had my ass grabbed while walking to work the other day. It was made to look like an accident and the perpetrator was quickly off into the stream of black trenches and wingtips. I never really even got to see more detail of him than that he was wearing jeans and a black t shirt and was shorter than me. But who isn't. I thought about getting mad and yelling something, but it seemed futile. So, that time I just continued on my way to the office, not bothering to feel violated. If he had stopped or stayed closer, I could have wrecked his day. Besides, how do you yell at someone who exhibits sociopathic behavior? What do you say to them that will actually make them stop? Do you really think anything you say is gonna make a dent?

Last week, I was dry humped on a train, while crammed into an uptown 6 train on my way to the event I was attending. The man in question was discrete and slightly haphazard about it at first. As if I wouldn't notice that there was a hard penis, shrouded by a ridiculously long, gunmetal grey t-shirt pressing against my back? The train was so full that there weren't many other places to move, so the only option was to shift. I tried to move, he moved with me. Tried to shove him off, he came right back like I had magnets in my ass. I thought of yelling, but then everyone would be staring at me like I was the weirdo and nothing would be accomplished there, except for my own horrified embarrassment. So I elbowed him in the ribs as hard as I could.

He coughed a little, but didn't react other than that except to squirm his way through the other train patrons until he was out of my reach altogether. When he did this, I also noticed him pull his pants up from his thighs to the appropriate location on his waste. I wanted to vomit. What makes a person decide to do that? It's not even that he did it so much, but why? He got out at the next stop and switched cars. . I saw him do this twice. Who did he disgust in those cars? How many shots does that guy take in the ribs everyday and more importantly is it worth it?

Why would a man come up and just expose himself, or rub on someone he has never met and knows nothing about? Why would a man be walking around arbitrarily ass-grabbing women who are focused on getting to work ontime and in relative peace? What is to be accomplished with this behavior and how is this the best course of action for anything? What percentage of the time does this work out favorably for our perp? Using that criterion alone, I would think the behavior in question would stop due to the repeated failure.

But I forget; this is not the behavior of a rational, intelligent or even otherwise productive individual, so there is no real way for a logician like myself to explain. I suppose I just have to elbows sharp enough to throw with a promise of damage. How ya like that ass now, fucker?

the blowhard

I can hear him down the hall (but only after 10:30am), voice booming through a conversation about nothing relevant to business. Next comes the requisite, spurious laughter, which is perpetually too enthusiastic for the subject at hand. He sweeps through the halls with his Nordic smile and perfect hair wave and then all but disappears for the rest of the day. Sometimes he comes over and sucks a half hour out of a random person for a "get-to-know-you" moment, but you can see in his face, you might as well be standing there saying blah, blah, blah. Nothin' you say is gonna stick.

Occasionally he will come back from an afternoon "meeting" freshly shorn or with a new and fun array of gadgets. He will also occasionally grace an actual meeting with my comrades and I, feeling fantastic about himself for having shown up. All of those things, while grating, are tolerable. It's when he starts talking in those meetings that I really start to bristle.

He begins to speak and it's like he grows....upward and outward, right before your very eyes. He inflates like Dig-Dug, seizes a moment and booms with all his might about productivity and responsibility and support and diligence. He talks about "putting in the hours" and passion for one's work and he glances softly up into the distance, as if seeing a vision of what is and will be. Sometimes he'll even lob out a threat, cleverly disguised as a "motivational" comment and finally, he will charge the group to go out there and giterdun.

What he doesn't take into account however, is that the do-as-i-say-not-as-i-do system only works on people in their pre-teen years. Mister Blowhard, we all know what time you come in, what time you leave and how many Fridays you take off. We are all aware that when you are in your office, behind closed doors, you are calling the pool company or the maid service or your architect to help you design a new hallway bath, that will look better than your next door neighbor's.

Your words fall on deaf ears because they mean nothing to those of us who make 1/5th your salary, but work twice your hours, hammering away to feed the machine. You are the one, despite your trumpeting and feigned inspirational monologues, who elicits the acidic review in the pantry because you are full of hot air and as you blow it all out on your lemmings, you dry up their patience and respect.

Ever wonder why it's hard to find good people, but even harder to keep them?

the wedding planner

"Oh, I know....I just can't seem to narrow in on a dress. I know....it's like a full time job picking some of this stuff out; it's just crazy! Oh thank you, I know, when he gave it to me I almost fainted, it was soooooooo beautiful......."

This goes on for hours -- no, daaaayyyysss. The perky, little laugh coming out of such an innocent, little creature who has finally snagged her dream of getting engaged so she can get married and start havin' babies. You think I'm poking fun, but I'm not. Okay, that's a lie, I am poking fun, but what I'm not doing is exaggerating. The lovely woman in question became engaged about a month or so ago and ever since, it's been a nauseating display of ring-flashing, dress choosing, cake crises and a streaming, inbound phone marathon from relatives and friends, all anxious to hear the story.

I've heard about it in the pantry, while making lunch. In the bathroom while washing my hands, in the aisles of multiple different areas of my company and I've heard about it while sitting in my cube, trying desperately to get excited about data.

