(Warning: Blogging in the key of drunk.)
1) I like Formula 1.
2) I'm a Renault fan.
3) I'm a Fernando Alonso fan.
4) I also really like Petter Solberg.
5) Petter Solberg does not drive Formula 1.
6) I like rally too. (Duh.)
7) After a few weeks of work heck keeping me from my blog I am trying to appease by adding this one gem of a post. AND by getting very drunk.
8) We are the champions my friends.
( The clip is of the Renault engine playing "We are the Champions". Alonso sang this as he drove over the finish line in China.)
9) My husband likes Kimi Raikkonen - but I still love him anyway.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Four Eyes
After putting it off, and being put off, for a full two years I have finally dragged my butt to a random Optometrist in a random mall. After learning that, no, in fact my insurance won't pay for this visit after all (thank you United States Government) I plop myself down and watch the t.v. in a almost blind haze.
I have no more contacts left and my glasses are broken - they'll have to lead me into the exam room by my hands...and I'll still probably walk into a wall.
The little girl waiting with me is bouncing around happily trying on all the frames and finally picking her favorite - and she hasn't even seen the doctor yet. She seems excited. In my grouchy, blind, poor, starved and work/traffic-stressed mood I think really horrible thoughts - that little girl is headed for years and years of depression and misery. She's already chubby, has flat yellow hair, and now she's going to be wearing glasses. From the way she smiles I can tell she's headed for braces too. Cruelly I think she better be smart because high school is going to be hell otherwise.
I never said I was a nice person. While I picture the poor gawky teenager she'll grow up to be (I was one too) I also mentally imagine where I will stick the pins into my TriCare Representatives VooDoo Doll.
I go through the motions. One or Two, Two or Three. Read this line. F, V, D. Oh no sorry, it's E, Y, B. Not very good at this huh? No shit lady...I CAN'T SEE!
This used to be fun...I used to like going to the Eye Doctor. I used to be fascinated by the fact that little pieces of glass could make such a huge difference. Now it's just a reminder that my eyes are failing more and more and I will have to put plastic against my eyeballs for the rest of my life.
My doctor makes the determination that I have been wearing the wrong contacts for my entire life. Everytime I go to the Eye Doctor they tell me this. Everyone else was wrong, they're right. They give me a new prescription and a new kind of lens. Then push me out the door to fork over vast sums of money. I almost cringe when I hear myself mention that I need new frames, I think the commission based salesmen can hear me...and they are drooling.
But to my surprise the Doctor disappears back into the gloom with my chart and the other salesmen jump up to help some poor man looking for sunglasses. I am left on my own without anyone to guide my frame selection. I notice for the first time that my prescription is actually pretty good and things look cleaner and clearer than they have in a long while. I start to peruse the frames. Don't like those, don't want anything like that...these are cool. I'm wandering aimlessly making small little decisions that will ultimately form my criteria for the perfect frame when it suddenly hits me.
I am all alone. Completely. Totally. This is weird.
I started wearing glasses when I was 10. My Father took me the first time and of course advised me on what frames would be best for me. He seemed to think that double bowed frames are the best choice (it's what he wore) and because I was 10 and trusted my Dad that's what I got.
And that's what I was stuck with for 4 years...renewing the lenses, keeping those terrible frames all through middle school.
The second time I got frames again my Father accompanied me, but this time I was in full rebellion mode. Everyone told me to get thick frames, hopefully plastic, so as to be durable. I got wire thin frames. Painted in psychedelic colors that came from the early 90's. They were actually perfect.
For a year, till the screws started popping loose and the arms started breaking. I wore a safety pin in place of a screw for three years. The amount of "I told you so"'s in that office was enough to make anyone insane. I capitulated by allowing myself to be stuck with a cross-breed of my first pair of glasses and my second. Within the year I had switched to contacts (which my doctor warned would make me go blind) and conveniently hid the awful pair of black wire frames that threatened to plague me with more years of bad photos and old maid looks.
I only escaped for so long. My husband and I shopped for a week for the perfect pair, a little hipster-y, a little catty, very chic for my last appointment. I was madly in love with a specific tiny pair with a nice cat like flair, he liked the rounded ones. After an hour of me hinting that he needed to love the pair I loved, and an hour of him "not getting it", we left the store with a promise to come back when I had my new prescription.
Then my husband abandoned me for some war thing half-way round the world and I once again found myself shopping for glasses in the presence of my parents.
I was sure once they saw the perfect pair they'd instantly agree it was lovely on me, or at least my mother would catch on the signals and pretend to agree. Instead my parents spent an hour playing dress-up while I was not allowed to voice my opinion. Instead of the trendy, thick, dark glasses I wanted I went home with a pair of rim-less frames that matched my hair. I actually liked them. I was really into them for a little while, only slightly disappointed at the loss of my cat-eyes. Then I turn on the news and realize I'm wearing the same glasses as Brit Hume.
I hate them for years.
And now I find myself standing in an eye glass store with no husband, no mom, no dad, no sales man, no doctors. I whip out my cellphone.
"Hey honey, I'm done at the doctors...I'm going to get new glasses."
"Do you want me to come down and help."
"Nope, I know what I want and when I get them you have to say they're cute."
And I do know what I want. The perfect pair. Not the expensive kinds my husband would gravitate too. Not the conservative boring things my parents like. I get the perfect pair. Almost catty, almost not. A perfect blend of sixties librarian and cute chick. Bookish and pretty. They are so me.
I get them, they look good, the adjuster says they're adorable. I slip them on secure in the knowledge my husband will like them, because he has too. He plays his part.
"Cute" he says.
I wiggle into the car happily with my new glasses. Glasses I picked all by myself. Glasses I choose because I liked them. Glasses I liked without any outside influence. I'm proud of myself, I am a push over no longer.
I feel like the girl at the doctors office who was all excited about getting her first pair. And even better because I do not have to face high school anymore.
Then I'm struck with sudden panic.
"Do you really like them?" I ask hesitantly in the voice all men know spells trouble.
"Yes. They're fine." He replies...he already knows he's trapped.
"Just fine? They're not cute?"
"They're cute...they look good."
I stop hassling, for a day. The next night though...
"What do you really think of my glasses?"
"Jesus. They look good."
"You're not just saying that cause I told you too?"
"They're good glasses!"
I'm not convinced. I look for subtle ways to sneak the question in, fish for a compliment. I try to catch him off-guard, bring it up at an odd moment so he can't answer based on what he thinks I think I want to hear.
It's driving him crazy, at least I'm not asking if my glasses make me look fat.
I'm less and less enthused about my glasses. I'm worried they aren't nearly as adorable as I think they are. I still like them, but now I may be falling out of love because C. doesn't like them. I want him to like them. I want him to like me. I want him to think I'm pretty too. If he doesn't like my glasses it might mean he doesn't like me. Maybe he's busy comparing me to other girls who have cute glasses and wear cute clothes and have a round butt instead of a flat one and and and...
Then last night he and I are snuggling in a nice cozy booth. I've made a last ditch effort to love the glasses by forgoing my contacts. Suddenly his nose bumps my glasses particularly hard.
"Hard to cuddle with glasses huh?"
"Yeah. But we've done it before and it didn't suck."
"That's true, we need to practice again."
"Except last time you didn't have a cute pair."
BINGO. He called them cute without my bidding. Completely out of the blue. My glasses have the C. kiss of approval.
They really are the perfect pair. And I picked them out all by myself!
I have no more contacts left and my glasses are broken - they'll have to lead me into the exam room by my hands...and I'll still probably walk into a wall.
The little girl waiting with me is bouncing around happily trying on all the frames and finally picking her favorite - and she hasn't even seen the doctor yet. She seems excited. In my grouchy, blind, poor, starved and work/traffic-stressed mood I think really horrible thoughts - that little girl is headed for years and years of depression and misery. She's already chubby, has flat yellow hair, and now she's going to be wearing glasses. From the way she smiles I can tell she's headed for braces too. Cruelly I think she better be smart because high school is going to be hell otherwise.
I never said I was a nice person. While I picture the poor gawky teenager she'll grow up to be (I was one too) I also mentally imagine where I will stick the pins into my TriCare Representatives VooDoo Doll.
I go through the motions. One or Two, Two or Three. Read this line. F, V, D. Oh no sorry, it's E, Y, B. Not very good at this huh? No shit lady...I CAN'T SEE!
This used to be fun...I used to like going to the Eye Doctor. I used to be fascinated by the fact that little pieces of glass could make such a huge difference. Now it's just a reminder that my eyes are failing more and more and I will have to put plastic against my eyeballs for the rest of my life.
My doctor makes the determination that I have been wearing the wrong contacts for my entire life. Everytime I go to the Eye Doctor they tell me this. Everyone else was wrong, they're right. They give me a new prescription and a new kind of lens. Then push me out the door to fork over vast sums of money. I almost cringe when I hear myself mention that I need new frames, I think the commission based salesmen can hear me...and they are drooling.
But to my surprise the Doctor disappears back into the gloom with my chart and the other salesmen jump up to help some poor man looking for sunglasses. I am left on my own without anyone to guide my frame selection. I notice for the first time that my prescription is actually pretty good and things look cleaner and clearer than they have in a long while. I start to peruse the frames. Don't like those, don't want anything like that...these are cool. I'm wandering aimlessly making small little decisions that will ultimately form my criteria for the perfect frame when it suddenly hits me.
I am all alone. Completely. Totally. This is weird.
I started wearing glasses when I was 10. My Father took me the first time and of course advised me on what frames would be best for me. He seemed to think that double bowed frames are the best choice (it's what he wore) and because I was 10 and trusted my Dad that's what I got.
And that's what I was stuck with for 4 years...renewing the lenses, keeping those terrible frames all through middle school.
The second time I got frames again my Father accompanied me, but this time I was in full rebellion mode. Everyone told me to get thick frames, hopefully plastic, so as to be durable. I got wire thin frames. Painted in psychedelic colors that came from the early 90's. They were actually perfect.
For a year, till the screws started popping loose and the arms started breaking. I wore a safety pin in place of a screw for three years. The amount of "I told you so"'s in that office was enough to make anyone insane. I capitulated by allowing myself to be stuck with a cross-breed of my first pair of glasses and my second. Within the year I had switched to contacts (which my doctor warned would make me go blind) and conveniently hid the awful pair of black wire frames that threatened to plague me with more years of bad photos and old maid looks.
I only escaped for so long. My husband and I shopped for a week for the perfect pair, a little hipster-y, a little catty, very chic for my last appointment. I was madly in love with a specific tiny pair with a nice cat like flair, he liked the rounded ones. After an hour of me hinting that he needed to love the pair I loved, and an hour of him "not getting it", we left the store with a promise to come back when I had my new prescription.
Then my husband abandoned me for some war thing half-way round the world and I once again found myself shopping for glasses in the presence of my parents.
I was sure once they saw the perfect pair they'd instantly agree it was lovely on me, or at least my mother would catch on the signals and pretend to agree. Instead my parents spent an hour playing dress-up while I was not allowed to voice my opinion. Instead of the trendy, thick, dark glasses I wanted I went home with a pair of rim-less frames that matched my hair. I actually liked them. I was really into them for a little while, only slightly disappointed at the loss of my cat-eyes. Then I turn on the news and realize I'm wearing the same glasses as Brit Hume.
I hate them for years.
And now I find myself standing in an eye glass store with no husband, no mom, no dad, no sales man, no doctors. I whip out my cellphone.
"Hey honey, I'm done at the doctors...I'm going to get new glasses."
"Do you want me to come down and help."
"Nope, I know what I want and when I get them you have to say they're cute."
And I do know what I want. The perfect pair. Not the expensive kinds my husband would gravitate too. Not the conservative boring things my parents like. I get the perfect pair. Almost catty, almost not. A perfect blend of sixties librarian and cute chick. Bookish and pretty. They are so me.
I get them, they look good, the adjuster says they're adorable. I slip them on secure in the knowledge my husband will like them, because he has too. He plays his part.
"Cute" he says.
I wiggle into the car happily with my new glasses. Glasses I picked all by myself. Glasses I choose because I liked them. Glasses I liked without any outside influence. I'm proud of myself, I am a push over no longer.
I feel like the girl at the doctors office who was all excited about getting her first pair. And even better because I do not have to face high school anymore.
Then I'm struck with sudden panic.
"Do you really like them?" I ask hesitantly in the voice all men know spells trouble.
"Yes. They're fine." He replies...he already knows he's trapped.
"Just fine? They're not cute?"
"They're cute...they look good."
I stop hassling, for a day. The next night though...
"What do you really think of my glasses?"
"Jesus. They look good."
"You're not just saying that cause I told you too?"
"They're good glasses!"
I'm not convinced. I look for subtle ways to sneak the question in, fish for a compliment. I try to catch him off-guard, bring it up at an odd moment so he can't answer based on what he thinks I think I want to hear.
It's driving him crazy, at least I'm not asking if my glasses make me look fat.
I'm less and less enthused about my glasses. I'm worried they aren't nearly as adorable as I think they are. I still like them, but now I may be falling out of love because C. doesn't like them. I want him to like them. I want him to like me. I want him to think I'm pretty too. If he doesn't like my glasses it might mean he doesn't like me. Maybe he's busy comparing me to other girls who have cute glasses and wear cute clothes and have a round butt instead of a flat one and and and...
Then last night he and I are snuggling in a nice cozy booth. I've made a last ditch effort to love the glasses by forgoing my contacts. Suddenly his nose bumps my glasses particularly hard.
"Hard to cuddle with glasses huh?"
"Yeah. But we've done it before and it didn't suck."
"That's true, we need to practice again."
"Except last time you didn't have a cute pair."
BINGO. He called them cute without my bidding. Completely out of the blue. My glasses have the C. kiss of approval.
They really are the perfect pair. And I picked them out all by myself!
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Walking the Plank
My husband's fate was decided a few weeks ago. He's being given the boot from the Navy. Of course in true Naval form they told him he's being booted, but they won't tell him when - just to make sure that he won't be able to find a job and give them a start date.
Our hopes were pinned on the place he works now as a sailor. They promised him a MUCH bigger paycheck to do more of the same work (he has orchestrated plans for this place saving the government BILLIONS of dollars and put the whole thing together...he is their go-to guy.) Of course in true Government form they crapped out and offered to pay him less money than he is making now for a position overseeing every one in the department. No more negotiations.
In an ironic twist of fate he's now getting offers from companies that promise to pay him triple what he's making now. The irony comes from the fact that since he won't be working in his department, they'll have to contract someone to do his job, and he will be the contractor. The Government, who refuses to pay my husband $70,000 for this job will now have to pay the contractor upwards of $3 million - for my husband to do the EXACT same job he is doing now. Only he won't be responsible for it and they can't blame him.
Your tax dollars at work.
As we gear up to find out WHEN he will be separated I am trying to use my benefits as an active-duty spouse to my full advantage. Namely, I'm spending everything in my caps. Or trying too.
Today I attempted to make an appointment at my base to see an optometrist. (I wear glasses and contacts.). My first visit in two years. I was informed that if I'm a dependent I can't see an optometrist for the next few months...but I want to I can get a referral to a doctor not in my MTF (Military Treatment Facility). Usually this is taboo for people like me...and means spending a lot of money. And it's still a pain. It took me five hours of phone calls and "We appreciate your patience" music before I finally got an appointment with some random doctor in a MALL. Tricare promises to pay. We'll see. They promised to pay for my life saving operation too...and I'm still a few thousand poorer from that - and have yet to be allowed to have a follow-up appointment for it.