I'm going to call attention to what this obviously sounds like and dispel any misunderstandings. I am not irritated over the fact that she became engaged. I do not begrudge this woman her "perfect day" or her happiness. In fact, I think it's fantastic that there is love in the world and that she and her beau want to share it with each other. I wish her nothing but fine silk and perfectly moist cakes and a beautiful first dance. I wish her large houses and designer SUV's and Tiffany baby rattles. I really do. But I don't wish to hear about them all day at work at an elevated volume.

See, there's a big difference between sharing parts of your life with your friends at work and ambuscading everyone within a 10-cube radius with the back story on every single flower that comes in celebration of their love and every phone call made to set up an appointment to check out napkin samples for the upcoming $50k wedding. A once-weekly, thirty-second synopsis would do just fine. For fuck's sakes, you could get a full update of the world's news headlines in that time. Considering the wedding isn't for a fucking year, she could probably just go quietly about it and point out the highlights when the major details are sewn up.

Or I could put my headphones on and hide away until the next time I have an instant message flashing "no more fucking wedding talk!" on my screen. See, it's not just me!

me-ist

The world is full of opinion. The world is also full of people willing to spew their opinion of just about anything to anyone who wants to, or is forced to listen. This is rarely a one-sided endeavor, however, because the listener soon feels assaulted and bamboozled and wants to then assert himself as well.

However, not every conversation is an opining session gone awry. Sometimes, Person A is just looking for a sounding board and a conversation or relevant feedback, not to lecture or be lectured to. But, if person B is of a certain personality type, Person A never really had a chance in this encounter and mayhem is sure to ensue.

So person B, formerly the listener (supposedly), deftly turns the tide of the conversation and begins to regale person A with tales of his own woe, drawing bogus parallels and going on at length until the subject at hand is firmly back to his problems, his successes, experiences and opinions. Occasionally this will result in Person A trying to maintain the original conversation by inserting something in a blind effort to regain footing and finish the original thought. When this happens, neither A nor B is listening to the other and therefore nothing, conversationally anyway, is getting accomplished.

Upon closer inspection, what is happening however, is Person A is getting a good look at where Person B's interests really lie. There are people out there who will participate in a conversation both as willing listeners and contributors. If a person like that has begun a conversation and the topic is himself at the outset, he will often finish the story or conversation string and then ask how the other person is doing and what new news is up. He will then listen not only for the purpose of appearing interested, but because he is interested and is taking in and considering the things he is hearing. People like this type of listener / contributor are few and far between. I have a couple of them in my life and they are, understandably, counted among my dearest friends. Hard to find people like that.

Then there are the rest of the people, in varying degrees of selfishness and blatant indifference. People who are, what I like to call "obtusely self-involved". The basic translation, means that these people are not only quite disinterested in subjects that are outside of making them look good in some way, but they actually believe that they are genuinely interested in what other people are saying and doing around them. This person will fight with you if you call them on this behavior. He or she may even recite some element of the last conversation you had in order to prove that they were listening. Even though what they will puke back to you has nothing at all to do with the point of the conversation, this person will feel justified as a good listener and move on, feeling exonerated.

So what is a person (A) to do? I don't have the answer to that, but things to consider are:

1. Don't wait for Person B to change. He or she may have some moments of real interest and participation, but by and large, will only be concerned with how what you are doing directly affects or enhances his life.

2. Don't count on this person to be the one to whom you tell your most personal or confusing thoughts. He or she will not be able to offer any relevant advice or feedback, because she will be too busy trying to decipher exactly how this relates to her and what is the appropriate platitude if it doesn't.

3. Don't bother being upset by it. You will be the only person upset in that scenario, because Person B cannot see too far past herself to say anything other than "you'll figure it out". The translation of that is: I've been through more than you and you don't see ME talking about it. Person B cannot grasp that importance and struggle varies from person to person, because people all have different circumstances. She can only see that she has stuff to gripe about and cannot do it now, because she is so busy "listening" to you and your stupid shit.

The point here....you're on your own. If you're lucky enough to have one good listener or supportive person in your life, thank your god, energy, higher power or whatever. 'Cause there aint many out there and Person B is sure not gonna sit around listening to your sorry ass.

SoCal fires

This affects me, but more importantly, it directly affects members of my family. This is an exerpt from an e mail that my brother wrote, detailing pretty much exactly what is going on in Southern California right now with the 17 fires raging from San Diego to above Los Angeles.


First, some geography. We are located in Santee, which is just South and East of the Miramar Air Base extension on the west side of Interstate 15 freeway. From our front door, you can see the back of the base and in the canyon beyond the freeway is a recycling plant. The section we live next to is a much narrower swatch of land than the actual base. Poway is the first city North the airbase. Lakeside is the first city East of our city.

The Witch creek fire started near Ramona and has moved West and South. It is currently 196k acres, 1% contained with 500 confirmed homes damaged, 250 destroyed and 150 other structures destroyed. The southern line has spread down the 67 freeway and has finally made it to Lakeside outskirts. This is the fire we are concerned with. The 2003 cedar fire spread this way, then went onto the airbase and down the 52 freeway (right by our home), almost to the ocean. The fire spreading east jumped the 15 and has devastated Rancho Bernardo and moved on to Solana Beach. It may go all the way to the ocean this time.

The other big fire is the Harris which started near Descanso, right on the border and has moved North to Rancho San Diego and West to Eastlake/Chula Vista. It has 72k acres burned and 10% containment. That fire is slowly moving and they have evacuated almost to where we used to live in Spring Valley. There are alos fires in San Marcos (contained) and Fallbrook (Rice fire), to the North. The rice fire may hook up with a fire in Temecula and spread. Finally, there is a fire in Imperial Valley which was contained. The Witch Creek fire has recently moved North to Riverside county and East to Harbison Canyon out near Sis in Law's work, the Viejas reservation.

We were packed yesterday morning and have spent two days inside due to the horrible air quality. Niece's school was closed for the week as is Sis in Law's work. I am the acting supervisor for my unit, so I had to go in yesterday and they are open tomorrow, which I think is a terrible idea. Today, I left to go to a doctor's appointment and we took a brief trip to get charcoal in case of a power outage, but that has been it for Sis in Law and Niece. The main power source in the South was knocked out by the Portrero fire by the border and the North line is threatened.

Yesterday, my work was dismissed early, so I was home early. I made sure the weatherstripping on the front door was sound and the back door, which has the dog door, was re-stripped. I asked Sis in Law to go to Lowe's very early to get some as I had run out, and the smoke had not yet reached us. She said the masks were all out and there was a lot of activity there. We have replaced the air filter and the house is pretty much air tight. We already had plenty of food storage, portable food, first aid kits, high rank emergency air masks, emergency packs and our important documents are in one small file cabinet which is easily moved. We also have battery and crank powered flashlights, candles and battery powered radios. We also have a large supply of water as well, and I know how to tap into our water main if needed. I am so thankful the church stresses emergency preparedness and my parents were good examples.

I went to the store on my way home yesterday, to pick up a few small "non-necessity comfort" items, and the store was in chaos. People had no preparation and the water supply and bottled water was stripped to nothing. People were wandering the area near the water complaining about how the store did not stock enough water. They did not seem to figure out it was their fault for not being prepared. The first aid area was pretty well raided as well, and canned food was holding out ok. People were asking about grills and other sources to heat food.

I had started a project of donating clothing, books and other items to the Salvation Army about 9 months ago, in order to clear out clutter in the house and it just so happened that I was working on blankets. I made a run last night to Qualcomm stadium, which is an evacuation center, and handed over blankets, pillows and sleeping bags.

In total, we have about 300k evacuees throughout the county and about 6 major rescue centers. Across the street, there are about 3-4 motorhomes in the restaurant parking lot and at the store we saw about 6-7 more, so some people are finding places to stay and getting permission from the stores/restaurants where they are at.


Please keep all of these people in your thoughts. There's nothing we can do right now, but hope the wind dies down.

shmoker

I loathe the smokers. I'm sure I've said this before, but here I am to say it again. I do not understand this habit on any level and I grow to hate it more and more with each step down any sidewalk of the city.

I realize that for some people, being in "the big city" provides a sexy sense of being chic and cosmopolitan, which explains quite a bit of the fashion parading around as well. At some point in history, smoking became inextricably tied into this "chic" and several million smokers were vomited upon the avenues, polluting the air from Battery Park to the GW Bridge and beyond. I suppose I could trace even further back in history, to when the smoker invaded the inside of the workplace, but I'm focused on the present. So there they stand, stylishly coiffed, clad in Armani and Michael Kors, carrying Louis bags - the real ones, because no woman with standards would buy a fake - carelessly polluting the breathing space of the millions who stream past them.

They do this several times a day, wherever they are; traipse out every couple of hours for a 15 - 20 minute break of feverish puffing and exhaling, neurotically surveying the crowd of irritated passersby as they exhale directly into the flow of traffic. I pass through this toxic cloud about once every 3 minutes, when I'm not holed up in my cube and about once every 3 minutes, I want to choke the tar-filled life out of every person I see, who has a hand gracefully extended out away from his or her body, carefully avoiding the virulent wisps curling peacefully toward heaven. Of course, the smoke can't be too near, lest it seep into those expensive suit fibers. Fuck all of us sorry assholes on the sidewalk, though. We get the smoke from the cigarette and the exhaust from the stale, parched lungs of the smoker. Serves me right for trying to walk peacefully down the street. Fuckers.

To add insult to injury, however, the smokers have devised a way to piss me off even when I'm inside. Here's how they do it. The more obvious assholes, stand directly in front of the doorways of companies, residences, restaurants and shopping locations. They stand there, usually adorned with a cell phone and a voice resonant of nails whining down a chalkboard and send their disgusting vapors to waft in one turn at a time through the revolving door.

The slightly more considerate, but still an intensely grating bunch, are the ones who flank the sides of each doorway, as if the six inch clearance they have to the left and right of the doorway is somehow a major concession on their part. This way, I only have to burst through a literal screen of smoke to get into my desired location. But hey, asthma, shmasthma; I need another obstacle.

And yes, I do think that the smoker should be thinking of me. Not just me, but the weird guy who wears tapered jeans and the lady with the plastic visor and the bangs and the dude who just hopped off the plane from South Dakota.

Fucking smoker: you are polluting my air against my wishes and to my dismay, legally, I can't flog you for it. Due to this, your contaminated ass should be fucking considerate of the healthy people around you and smoke in confined places like porta potties and sewer pipes and the inside of your own apartment. This way, you can keep all of that tasty, buzz-inducing poison to yourself. You don't have to share any of it. In fact, I prefer that you have it all.