Dentists are worse. I am strictly forbidden to see a Dentist on base. I have to see pre-approved, in program dentists that are no less than 10 miles away from base instead. Big deal right? Every plan is like that. The best part though is I have to get a referral from a dentist I am not allowed to see in order to make an appointment with a dentist I am allowed to see.
It's a dental nightmare. More so when my husbands SSN gets flagged as "About to Separate". Once that happens it's an unwritten rule to not let anyone on that plan get an appointment with anyone.
Probably because they'll do what I'll do which is use up my lifetime caps (thousands and thousands of dollars) getting dental work and doctors appointments before we are no longer with Tricare.
The Navy would prefer us to be sickly and have bad teeth - we're easier to control that way and don't complain about the mushy food.
The last few weeks have been a steady pace of "Bad re-enlistment" days. They just keep bending us over and screwing us with another arbitrary crappy Navy rule or ordinance. They're being even worse to my roommate. And they still plug away at work, going above and beyond what is expected of them...which is precisely why the Navy is kicking them out. They don't want hard, smart, skilled workers who ranks among the best of the best in their field, they want people who don't know how to mop. I'll be glad to be rid of the unorganized, no-nothing, arbitrary, prejudiced, backwards, pussified, fish-slapping, abusive, asinine, old-fashioned dirty old boys club called the Navy.
Do I sound bitter?
Our hopes were pinned on the place he works now as a sailor. They promised him a MUCH bigger paycheck to do more of the same work (he has orchestrated plans for this place saving the government BILLIONS of dollars and put the whole thing together...he is their go-to guy.) Of course in true Government form they crapped out and offered to pay him less money than he is making now for a position overseeing every one in the department. No more negotiations.
In an ironic twist of fate he's now getting offers from companies that promise to pay him triple what he's making now. The irony comes from the fact that since he won't be working in his department, they'll have to contract someone to do his job, and he will be the contractor. The Government, who refuses to pay my husband $70,000 for this job will now have to pay the contractor upwards of $3 million - for my husband to do the EXACT same job he is doing now. Only he won't be responsible for it and they can't blame him.
Your tax dollars at work.
As we gear up to find out WHEN he will be separated I am trying to use my benefits as an active-duty spouse to my full advantage. Namely, I'm spending everything in my caps. Or trying too.
Today I attempted to make an appointment at my base to see an optometrist. (I wear glasses and contacts.). My first visit in two years. I was informed that if I'm a dependent I can't see an optometrist for the next few months...but I want to I can get a referral to a doctor not in my MTF (Military Treatment Facility). Usually this is taboo for people like me...and means spending a lot of money. And it's still a pain. It took me five hours of phone calls and "We appreciate your patience" music before I finally got an appointment with some random doctor in a MALL. Tricare promises to pay. We'll see. They promised to pay for my life saving operation too...and I'm still a few thousand poorer from that - and have yet to be allowed to have a follow-up appointment for it.
Dentists are worse. I am strictly forbidden to see a Dentist on base. I have to see pre-approved, in program dentists that are no less than 10 miles away from base instead. Big deal right? Every plan is like that. The best part though is I have to get a referral from a dentist I am not allowed to see in order to make an appointment with a dentist I am allowed to see.
It's a dental nightmare. More so when my husbands SSN gets flagged as "About to Separate". Once that happens it's an unwritten rule to not let anyone on that plan get an appointment with anyone.
Probably because they'll do what I'll do which is use up my lifetime caps (thousands and thousands of dollars) getting dental work and doctors appointments before we are no longer with Tricare.
The Navy would prefer us to be sickly and have bad teeth - we're easier to control that way and don't complain about the mushy food.
The last few weeks have been a steady pace of "Bad re-enlistment" days. They just keep bending us over and screwing us with another arbitrary crappy Navy rule or ordinance. They're being even worse to my roommate. And they still plug away at work, going above and beyond what is expected of them...which is precisely why the Navy is kicking them out. They don't want hard, smart, skilled workers who ranks among the best of the best in their field, they want people who don't know how to mop. I'll be glad to be rid of the unorganized, no-nothing, arbitrary, prejudiced, backwards, pussified, fish-slapping, abusive, asinine, old-fashioned dirty old boys club called the Navy.
Do I sound bitter?
Monday, October 10, 2005
Surprising Fruit Oracle
Last night over dinner I quizzed my husband on what order he chooses to eat his food. In a perfectly predictable manner he eats his favorite parts of a meal first so that if he gets full halfway through the meal he will be certain to have had what he wanted. Seems logical right?
I on the other hand tend to eat things from least favorite to most, so that the last thing I eat is my favorite thing. Much like when I was a child and had to choke down my share of cow's tongue. I would force the bumpy, grainy meat down my throat, then reward myself for not throwing it up by munching happily on my asparagus and peas.
What I could never understand though was why they always served milk with cow's tongue...that was just gross.
In anycase...I do the same thing today even when I am not faced with such horrors as borscht and cow's tongue (and lord save me - liver). Take my daily fruit salad for instance. The cantaloupe goes first, then the honeydew. Now I like cantaloupe and honeydew fine, in fact I am very favorable towards honeydew, but when in contention with my third and fourth picks (watermelon and grapes) they fall short. I never mix up eating my fruit (like say eating a melon piece then eating a grape) all of them have to be eaten together, at the same time. Then they are broken down by appearance and size as well. Small goes first, juiciest pieces go last. In the end I am left with a salad plate full of grapes to munch on and leave me with a good grape-y feeling all the day.
I have, as my tastes and motor-skills improve, taken my need to separate and rank foodstuffs to a whole new level. I do it in my mouth. A scoop of my favorite ice cream (Coldstone's Sweet Cream with Gummi Bear mix-in's) provide me with infinite tongue exercise. First and foremost is my visual ranking. Red bears first, followed by yellow, green and white etc. Of course since it's mixed in sometimes I miss a couple of bears and end up having to eat a green bear after I've started on the white or something. And this is fine...which I think is a testament to my potential for sanity. I'm not going to be washing my hands five hundred times a day anytime soon.
However, once I have done a quick initial survey of my ice cream there is the problem of the scoop. If I scoop carefully I can get a bite of cream with just one bear present. Once scooped it should be a mere matter to consume. However, it's not. I have to separate, with my tongue, the cream from the bear, completely. I will not chew on the bear till the cream is melted and gone. To the normal onlooker it just seems like I'm enjoying my ice cream and savoring each creamy taste...but so much more is happening.
Once the bear has been separated and cleaned thoroughly, I start to swirl it around to make sure that the first bite will be the deadly jugular-esque guillotine bite. In short - First I bite the head off...then I suck the guts out...oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Okay, maybe not really. But I do bite the head first, then the arms and legs (tricky, cause your mouth is cold and your bear is small). Then I can either suck the rest of the gelatiny mammal to just the idea of sugar, or chomp it all up and start on the next bear.
People wonder why it takes me so long to eat ice cream.
After my discussion with my husband last night, and my observation of other restuarant-goers scarffing down their food indiscriminately - I think I might be weird. More so, because I see my denial of all the good parts of my meal as a challenge, a hurdle, and ultimately a self-punishment.
I'm notorious for not being able to finish my food. Eating is a very delicate thing with me. Eat too late and I can't eat a lot, eat too early and I can't remember to stop before I eat too much. Eat too fast - I get sick. Eat too slow, or allow me to talk during the meal, and I will fill myself on my own bloviating rather than my chicken ceasar salad. It makes me feel guilty. So many people have never seen just one full plate of food and I who am never in want for food can't even finish my own plate. It also makes me guilty when my husband is watching me. He takes me out to nice places, I get something I want and then barely touch it. I end up being that nightmare of all men who date, even if I do always take price into account when ordering food. I don't mean too, but I just can't eat that much at one time, my stomach will not hold it all.
That's where the self-punishment comes in. My husband has made a few jokes about my eating habits, but he never comes off as too annoyed or concerned with it. It may in fact be because he isn't annoyed or concerned, but the fact remains I feel guilty and I can twist that guilt in a hundred different ways till I feel like he is supremely disappointed in me and I have failed him. All from some leftover lettuce.