Suck it all in and say a quick fuck you to those nasty alveoli. They were no good alveoli anyway, so you showed them.

comfort

Part of the comfort of total seclusion and a few select people who strategically don't read this, is that it matters not what the subject is or even if the writing is utter shit. Truth is, I do this on the fly, without editing. I know, scary....kind of like the base jumping of writing. It's such fun.

Were someone to want me to write something seriously, like say, for an MBA project or an editing assignment, I'd be happy to comment on more serious, or relevant subjects, but sometimes all I wanna do is just comment on how life sucks or doesn't suck; depends on the day, I suppose.

So right now, here is my declaration: shit sucks right now, across the board. Shocking news, I'm sure, what with my even keel and affinity for making everyone else around me feel at ease, but in total truth, there is quite a bit of turmoil going on and I really could happily live without it all. In fact, I would live much more happily, without it all.

How alluring the idea of a fresh slate is; no financial bullshit, no job bullshit, no extra bullshit; no bullshit at all. No being told that after months of aggressively proactive and productive behavior, that I will still have to sit, waiting around for the next big thing and no more ridiculous hiatus from getting laid.

More on this later.....the tylenol pm is kicking in and before I start hallucinating and spilling all the details, I'm going to take advantage of what will hopefully be a jolly circus of purple unicorns with hundred dollar bills impaled by their horns, all tagged with my name. Good night!

misunderstand me

I wrote this poem when I was 20 years old....which was a damn long time ago. Funny how "they" say that things will change and evolve as you get older. The jury's still out on that one for me. Perhaps I have evolved, and this is only still relevant because it represents the spurned youth in me that refuses to go away entirely. Most art is created from frustration and pain though, right? I was chock full of that shit for my first 25 years of existence, so by that account, I should be kicking Picasso's ass.

It was all very dramatic during that time in my life, when I left the warmth and comfort of Southern California to go and "find myself" in Paris. No one got what I was in search of, but it was worth every second of confusion and ultimately, I got my shit together and became proficient in French, so it was a win-win.

No matter how far I've come, though, it still feels like this a lot of the time.


MISUNDERSTAND ME

Where is the law which dictates
The way I am to be read
I am not a book although
My pages are tattered and torn
Who was the constructor of the circle
Into which my square piece may never fit
I am not made of clay
Though I have been molded by my years
Who is the judge of action
Who is the reader of men
What does it mean when you tell me
To get back to myself again
For your eyes as you know
Are not my eyes
To me this is no shame
And the only request I will ask of you
Is to please not expect
The colors before us
Ever to look the same.

blog falls

If a blog falls off of the internet and there were really no readers anyway, did it actually happen?

snobbery

I'm a snob. I can admit it. I'm snobby about certain things, such as fitness, and though this admission may come as a surprise to some, I can't really be blamed for my snobbiness, because I have put in the time to get to my level of competency on this subject.

I'm having a conflict, however and here it is. The world is full of obese, obnoxious, whiner-complainer types, who can't seem to haul themselves up off their asses to take care of their health. Conversely, the world is full of skinny people, who, eating disorder, drug problem or no, stand around smoking their cigarettes and going on about how flabby they are getting and how badly they need to go to the gym. Both of these types annoy me to a disturbing degree and I'm not entirely sure why. What irritates me, perhaps the most, is listening to the people, mostly the skinny ones, go on and on, ad nauseum, about how they took "a class" and are now "so sore [they] can barely move".

What this says to me, is that this person works out inconsistently at best, and takes the occasional class, not because it's going to improve their health, but because they then have a good story to tell everyone within earshot about why their sore gluts are keeping them from walking up stairs or taking a quick step. They talk about things like how they did "like a hundred" lunges, while holding weight (which is usually less than 10 pounds), or comment on how the ab circuit was so tough that they are sore in places they didn't even know had muscles.

Here's a quick note: that's because you don't have muscles, dipshit.

So here's where the conflict part comes in. As an athlete, I should be happy that people are out there and exercising. One of my great hopes for the world is for people to be in good shape and be happy and to see how much a healthy lifestyle can improve your life on many levels. To some degree, I am happy that at least a modicum of healthy activity is going on around me. I just wish that they, the fringe exercisers, could find less annoying ways to discuss it and additionally, I wish that people would realize what hard work really is, relative to training. But I guess that's the difference between working out and training. I train. I always have.

Excluding certain pockets of the last 18 months, I haven't had a day without practice of some sort since I was two. Literally. I was two when I started taking dance classes, 6 when I began doing team sports. Since then, I have had seasons cross over, or continue year round until 2006, when I decided to investigate why a smart girl like me was so broke, and get a corporate job. But even then, the sedentary draw didn't stick and I started back up with training. I haven't nailed down my next sport of choice yet, but while I'm thinking about it, I'd rather be strong and fit for no reason than make excuses for why I'm weak and squishy and haven't had time to make it to "body sculpting with sven".

I'm a workout snob and I'm okay with it.

stupid cool

I'm just gonna come right out with this question: why is being stupid, cool?

Why is acting stupid, even if you're not stupid, cool? Why do people do it and more importantly, why do so many buy into it? Let's analyse, shall we?

When you're young, like elementary school young, the kids will mercilessly make fun of you for everything. Every-fuckin-thing. They will make fun of you for being too tall, too short, too fat, too well-developed, too red-haired, too good at things, too bad at things and even too smart. This, incidentally, is how "nerds" and "geeks" are born. The only thing that kids won't make fun of you for is being too stupid and if they do, it's the "smart" kids saying it, and who gives a fuck what they say anyway.

When I was a kid, I remember being baffled by this reality. Why was it that it was cool to get bad grades? Why, when a kid talked about how he or she never studied and didn't care about school or grades or anything outside of pure social status, was this not only well-received, but followed? How did those kids get away with not trying and exhibiting poor performance? If I were to do that, I would be grounded for a year and spend the whole summer studying at the "school of Eileen", held in my living room, daily.

It's not just in elementary school that I see this happening, however. It's happened in all phases of my life. Why is it considered acceptable to speak and write with exceedingly poor grammar and spelling? Are these people just crafty enough to fool their 'audience' with the idea that their missteps are intentional, and therefore cool? I ask, not because I want to join their ranks, but out of sheer, morbid curiosity. Because what happens when the stupid - intentionally or otherwise - are unleashed on the rest of us, is a great deal of frustration and slowed progress.

It is considered impolite or even rude to correct a person's spelling or grammar in business. That said, they invented spell check to help those of us who paid attention in 5th grade, avoid the pain of constantly having our eyes and ears assaulted. Despite the invent of this clever tool, people ignore it or refuse to engage its services and then I am forced to deal with a person who clearly has no command of our common language.

My initial reaction to this person is that he or she is not very bright and somehow "fell into" the position they currently hold. This is, admittedly, snobby of me, but I am more forgiving than many I know, so this means that a lot of people are walking around harboring these thoughts. Strange though, how it is against protocol to expect or encourage a more elevated level of communication in business.

The same holds true for the person who is perpetually out of sorts and disorganized. This is not an excuse for why things do not get finished in a timely manner. Everyone has times where things get to piling up, but for fucks sakes, get your shit together. I can't imagine that in a world of quick decisions and goal driven individuals that this behavior will go over, but amazingly, it does. Regularly. I always thought the stupid people would end up in the low end jobs, unable to make significant forward progress in their lives, but here's what's happened; the world has been dumbed down for them and instead of leaving them behind, moves at their aggravatingly slow and disheveled pace. What the fuck?

Perhaps, I neglected to factor in the follower in most people, even of a senior standing. I should have given the stupid more credit for developing craftiness and bullshitting skills that would see them through. I guess people will get behind anything, even if it's all smoke and mirrors.

Do they teach classes for that?

o, the toilette

I travel quite a bit. I wish I could say I am jetting off to fantastic and romantic locations across the globe, but I'm really just going to the same, boringly familiar location about 1 1/2 - 2 weeks a month. It blows. Well, not entirely. I'm saving up the miles for a sick vacation, when I have the income to fund the rest of the components necessary for a sick vacation to be realized.

Anyway, a large part of travel involves being in unfamiliar spaces, many of which involve highly personal activities, such as.....ahem....relieving oneself. It's unavoidable to anyone who has any sort of experience outside their immediate domestic location. There are public restroom experiences to be had no matter what your socioeconomic status, though seemingly, the higher your bracket in that case, the better chances you have of clean(er) facilities.

Seemingly.....but, I have noticed some interesting things over my many years of public facility usage and observation. People seem to act as if it is acceptable not only to do disgusting things in the confines of these stalls, but they feel perfectly okay about leaving the evidence for all who come after to discover. Why? If you were to go to the homes of these individuals, I doubt you would see toilet paper strewn all over the floor or shit smeared across the walls. Probably no pads or tampons left partially exposed, either. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the occupants of that home would object outright to that kind of behavior. So why, o why, do these same people feel that it is acceptable to do this in public?

I won't disgust my reader with the images of which I speak, because you can surely scroll the files of your own experiences for that. But, this is where the socioeconomic part comes into play. I notice that high end bathrooms have the very same problems as your basic stadium or airport, just with fewer stalls and brass fixtures. This takes away the "rich people are cleaner" argument, which leaves pooping, once again free to be the eternal regulator. So since this question can be cast to everyone....

Citizens of the world, why the abhorrent hygiene and general lack of cleanliness?

I've yet to meet a person who says:

"Public bathrooms? LOVE em. They are the one place I feel comfortable, away from home."

More often, I'll hear an in-depth conversation interrupted by "Ohhhh gross."

When you're in the back of the line and you have the threat of pee running down your leg, it is a totally disconcerting pair of words to hear. It sort of goes without saying and I know this is a problem that is so epic in scale that I could never plead all of the public bathrooms of the world clean; especially not with drunks out there.

It's called the throne, though. The place where mighty men and women sit and are admired, if only by themselves. If you call anyone in the world - with the possible exception of a couple dozen people who have real ones - and tell them you were on the throne, they know where you've been. You, my friend, have been on the shitter; that pristine, white, porcelain god who catches your treasures and flushes them away to the safety of the treatment plant and then the ocean.