However, the guilt is relieved when I "punish" myself. If I eat my least favorite foods first and save the best for last...I will have to eat the whole thing in order to get to the last part. If I don't finish this hamburger, I won't get to eat any fries. And if I can't finish the whole meal, the only parts of it I was deprived of were the parts I really wanted...and it's all my own fault for not finishing my plate.
Of course all this is an inner monologue. And as I look back on it - probably a pretty freaky one. However, I get so tired of making so many decisions, of being so rigidly and boringly self-disciplined that I have to find secret ways of rewarding and punishing myself. I don't know where it came from, or why I still do it, other than it is a constant that makes life bearable and sometimes exciting. It extends far beyond food. My MP3 player is ordered in such a way that there are intervals between my favorite songs. So if I run through three Natalie Merchants songs that I sorta like I am rewarded by a quick rest with the Liz Phair song that I really like - and I'll have jogged for an extra 15 minutes longer than normal. If I spend my evening reading a good book then I must stay awake till 1am doing the laundry (instead of, you know, leaving it for later like a normal person.) If I skip washing the car tonight then I have to wax it the next time. Didn't do sit-ups yesterday? Can't wear the jean skirt today. Back and forth, back and forth.
And my life's enemy becomes myself. Perhaps I'm not crazy and other people employ these tactics to stay afloat and grown-up. Perhaps I was just infused with a healthy amount of unanswerable guilt as a kid. Perhaps my bouts of depression are all stemmed from my inability to let these little slip-ups go.
And perhaps my contemplation over a bowl of fruit can give me more insight into myself than I thought it could.
I on the other hand tend to eat things from least favorite to most, so that the last thing I eat is my favorite thing. Much like when I was a child and had to choke down my share of cow's tongue. I would force the bumpy, grainy meat down my throat, then reward myself for not throwing it up by munching happily on my asparagus and peas.
What I could never understand though was why they always served milk with cow's tongue...that was just gross.
In anycase...I do the same thing today even when I am not faced with such horrors as borscht and cow's tongue (and lord save me - liver). Take my daily fruit salad for instance. The cantaloupe goes first, then the honeydew. Now I like cantaloupe and honeydew fine, in fact I am very favorable towards honeydew, but when in contention with my third and fourth picks (watermelon and grapes) they fall short. I never mix up eating my fruit (like say eating a melon piece then eating a grape) all of them have to be eaten together, at the same time. Then they are broken down by appearance and size as well. Small goes first, juiciest pieces go last. In the end I am left with a salad plate full of grapes to munch on and leave me with a good grape-y feeling all the day.
I have, as my tastes and motor-skills improve, taken my need to separate and rank foodstuffs to a whole new level. I do it in my mouth. A scoop of my favorite ice cream (Coldstone's Sweet Cream with Gummi Bear mix-in's) provide me with infinite tongue exercise. First and foremost is my visual ranking. Red bears first, followed by yellow, green and white etc. Of course since it's mixed in sometimes I miss a couple of bears and end up having to eat a green bear after I've started on the white or something. And this is fine...which I think is a testament to my potential for sanity. I'm not going to be washing my hands five hundred times a day anytime soon.
However, once I have done a quick initial survey of my ice cream there is the problem of the scoop. If I scoop carefully I can get a bite of cream with just one bear present. Once scooped it should be a mere matter to consume. However, it's not. I have to separate, with my tongue, the cream from the bear, completely. I will not chew on the bear till the cream is melted and gone. To the normal onlooker it just seems like I'm enjoying my ice cream and savoring each creamy taste...but so much more is happening.
Once the bear has been separated and cleaned thoroughly, I start to swirl it around to make sure that the first bite will be the deadly jugular-esque guillotine bite. In short - First I bite the head off...then I suck the guts out...oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Okay, maybe not really. But I do bite the head first, then the arms and legs (tricky, cause your mouth is cold and your bear is small). Then I can either suck the rest of the gelatiny mammal to just the idea of sugar, or chomp it all up and start on the next bear.
People wonder why it takes me so long to eat ice cream.
After my discussion with my husband last night, and my observation of other restuarant-goers scarffing down their food indiscriminately - I think I might be weird. More so, because I see my denial of all the good parts of my meal as a challenge, a hurdle, and ultimately a self-punishment.
I'm notorious for not being able to finish my food. Eating is a very delicate thing with me. Eat too late and I can't eat a lot, eat too early and I can't remember to stop before I eat too much. Eat too fast - I get sick. Eat too slow, or allow me to talk during the meal, and I will fill myself on my own bloviating rather than my chicken ceasar salad. It makes me feel guilty. So many people have never seen just one full plate of food and I who am never in want for food can't even finish my own plate. It also makes me guilty when my husband is watching me. He takes me out to nice places, I get something I want and then barely touch it. I end up being that nightmare of all men who date, even if I do always take price into account when ordering food. I don't mean too, but I just can't eat that much at one time, my stomach will not hold it all.
That's where the self-punishment comes in. My husband has made a few jokes about my eating habits, but he never comes off as too annoyed or concerned with it. It may in fact be because he isn't annoyed or concerned, but the fact remains I feel guilty and I can twist that guilt in a hundred different ways till I feel like he is supremely disappointed in me and I have failed him. All from some leftover lettuce.
However, the guilt is relieved when I "punish" myself. If I eat my least favorite foods first and save the best for last...I will have to eat the whole thing in order to get to the last part. If I don't finish this hamburger, I won't get to eat any fries. And if I can't finish the whole meal, the only parts of it I was deprived of were the parts I really wanted...and it's all my own fault for not finishing my plate.
Of course all this is an inner monologue. And as I look back on it - probably a pretty freaky one. However, I get so tired of making so many decisions, of being so rigidly and boringly self-disciplined that I have to find secret ways of rewarding and punishing myself. I don't know where it came from, or why I still do it, other than it is a constant that makes life bearable and sometimes exciting. It extends far beyond food. My MP3 player is ordered in such a way that there are intervals between my favorite songs. So if I run through three Natalie Merchants songs that I sorta like I am rewarded by a quick rest with the Liz Phair song that I really like - and I'll have jogged for an extra 15 minutes longer than normal. If I spend my evening reading a good book then I must stay awake till 1am doing the laundry (instead of, you know, leaving it for later like a normal person.) If I skip washing the car tonight then I have to wax it the next time. Didn't do sit-ups yesterday? Can't wear the jean skirt today. Back and forth, back and forth.
And my life's enemy becomes myself. Perhaps I'm not crazy and other people employ these tactics to stay afloat and grown-up. Perhaps I was just infused with a healthy amount of unanswerable guilt as a kid. Perhaps my bouts of depression are all stemmed from my inability to let these little slip-ups go.
And perhaps my contemplation over a bowl of fruit can give me more insight into myself than I thought it could.
People watching
We went to see Corpse Bride last night. It was cute - the trailer for Harry Potter looks awesome. These facts and opinions are not the purpose of this post.
We sat in front of a group of girls, or women, probably my age or a little younger before the movie. Their chatter was idiotic and for some reason it ticked my husband off. Of course he didn't want to talk with me and ignore the girls so he sat around being grouchy, swearing every time I tried to bring up a new topic and in general working towards his premium membership in Oscars's Grouch Club. Seriously...I'm buying him a trashcan for Christmas. And an elephant...
Despite my partner's melancholy I still enjoyed listening to the little girls prattle. The best part of the whole conversation was this little gem:
"I haven't spent anything. I mean I could move out, but why spend money on a place of my own when I can live in hell for free."
"With your Mom?"
"Yeah, for free."
Indeed.
However, though our movie was spent surrounded by discontented youth, our dinner before the movie was spent surrounded by babies. One particular baby. She was adorable. While her parents argued over fajitas or taquitos she devised the most fascinating game ever. She took a folded napkin, grabbed hold, moved it up onto the table and smiled. She then proceeded to move the napkin back down to her high chair. And then up to the table again. Then back down. I was enthralled. I could not figure out where the joy in this game came from - but it was certainly there because she did it for the better part of 15 minutes. Impressive - especially for a baby.