With all of that joyous, cleansing activity going on, shouldn't there be more effort put in by us all to keep it happy and clean, no matter where we are? I say and maintain, this issue needs some lungs. If people are talking about it, well, perhaps they will be spurred to think of their fellow people and of how nice it was to have a clean bowl for those two minutes. Flush that paper, lady, it will be good for us all.

rat (dogs)

I'm a friend to the animals. I love all sorts of animals, even cats, and when I come across the animals, most of the time I have to laugh, at least a little, at how cute or jumpy or smart they are. When I'm at the park and I see a dog playing fetch, I want to pet it and join in the game. Were I to go to a country where these animals were a delicacy, I don't even think I could eat even a mouthful; I love them so much.

That said, I have discovered something disturbing about myself. I started to notice it as I was strolling the streets of New York, for whatever reason, almost every day. When I'm out there doing the strolling, there are scores of dog owners out walking their pets, dutifully cleaning up their excrement (most of the time) and chit chatting with fellow dog owners about this, that or the other. Most of the dogs are cute and happy and smiling as they frolic down the sidewalk; that warm, fuzzy feeling washes over me and I smile to myself.

It was then that I started to do battle with a sentiment of which I just can't rid myself. I've fought it and fought it, but so far, it's a losing battle and I'm finding myself with the overwhelming urge.....to punt. There, I said it. My friends and acquaintances will flog me now, for sure, but I just can't shake the thought that if one more of these cute little gems of nature trots innocently under my foot, I will pick it up and punt it over the traffic of 2nd Avenue, to the other side of the street.

The dogs of which I speak are the smallest dogs, on the longest leashes. They can't possibly weigh more than about 5 pounds and are of no particular variety. Even the owners are widely varied. The things the owners have in common, however, are the possession of a small dog and long leash, a cell phone and a decided lack of attention when walking said dog on said leash. The dog, therefore, canvasses the sidewalk, roaming curiously about. The cute little companion checks out every nook and cranny, sniffing and staring at the melange of doggie goodness stuck to and strewn about the sidewalk. The dog is just having fun, doing what dogs do. The owner is the one with whom I really take issue. If the owner actually paid attention, or reeled his cute little friend in, I would not be faced with the overwhelming urge to dropkick the furry friends of Manhattan.

Maybe I should punt the owner. My ankles and knees are in peril when those critters are around and I simply can't afford to lose a ligament because some stupid chihuahua owner can't keep it together. That would probably leave a more lasting impression and then the owner would be too stunned and confused to cause problems. To boot, since the dog would be attached to the leash, which would in turn, be attached to the owners hand, both sources of irritation would be discharged from my presence at once. Of course, being known as dog-and-owner-kicker-girl might suck, but at this point, I'm really only concerned with avoiding my own bodily injury however possible.

I fully expect to begin receiving harassment from Peta, but I can live with that. Because if the Peta folks saw what I go through on the sidewalk everyday, they'd be on that bandwagon with me. So let that be a warning to you.....rat-dog owners. Tight leashes equal happy tall girls and that's really the end goal now, isn't it?

injurious

"Find the pain", is a saying in business.

It means to find what in a given process is slowing a person or a company down and then provide a solution for them to ease their 'pain'. Before the pain can be eased, however, there has to be an uncomfortable period of digging and getting to the bottom of the problem. Ultimately, it’s supposed to be a positive thing, but it takes a hell of a lot lot of torture to get there, sometimes.


There was about a 14 month period of time, where I was nearly incapacitated by my back injuries. During this time, I could not sit or stand or lie in any one position for more than about 10 or 15 minutes before having to shift positions from the pain. Walking sent waves of pain shooting out to my limbs with almost every step and sleep eluded me for weeks on end.

There was a decent stretch of months a few years later, where I could not do any of my normal sports disciplines because my shoulder was torn up and it radiated all the way down my arm to my fingers. During these times, I had no insurance and virtually no money, so I did what I could to get my body taken care of and the rest of the time, I just dealt with it. I trained through a good chunk of both injuries, which pretty much just prolonged the pain and made my life harder. No talkin’ to me then, though.

I know, I know, ‘oooohhh, I’m so hardcore and nobody has ever had pain from injuries except me’…..

So all right then, if you’ve had to deal with the pain that goes along with a sports injury, and especially a nagging, overuse injury, then you know what it’s like to live with the pain everyday and work past, or around it. It’s a fucking joke of a deal, but for most athletes, there is at least one major injury associated with a career spanning longer than about 7 or 8 years, no matter where you started, which means the odds that you know what I’m talking about, at least on some level, are pretty good.

It’s a dull, continuous kind of pain, that pain. You don’t even notice it most of the time, because you block it out, or make the maintenance of it a part of your daily routine; constantly stretching and trigger pointing, hoping it will just suddenly give and relax. Occasionally, there will be marked moments of intense, shooting pain and at that time, you will be reminded that no, you are still not invincible, dammit.

For me, if it comes up in conversation, it means it’s bothering me quite a bit more than normal. Like right now, I’m talking about it, so this is a good indication that on some relatively high level, the pain is throbbing and pissing me off. Fortunately, I have a high pain tolerance. I guess that’s why I was good at my sport. But I remember, after I really rested my back and went into serious debt to get my body back together.