When the food came she decided that all tortillas taste better when eaten off one's wrist. And in the process of placing the food on her wrist then gnawing on her mexican-flavored arm my husband caught her eye. The little vixen. We waved.
"Smile." I directed my normally gruff-faced husband. He did. Then went back to his beer.
The baby kept looking.
"You must be funny looking." I stated.
"Must be." he mumbled into his enchilada.
The fact is, he must exude something unseen to normal people. For some reason he attracts the undivided attention of small babies and deadly predators - such as jaguars, tigers, and really mean swans. Having a wife who is, shall we say, kitty-crazy, we go to see the big cats a lot. And every time we do they always follow C. It never fails. I'm not sure if they feel he's a threat to their territory or would just make a pretty good midday snack. Regardless, it's freaky the way they look at him. I swear their eyes glow red.
It's also a little disconcerting how long babies will stare at him. The girl last night did not take her eyes off him till we left. Is this because he looks grouchy? Does it worry the kids that he's such a sourpuss? Is it the fact his hair looks like it'd be fun to pet? (And it is very fun to pet.) Does he have an aura that magnetically attracts babies with little communication skills? Maybe it's cause he's got that round baby face stuck on a very not-baby body.
Whatever it is I sometimes worry that uncaged babies will try to eat him one day. That'd be just awful.
We sat in front of a group of girls, or women, probably my age or a little younger before the movie. Their chatter was idiotic and for some reason it ticked my husband off. Of course he didn't want to talk with me and ignore the girls so he sat around being grouchy, swearing every time I tried to bring up a new topic and in general working towards his premium membership in Oscars's Grouch Club. Seriously...I'm buying him a trashcan for Christmas. And an elephant...
Despite my partner's melancholy I still enjoyed listening to the little girls prattle. The best part of the whole conversation was this little gem:
"I haven't spent anything. I mean I could move out, but why spend money on a place of my own when I can live in hell for free."
"With your Mom?"
"Yeah, for free."
Indeed.
However, though our movie was spent surrounded by discontented youth, our dinner before the movie was spent surrounded by babies. One particular baby. She was adorable. While her parents argued over fajitas or taquitos she devised the most fascinating game ever. She took a folded napkin, grabbed hold, moved it up onto the table and smiled. She then proceeded to move the napkin back down to her high chair. And then up to the table again. Then back down. I was enthralled. I could not figure out where the joy in this game came from - but it was certainly there because she did it for the better part of 15 minutes. Impressive - especially for a baby.
When the food came she decided that all tortillas taste better when eaten off one's wrist. And in the process of placing the food on her wrist then gnawing on her mexican-flavored arm my husband caught her eye. The little vixen. We waved.
"Smile." I directed my normally gruff-faced husband. He did. Then went back to his beer.
The baby kept looking.
"You must be funny looking." I stated.
"Must be." he mumbled into his enchilada.
The fact is, he must exude something unseen to normal people. For some reason he attracts the undivided attention of small babies and deadly predators - such as jaguars, tigers, and really mean swans. Having a wife who is, shall we say, kitty-crazy, we go to see the big cats a lot. And every time we do they always follow C. It never fails. I'm not sure if they feel he's a threat to their territory or would just make a pretty good midday snack. Regardless, it's freaky the way they look at him. I swear their eyes glow red.
It's also a little disconcerting how long babies will stare at him. The girl last night did not take her eyes off him till we left. Is this because he looks grouchy? Does it worry the kids that he's such a sourpuss? Is it the fact his hair looks like it'd be fun to pet? (And it is very fun to pet.) Does he have an aura that magnetically attracts babies with little communication skills? Maybe it's cause he's got that round baby face stuck on a very not-baby body.
Whatever it is I sometimes worry that uncaged babies will try to eat him one day. That'd be just awful.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Thursday Poem #1
On Thursdays I publish a report involving a bunch of different commodities. Each group supposedly sends me their report and then I re-do it and format it to be part of the whole.
I say supposedly because there are always a few groups that never get me their reports on time. A huge offender is the Seafood team. I have found myself sending so many emails to them every Thursday asking the same damn thing in the same damn way I had to find some way to stop the monotony (and keep the mood light for them). So Thursday Poem Day was started. Initially I was just sending my favorite parts of Lewis Carroll poems and then lacing them in with the reports, but it was brought to my attention that you know I write a lot so I should compose things of my own.
I'm terrible at writing poetry. Honestly I suck at it. My hope is that as I struggle to throw something together every week for my report reminders, maybe I'll get a little better at this poetry thing.
And since I'm embarrassing myself in front of my fish people, why not go all out and embarrass myself on the web too.
Yesterdays Fish Poem Follows:
A fish could never write a book
He's far more concerned with hooks
He swims in schools but never learns
To write about his concerns
Instead we list the end
Of a fish who didn't spend
His fishy-fun time avoiding
Sports like angling and boating
And now our Thursday sport
Is attempting to write a report
Of a fish whose only fate
Is to end up on someone's plate!
In my defense...the reply to my poem from the fish team was:
We're done, at last to grant your wish
Here's our weekly report on fish
I say supposedly because there are always a few groups that never get me their reports on time. A huge offender is the Seafood team. I have found myself sending so many emails to them every Thursday asking the same damn thing in the same damn way I had to find some way to stop the monotony (and keep the mood light for them). So Thursday Poem Day was started. Initially I was just sending my favorite parts of Lewis Carroll poems and then lacing them in with the reports, but it was brought to my attention that you know I write a lot so I should compose things of my own.
I'm terrible at writing poetry. Honestly I suck at it. My hope is that as I struggle to throw something together every week for my report reminders, maybe I'll get a little better at this poetry thing.
And since I'm embarrassing myself in front of my fish people, why not go all out and embarrass myself on the web too.
Yesterdays Fish Poem Follows:
A fish could never write a book
He's far more concerned with hooks
He swims in schools but never learns
To write about his concerns
Instead we list the end
Of a fish who didn't spend
His fishy-fun time avoiding
Sports like angling and boating
And now our Thursday sport
Is attempting to write a report
Of a fish whose only fate
Is to end up on someone's plate!
In my defense...the reply to my poem from the fish team was:
We're done, at last to grant your wish
Here's our weekly report on fish
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Scaring the Straights
(Scaring the Straights {working title} is a fictional story in installments by Katy.)
CHAPTER I: HELLO! MY NAME IS:
A convention center would be lonely looking without conventions. There is too much space, like a sardine can that has no sardines in it, it's just sad. A convention center needs the booths, it needs the people. It gives it shape, it give it breath. A big empty warehouse can be transformed into a teaming mass of flesh that seems impenetrable.
Unless you actually look around.
Thousands of people walk by the steps. Some carrying plates of food, bags of swag and brochures. Most have coffee, or smell like they've had coffee. All of them wear the little blue and white tags that are the bane of every suit designers life: Hello! My name is:
A thousand names flash by. Hello! My name is: John. Hello! My name is: Peggy. My name is Joshua, Dave, Wazir, Julia K., Katrina, Corina, Michael, Matthew, Bob and Robert. Mary wrote her name in cursive, Jeff wrote in block letters. Francesca couldn't find a sharpie so she used a ballpoint. Travis Kovacevich tried to fit his whole name including the Jr. on the tag but had to write the r. on the side so it looks like his last name is smiling. It's rare to find a Kovacevich smiling...
The smell of more coffee. Burnt beans double packed into large urns. Lots of sugar and lots of cream hides the fact that it tastes like cardboard from the dumpsters outside. The good cookies are gone, all that's left are the oatmeal raisin and the bran muffins. People are beginning to break out their blackberries for their third morning check. The managers and CEO's forward all thirty messages on to their minions with little FYI notes. The minions are the ones who are headed for carpal tunnel by trying to posture themselves to their bosses with quick responses typed only by thumbs. I knew about this last week. The market is actually going up and I just spoke with....blah blah blah. Their bosses don't read it anyway and the assistants who are copied only skim to see if a meeting needs to be set up. Otherwise it's just a waste of electrons.