I remember the first morning I woke up and went about my day and I didn’t feel any pain. It was really the strangest thing I’ve ever felt in my life. I had been walking around with so much irritation that it felt like a freedom I had never dared to think would again be mine. When I ran, I went faster and I enjoyed myself because it didn’t feel like I was going to lose parts here and there as I went. I watched an entire movie without having to stop and lie on the floor and stretch. I ran around the beach with my boyfriend and body surfed. Simple things that I thought I had given up were back and it was glorious.

The business application of "the pain" has been played out, for me, over the last year in a couple of different ways. But according to recent information, apparently that’s all over now. We’re going to straighten up and move on into the light. Things are gonna get better and people in the higher reaches of management are gonna listen…..and act. We’re on the up and up and the sky’s the limit with us now. Oh yeah, and of course you’re not expendable. Where on earth would you get a silly notion like that?

Well then, so now that things are apparently going to be so carefree and happy at my place of business, I am anticipating the moment when I wake up and the pain is just gone. The stress, the grating, the insult, the paaaain. I imagine how great it will be, when we all show up to work and there are smiles and robust products and confidence and positivity all around us. When we all hold hands and have a bonfire in the boardroom and sway from side to side as we sing songs about the good ol’ days of data. I am and have been waiting patiently on those days. Where are those days? They said they were on the way and boy howdy, those damned days better be coming, I say, cause if they don’t……

What, you think I’m gonna bail out on it? Think I can live without the pain? But I've become so accustomed to it; it's like a part of me. You know, I dream about it and remember what it was like and then I imagine what it would be like to do it again and then the reverie wakes me up and I go about my day. Same as every other day, that pain is there; most consistent thing in my life…..how can I let that go?

cheatah, cheatah

Well looky what we have here. Seems Marion Jones has [finally] admitted to taking steroids before her amazing run at the 2000 Olympic games (no pun intended). Who knew? I mean, it's not like there were a million signs or anything. She managed to tip-toe around what is, arguably, the biggest continuous scandal in sports history for seven years and now it has finally caught up to her, because no one can run away for that long; no one is that fast.

But how can you definitively prove that someone is cheating the system when BALCO is out there beating the system and then Victor Conte sits smugly, scoffing and bragging about it. He said repeatedly and maintains today that in the time it takes to create a test for his drugs, he will have created more, which are undetectable and better than the last. The only thing anyone can hope for in that situation is that the athletes have some sort of integrity and conscience. But apparently those qualities only develop after you've won your gold medals. Like, 7 years after.

I know many athletes. I am an athlete, myself. I know many elite athletes and even count myself among their ranks. I know Olympians and champions in many different sports and I know what kind of investment you have to make in yourself to even be considered "good" in your discipline. To brush off your knowledge and awareness of what you are doing to and putting into your body, is the biggest crock of shit ever.

I love the stupid act, though. The "Well, I was just doin' what they told me to do" argument. That carries no weight with me at all. We are not in a cold-war, eastern block country. No one is threatening your family or your life if you don't train in an underground chamber or win gold medals in a governmental effort to prove that democracy is a sham.

Miss Marion maintains that her coach gave it ("The Clear") to her and told her it was flaxseed oil. Suuuure. So my coach "gives" me a substance to take and tells me it's flaxseed oil, but to keep it on the DL. Maybe I even blindly take it at first, not bothering to even read up on what it is that flaxseed oil is said to contribute to a healthy body. Or maybe I did some research and just thought that my flaxseed oil came from special flaxseeds. Hmmmm........ Then, all of a sudden, this flaxseed shit is making me ripped and fast as fuck. But if I really stopped to think about it, perhaps I would wonder why there aren't droves of ripped-ass geriatric folks, since one of the principle functions of flaxseed is "regularity" and is frequently consumed by that demographic.

No matter how you talk around it, there is no way that a large collection of inconsistencies didn't come up in her mind. There is no way that she was married to a guy widely known and later penalized for steroid involvement and had no idea what she was doing to her body. No way that she didn't notice the changes in her skin and her physique that are the negative, outward symptoms of steroid use. Because if flaxseed oil could do all that ripping and shredding in a healthy way, she would have been telling everyone out there, or at least her friends and family, about the benefits of this miracle, over the counter product. But she didn't do that, because she knew what she was messing with and she just wanted her gold medals one way or another.

The thing that pisses me off the most about this, is that I am one of those people to whom sports are sacred. Having the physical ability to do well at a sport in the first place, is a blessing, but it goes well beyond just the physical aspect. Sports are a metaphor for life. Sports build character, drive, persistence, patience and teach you to effectively deal with all manner of challenges. The "combat" of sports and competition teaches you how to think on the fly and adapt, how to win and lose gracefully, to really put your ass on the line and commit to something you believe in; yourself and your team. You learn how to work with others toward a goal and how to lead and follow and when is the appropriate time for each. You learn how to analyse wins and losses and break them down to improve for the next encounter.

I could go on, ad nauseum, and anyone who knows me, knows in what high regard I hold athletics and competition. So for some person to come along and shit all over what is empirically a wonderful and positive thing - for her to cheat it and cheapen it and make it about money and fame and medals, well I'm happy that it's gonna cost her. Because how history remembers her will be far more lasting and important than anything that happened on that podium in Sydney.