More names float by. Jennifer who adds in parentheses to call her "Jen". There is Indigo...guess how she was conceived. More John's, lots and lots of Johns. Amber, Rob, Robbie, Robert, Joe, Heather, Jules, Mackenzie - but her friends call her Mac, Patrick, Roslyn, Teresa, Lewis, Batman, Roy, Laura...Batman?
"You must be tired this morning."
Batman looks up at me standing on the stairs, he actually does look tired and, like everyone else, he smells of coffee. He's also got that wired vibe, the kind people have when they are awake only because of the four bottles of Jolt they downed last night. Sure they look like corpses but they feel like corpses in the electric chair.
"I'm sorry?" he asks. There's an edge there, like he's kicking himself inside for acknowledging my presence.
"Up all night and then here bright and early."
"What?" Now he's doing the back-off-slowly shuffle, like he was talking to a psycho.
"You know, up all night...fighting crime..." I look pointedly at his name tag...and he thinks I'm the psycho.
He looks pointedly at his name tag too. A light goes off in his head...it makes him look more jittery. In his mind he must be swearing.
"Oh. Right."
"So...do you wear vinyl or polyester or what? I've always wondered." I say casually...honestly "Oh right"? Theres a good conversation filler.
"I'm sorry...it was just a thing."
"Yeah I know all about it. You're parents were murdered so you taught yourself how to fight and then you swore to protect Gotham City..." The poor boy is squirming where he stands. Maybe I should cut him a break. "But really - Batman?"
"I was hoping people would think I was crazy and be too afraid to talk to me."
"Did it work?"
"Till you."
"No I thought you were crazy too."
"You just weren't afraid."
"Why should I be? Batman is a good guy." Then I stood up and put my suit jacket back on. The tag on the front says Hello! My name is:
Catwoman
"If you'll excuse me...I need a cup of coffee." I descend from my people-watching perch and brush past the caped crusader. The convention center seems smaller now, less expansive and packed. It breathes in and sweeps me off into the crowd, exhaling stale cookies and burnt coffee. Batman turns to watch me walk by and ends up bumping into Hello! My name is: Carol. By the time they've disentangled the convention center is big again and I'm just part of the mass of people who are too afraid to talk to Batman.
CHAPTER I: HELLO! MY NAME IS:
A convention center would be lonely looking without conventions. There is too much space, like a sardine can that has no sardines in it, it's just sad. A convention center needs the booths, it needs the people. It gives it shape, it give it breath. A big empty warehouse can be transformed into a teaming mass of flesh that seems impenetrable.
Unless you actually look around.
Thousands of people walk by the steps. Some carrying plates of food, bags of swag and brochures. Most have coffee, or smell like they've had coffee. All of them wear the little blue and white tags that are the bane of every suit designers life: Hello! My name is:
A thousand names flash by. Hello! My name is: John. Hello! My name is: Peggy. My name is Joshua, Dave, Wazir, Julia K., Katrina, Corina, Michael, Matthew, Bob and Robert. Mary wrote her name in cursive, Jeff wrote in block letters. Francesca couldn't find a sharpie so she used a ballpoint. Travis Kovacevich tried to fit his whole name including the Jr. on the tag but had to write the r. on the side so it looks like his last name is smiling. It's rare to find a Kovacevich smiling...
The smell of more coffee. Burnt beans double packed into large urns. Lots of sugar and lots of cream hides the fact that it tastes like cardboard from the dumpsters outside. The good cookies are gone, all that's left are the oatmeal raisin and the bran muffins. People are beginning to break out their blackberries for their third morning check. The managers and CEO's forward all thirty messages on to their minions with little FYI notes. The minions are the ones who are headed for carpal tunnel by trying to posture themselves to their bosses with quick responses typed only by thumbs. I knew about this last week. The market is actually going up and I just spoke with....blah blah blah. Their bosses don't read it anyway and the assistants who are copied only skim to see if a meeting needs to be set up. Otherwise it's just a waste of electrons.
More names float by. Jennifer who adds in parentheses to call her "Jen". There is Indigo...guess how she was conceived. More John's, lots and lots of Johns. Amber, Rob, Robbie, Robert, Joe, Heather, Jules, Mackenzie - but her friends call her Mac, Patrick, Roslyn, Teresa, Lewis, Batman, Roy, Laura...Batman?
"You must be tired this morning."
Batman looks up at me standing on the stairs, he actually does look tired and, like everyone else, he smells of coffee. He's also got that wired vibe, the kind people have when they are awake only because of the four bottles of Jolt they downed last night. Sure they look like corpses but they feel like corpses in the electric chair.
"I'm sorry?" he asks. There's an edge there, like he's kicking himself inside for acknowledging my presence.
"Up all night and then here bright and early."
"What?" Now he's doing the back-off-slowly shuffle, like he was talking to a psycho.
"You know, up all night...fighting crime..." I look pointedly at his name tag...and he thinks I'm the psycho.
He looks pointedly at his name tag too. A light goes off in his head...it makes him look more jittery. In his mind he must be swearing.
"Oh. Right."
"So...do you wear vinyl or polyester or what? I've always wondered." I say casually...honestly "Oh right"? Theres a good conversation filler.
"I'm sorry...it was just a thing."
"Yeah I know all about it. You're parents were murdered so you taught yourself how to fight and then you swore to protect Gotham City..." The poor boy is squirming where he stands. Maybe I should cut him a break. "But really - Batman?"
"I was hoping people would think I was crazy and be too afraid to talk to me."
"Did it work?"
"Till you."
"No I thought you were crazy too."
"You just weren't afraid."
"Why should I be? Batman is a good guy." Then I stood up and put my suit jacket back on. The tag on the front says Hello! My name is:
Catwoman
"If you'll excuse me...I need a cup of coffee." I descend from my people-watching perch and brush past the caped crusader. The convention center seems smaller now, less expansive and packed. It breathes in and sweeps me off into the crowd, exhaling stale cookies and burnt coffee. Batman turns to watch me walk by and ends up bumping into Hello! My name is: Carol. By the time they've disentangled the convention center is big again and I'm just part of the mass of people who are too afraid to talk to Batman.
It's my blog and I'll be happy if I want too.
My cellphone doesn't get very good reception in my house. It works everywhere...but there. So when my Mom called my cell phone last night I didn't even hear it.
No matter - this morning I had a new voicemail waiting for me. It waited while I trucked my stuff to the car, waited while I sat in traffic on the 295, waited in traffic on the 32. It waited till I had fetched coffee and calendars for my bosses...then it got all my attention.
My Mama had her ultrasound for her biopsy yesterday. Previously these ultrasounds have found bumps and shadows and all sorts of things in the vicinity of her lungs and breasts. But yesterday they couldn't even find a cyst. Nothing...not a thing. No cutting my Mom up and no shooting her full of stuff.
This is good news. During Breast Cancer Awareness Month you're surrounded by stories and memories. My co-workers, my friends, my aunts (every single one of them), my grandma, my great-grandma. The list grows. Then you find out that people you barely know have been battling cancer for years too. The one good thought that comes from BCAM...most of these women are still alive.
In anycase, in the face of all this gloom and horror - there is good news. Sometimes it really is just a dirty film.
No matter - this morning I had a new voicemail waiting for me. It waited while I trucked my stuff to the car, waited while I sat in traffic on the 295, waited in traffic on the 32. It waited till I had fetched coffee and calendars for my bosses...then it got all my attention.
My Mama had her ultrasound for her biopsy yesterday. Previously these ultrasounds have found bumps and shadows and all sorts of things in the vicinity of her lungs and breasts. But yesterday they couldn't even find a cyst. Nothing...not a thing. No cutting my Mom up and no shooting her full of stuff.