You cheated and now you've lost. Took a while, but you deserve whatever you get.

get by

"I'm lowering my overhead, finally and it feels nice to know there will soon be fewer monthly demands on my cash flow." I said.

"So do you think you'll get another car then?"

"No, why would I do that? I live in the city, and the point is to be paying out less every month and be able to save; you know, in case I want some sort of future security or something wacky like that." I replied.

"Oh."

That's it? Oh? I was thinking that my friend, who is also struggling financially (albeit with the cushion of a large inheritance), might be on the same page. The realistic, something-must-be-done page. As I'm coming to realize however, many, if not most people these days, are blissfully unaware of both where their paychecks go and how urgent it is to create a financial future for oneself, independent of our beleaguered social security system.

I dream about bigger paychecks, for sure, but while I toil to set myself up for such a blessing, I feel quite certain that lowering my overall expenses is the way to go. This is much easier said than done when residing in, or anywhere near Manhattan. Being the resourceful girl that I am however, I think I've done a fine job thus far, so I'm motivated to continue. In fact, I've taken several positive steps already.

Car: gone. After the car company finishes fucking me over with a large "return charge" and a $500 penalty for a rock that nicked the windshield, I will be free and clear of a large drain on my income. Sunny days ahead on that front.

Credit cards: paying down aggressively. In fact, I'm within only a few thousand dollars of eradicating nearly all of the credit card debt I incurred while training all those years, without the climax of realizing my athletic dreams.

Student loans: Okay I'm close to having the first round paid off, but I am signing up for a shitload more, so that celebration has to be tabled for about a half decade. Nonetheless, I've been diligently paying off my expensive (and worthwhile) undergraduate education and am nearing the homestretch in my quest not to owe anyone money for my brain's contents.

And yet.....

I look at my income, which is nearly double what it was 2 years ago, and somehow I've managed to get myself into worse financial shape. How is this possible? For a second there, I started to get really pissed at my parents. They are, arguably, the worst money managers in history, because my family should have been much better off than we are, collectively. This may explain, however, why several of us kids are off trying for post graduate degrees in order not to put our future offspring through the "no, you can't have it because we're not rich" speech.

The funny thing about the "we're not rich" speech, is that it applied to every single subject you could imagine. Stupid subjects fell under the "not rich" umbrella and subsequently, the children of my family were constantly confused and in awe of simple things other people took as a given.

"Mom, can we get Golden Grahams for breakfast this week?"

"No," She would say and then turn away in disgust, "We're not rich."

Huh?

So, I grew up thinking that only rich people had name brand foods, milk that wasn't powdered and used paper towels instead of rotating cloth ones and washing them every few days (because paper towels are "like throwing money away"). I thought that only rich people got a new car or flew in an airplane or ever dreamed of having anything nice for themselves. We weren't rich, so to want for something nice or even bordering on decent, was considered selfish in my house.

The conclusion I have come to in the last several years is that that is all a bunch of bullshit. There is no nobility in poverty. There is nothing wrong with setting yourself up and enjoying what you have. Lowering my bottom line now and living slightly more meagerly will actually bode well for me in the near future and I'll be able to do "rich people" things like travel and enjoy life. I can live with that.....I do it now on a pauper's budget, so imagine what lies ahead.

I'm rich, biaaatch!

....ing while sleeping

I feel I am a danger to myself and society this morning. I can barely hold my head up and even after 2 cups of coffee and listening to the rock music all morning, I am fighting with every blink. Every time my eyelids meet, there is a little war waged to get them to separate again. They somehow seem to be magnetized in a powerful way.

I don't intend to operate heavy machinery or go near large bodies of water, but that is not the danger of which I speak. I'm supposed to work now. I'm supposed to coerce people out of large sums of money and actually make what I'm selling come off as a must-have for anyone in or near my industry. I'm supposed to have phone, e mail and in-person interaction that is professional, concise and convincing. All on about 2 hours of actual sleep and after about 10 pints of Guinness, which were really tasty, by the way.

This leads me to a question on which I ponder frequently. How the fuck do millions of people go out on weekdays on a regular basis? How do they do it? I simply must know, because I'm so fucking drained for days if I go out on a weekend, that I can't imagine how each day would drag and torture me if I were to hit the nightlife scene multiple days a week plus the weekends, too. I would blame my lethargy on my age, but:

a) I'm not that old, and

b) The people out are in my age group.

So what is the answer? Does one just keep drinking and get the body used to that much alcohol? Train for mid-week partying, if you will? Is this the part where loads of cocaine and red-bull come in?

A sidebar story for that question is totally unconfirmed, but this person had no reason to lie about it either. She went for an interview in the financial district at a mid-size firm. The interview was going okay, but everyone seemed really jumpy and high energy to her. When she went to the bathroom, she noticed mirrors out on the counter tops and one of them had a certain residue on it. Hmmmmm......

Anyway, they can't all be coked up, though that would offer good explanation to the flurry of activity on weeknights. So then, how do they do it? When my mountain of available time comes around, I'll add this to the list of things I intend to investigate and of course, I'll report back on my findings, in detail. Until then, I'll just keep the hope alive that with age comes a better constitution. Not bloody likely to come about, though.