This is good news. During Breast Cancer Awareness Month you're surrounded by stories and memories. My co-workers, my friends, my aunts (every single one of them), my grandma, my great-grandma. The list grows. Then you find out that people you barely know have been battling cancer for years too. The one good thought that comes from BCAM...most of these women are still alive.
In anycase, in the face of all this gloom and horror - there is good news. Sometimes it really is just a dirty film.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Shakedown
I hate to say this (mostly because for some reason there is a high school teacher haunting my blog, otherwise I wouldn't feel guilty) but I learned very little from my AP American History teacher in high school. Actually I learned very little from most of my high school teachers. As I talk more and more with my fellow scholastic-over-achievers from my childhood we've all noticed that most of our skills and knowledge came from our 8th grade Honors English teacher and our parents. Mostly our parents. Public education in Hawaii is some-what...lacking. Of course our high school achievements don't really matter now. Some yellow-sashed kids went to MIT, Harvard and Westpoint. One committed suicide, one dropped out of school to live in Amsterdam and one is now a successful, prize winning scientist. I skipped college, ran away to New York and then married a sailor. The devil is always in the details huh?
However! I did learn one extremely useful and interesting (at least to me) skill from my AP History teacher that I probably would never have learned from anyone else - The Art of the Handshake.
Shake on it Kathryn he told me one day when I had successfully argued my way out of one of his dumb recess I-am-a-God-and-you-are-my-minions Fests disguised as extra study time. Shake like a man, let me know who you are. Straighten the arm, but never reach - let them come to you. Fit your thumb into the hand - all the way to the heel, wrap firmly and shake down once. That's how you shake like a man Kathryn, that's how you seal the deal.
It is also, I learned later, a good way to size up a person quickly and let them know exactly where they stand in the pecking order.
Every handshake to me is a little war. A little stand-off on a hill. I'm sure most of it is subconscious in ourselves...but all the little details in a handshake really put forth an idea of the person and the situation. How long do you hold a hand? When do you make eye contact and when do you break it? Do you shake or let it hang? How far do you reach? How hard do you squeeze? One hand or two? There are so many little parts of a handshake that can give away so much.
I particularly enjoy shaking hands with politicians (something you get to do a lot when your Father is a Business and Government Reporter.) Shaking the hand of a politician is like cracking open a bad egg. You sit for hours listening to them posture about their strength and importance, then you shake their hands. The good ones shake male hands firmly, locked in tight, almost like they were sharing a confidence. Female hands they completely enclose, but never firmly. Like they were holding the hand of a porcelain doll. But even if they are good handshakers, politicians always reach - they always come to you. Maybe it's because their job is all about begging, always begging for a vote, for a favor. Maybe they're the ultimate service worker, maybe they just didn't know you should let people come to you.
Business men on the other hand are choosy about who they reach out for. Customers obviously can wait for the hand to come to them, Salesmen need to have long arms. Men will always reach out for women - irregardless of the position that woman holds. Most business men have a firm grip, almost far too tight. You'd think they were holding money in their hand rather than flesh. Business men also like to shake in a closed body position. While most people will face you at least a little and open the torso to shake, Business men will turn their sides to you, even reach over their chests to get to you. If they are facing directly they won't make eye contact, or they will turn their feet opposite. Also, the stronger of the business men will keep both feet on the ground, while the weaker will lift their heels, or even the entire foot.
The more I live within the corporate world the more I realize that this might be a guard against false friends. So many times I see my bosses chatter with associates back and forth about trivial matters. What they had for dinner last night, the next great movie. But they never feel any real interest towards any of these personal subjects. In fact they probably hate one another...but they have to look like their close friends - just to keep everyone else out.
Of course I'm picking on the men because by and large handshaking is a "man" thing. Men have been doing it for a long time...centuries. Back when men offered hands to show they weren't carrying any weapons...women didn't have much call to get out of the house. It's only been recently that female handshakes have come into their own.
And we do have one and it is extremely powerful. As male hands grow bigger and ours remain small we have to find new ways to make the shake even, or perhaps gain ground. A man's hand can engulf a woman's. Often you can see men emphasizing the size difference by doing the double clasp. Grip the woman's hand and hold her arm out, then clasp your second hand over, turn your body completely toward her and lean in close. It's a complete violation of personal space and a big point for the man. He can say I have your arm, I have your space, I have your attention - all without looking like the ass he really is.
A woman's handshake needs to take control to even the odds before he can pull her in. A woman shake is all about withholding something, anything, everything. Maybe that's a metaphor for the way women need to behave in society, maybe it's just a skill we use subconsciously. Women, when they shake like women, only offer their fingers, and sometimes only their fingertips. They never hold their hand out. The elbow stays at our side, our forearm curves towards them, we beckon our victim towards us. Only the tip of the thumb will come in contact with the shakers hand, never the heel of the hand. It's not a hold. We caress their hand with our thumb, maybe rub their knuckle - just a little - to throw them off their guard. Make them look up, tilt their heads away from the shake and into our eyes. Give 'em the look. There are many versions of the look, the one that makes men want to protect us, the one that makes them want to comfort us, the one that makes them want to rip our clothes off. Women practice these looks, I know I did. It's an art, and when well-performed can get us whatever we want - whenever we want. Does this sound unfair? Try being 5'4'' surrounded by seven men who are all above 6'2'' and like to call you "kiddo". I use what I have.
A woman's shake is more about the eyes than about the hand. A good female handshaker will never let a man hold their hand for too long. They never bother to offer it in the first place. When it's good, a woman shaking your hand should feel like a gift. I am allowing you into my world for now...but not too close. Women usually smile - it's disarming. A pretty smile, a soft doe-eyed look, an elusive handshake. You can visibly see men get flustered with this. They straighten their collar, they turn their feet out, their hips slip out of line with their torso, they bend at the waist. All a girl has to do is shake nice.
Of course there are counter-measures to the all powerful feminine shake. I recently had dinner with a salesman who was trying to get my husband to buy his stuff. In addition to his impeccable clothing and brilliantly warm smile he had a very disarming handshake. Instead of reaching out and taking my fingers gently (as most men do) he turned his palm up. Usually, when offering just the tips of ones fingers there is the fear that the other party will hold them far too tight and squeeze the fingers together - even hurt them. My Father is a finger-hurter. No matter what men usually have a hard time not squishing fingers, which I've noticed usually gives the point to the woman. However, this particular salesman by-passed this problem by essentially bringing to my fingers a resting place. With his palm cupped up, fingers curved towards him, my own slender fingers fit perfectly over his. He was able to add pressure from the bottom, but caress my own knuckles instead of smashing my digits. He could have almost kissed my hand. He might have been able to pull it off too (if we weren't in a bar), however most men can't do the hand kissing thing without coming off as really creepy. I don't recommend it.
Kissing or no, the shake was sensuous and completely non-threatening and non-creepy. He certainly put me off my guard by treating me like a woman instead of a pint-sized man. There was no posturing from the double-clasp...just a simple change of the wrist and suddenly he was my guide rather than my follower. It was brilliant.
Beyond the hand-cupping shake men can also gain the "upper hand" of a woman by employing their eyes as well. Men who aren't afraid to hold eye contact with a woman and continue to have their hand get equal ground. Notice I said "have their hand" not "hold" because the perfect way to deal with a feminine shake is to simply let the hand rest, touch, and be. No shaking up and down, no clutching or grasping...simply sharing I suppose. Also, the look is important. A few men I've met can carry off a rather imposing look that is more erotic than condescending. My husband can't pull it off, and most men who think of themselves as "Dominant" or "Alpha Males" are really bad at it. Usually it's the quite ones who can look down at a woman or man...and make knees shake. Whenever I see these looks employed I notice that other men will pull their hands away first and women will keep their hands there longer. This has got to be one of those cave-man left overs...whatever it is...thank god for those looks.
If one can't pull off the uber look, a good friendly disarming smile and crinkling eyes will do the trick. Women will feel flattered and men will feel at ease.
So maybe this isn't a great primer on the intricacies of handshakes. It's really just a mix of my opinions and the many images I see as I go through life. But boy do I love handshakes...and boy do I love trying to read stuff into them. They really make me wag my tail. (Which is a whole 'nother post entirely.)
However! I did learn one extremely useful and interesting (at least to me) skill from my AP History teacher that I probably would never have learned from anyone else - The Art of the Handshake.
Shake on it Kathryn he told me one day when I had successfully argued my way out of one of his dumb recess I-am-a-God-and-you-are-my-minions Fests disguised as extra study time. Shake like a man, let me know who you are. Straighten the arm, but never reach - let them come to you. Fit your thumb into the hand - all the way to the heel, wrap firmly and shake down once. That's how you shake like a man Kathryn, that's how you seal the deal.
It is also, I learned later, a good way to size up a person quickly and let them know exactly where they stand in the pecking order.
Every handshake to me is a little war. A little stand-off on a hill. I'm sure most of it is subconscious in ourselves...but all the little details in a handshake really put forth an idea of the person and the situation. How long do you hold a hand? When do you make eye contact and when do you break it? Do you shake or let it hang? How far do you reach? How hard do you squeeze? One hand or two? There are so many little parts of a handshake that can give away so much.
I particularly enjoy shaking hands with politicians (something you get to do a lot when your Father is a Business and Government Reporter.) Shaking the hand of a politician is like cracking open a bad egg. You sit for hours listening to them posture about their strength and importance, then you shake their hands. The good ones shake male hands firmly, locked in tight, almost like they were sharing a confidence. Female hands they completely enclose, but never firmly. Like they were holding the hand of a porcelain doll. But even if they are good handshakers, politicians always reach - they always come to you. Maybe it's because their job is all about begging, always begging for a vote, for a favor. Maybe they're the ultimate service worker, maybe they just didn't know you should let people come to you.
Business men on the other hand are choosy about who they reach out for. Customers obviously can wait for the hand to come to them, Salesmen need to have long arms. Men will always reach out for women - irregardless of the position that woman holds. Most business men have a firm grip, almost far too tight. You'd think they were holding money in their hand rather than flesh. Business men also like to shake in a closed body position. While most people will face you at least a little and open the torso to shake, Business men will turn their sides to you, even reach over their chests to get to you. If they are facing directly they won't make eye contact, or they will turn their feet opposite. Also, the stronger of the business men will keep both feet on the ground, while the weaker will lift their heels, or even the entire foot.
The more I live within the corporate world the more I realize that this might be a guard against false friends. So many times I see my bosses chatter with associates back and forth about trivial matters. What they had for dinner last night, the next great movie. But they never feel any real interest towards any of these personal subjects. In fact they probably hate one another...but they have to look like their close friends - just to keep everyone else out.
Of course I'm picking on the men because by and large handshaking is a "man" thing. Men have been doing it for a long time...centuries. Back when men offered hands to show they weren't carrying any weapons...women didn't have much call to get out of the house. It's only been recently that female handshakes have come into their own.
And we do have one and it is extremely powerful. As male hands grow bigger and ours remain small we have to find new ways to make the shake even, or perhaps gain ground. A man's hand can engulf a woman's. Often you can see men emphasizing the size difference by doing the double clasp. Grip the woman's hand and hold her arm out, then clasp your second hand over, turn your body completely toward her and lean in close. It's a complete violation of personal space and a big point for the man. He can say I have your arm, I have your space, I have your attention - all without looking like the ass he really is.
A woman's handshake needs to take control to even the odds before he can pull her in. A woman shake is all about withholding something, anything, everything. Maybe that's a metaphor for the way women need to behave in society, maybe it's just a skill we use subconsciously. Women, when they shake like women, only offer their fingers, and sometimes only their fingertips. They never hold their hand out. The elbow stays at our side, our forearm curves towards them, we beckon our victim towards us. Only the tip of the thumb will come in contact with the shakers hand, never the heel of the hand. It's not a hold. We caress their hand with our thumb, maybe rub their knuckle - just a little - to throw them off their guard. Make them look up, tilt their heads away from the shake and into our eyes. Give 'em the look. There are many versions of the look, the one that makes men want to protect us, the one that makes them want to comfort us, the one that makes them want to rip our clothes off. Women practice these looks, I know I did. It's an art, and when well-performed can get us whatever we want - whenever we want. Does this sound unfair? Try being 5'4'' surrounded by seven men who are all above 6'2'' and like to call you "kiddo". I use what I have.
A woman's shake is more about the eyes than about the hand. A good female handshaker will never let a man hold their hand for too long. They never bother to offer it in the first place. When it's good, a woman shaking your hand should feel like a gift. I am allowing you into my world for now...but not too close. Women usually smile - it's disarming. A pretty smile, a soft doe-eyed look, an elusive handshake. You can visibly see men get flustered with this. They straighten their collar, they turn their feet out, their hips slip out of line with their torso, they bend at the waist. All a girl has to do is shake nice.
Of course there are counter-measures to the all powerful feminine shake. I recently had dinner with a salesman who was trying to get my husband to buy his stuff. In addition to his impeccable clothing and brilliantly warm smile he had a very disarming handshake. Instead of reaching out and taking my fingers gently (as most men do) he turned his palm up. Usually, when offering just the tips of ones fingers there is the fear that the other party will hold them far too tight and squeeze the fingers together - even hurt them. My Father is a finger-hurter. No matter what men usually have a hard time not squishing fingers, which I've noticed usually gives the point to the woman. However, this particular salesman by-passed this problem by essentially bringing to my fingers a resting place. With his palm cupped up, fingers curved towards him, my own slender fingers fit perfectly over his. He was able to add pressure from the bottom, but caress my own knuckles instead of smashing my digits. He could have almost kissed my hand. He might have been able to pull it off too (if we weren't in a bar), however most men can't do the hand kissing thing without coming off as really creepy. I don't recommend it.
Kissing or no, the shake was sensuous and completely non-threatening and non-creepy. He certainly put me off my guard by treating me like a woman instead of a pint-sized man. There was no posturing from the double-clasp...just a simple change of the wrist and suddenly he was my guide rather than my follower. It was brilliant.
Beyond the hand-cupping shake men can also gain the "upper hand" of a woman by employing their eyes as well. Men who aren't afraid to hold eye contact with a woman and continue to have their hand get equal ground. Notice I said "have their hand" not "hold" because the perfect way to deal with a feminine shake is to simply let the hand rest, touch, and be. No shaking up and down, no clutching or grasping...simply sharing I suppose. Also, the look is important. A few men I've met can carry off a rather imposing look that is more erotic than condescending. My husband can't pull it off, and most men who think of themselves as "Dominant" or "Alpha Males" are really bad at it. Usually it's the quite ones who can look down at a woman or man...and make knees shake. Whenever I see these looks employed I notice that other men will pull their hands away first and women will keep their hands there longer. This has got to be one of those cave-man left overs...whatever it is...thank god for those looks.
If one can't pull off the uber look, a good friendly disarming smile and crinkling eyes will do the trick. Women will feel flattered and men will feel at ease.
So maybe this isn't a great primer on the intricacies of handshakes. It's really just a mix of my opinions and the many images I see as I go through life. But boy do I love handshakes...and boy do I love trying to read stuff into them. They really make me wag my tail. (Which is a whole 'nother post entirely.)
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Doing It
Last Thursday we went to our first yoga class. I really enjoyed it. The husband liked it too, though you couldn't tell from all the groaning and fussing coming from my left side. I have to admit some of the poses were a tad difficult...but seriously, shush people.
Ever notice how it's mostly the men who whine in classes like that. The women stay silent. Maybe it's like a tool for attention or something. I dunno. All I know is that in all the classes I take I rarely hear a girl fuss or groan when we do something hard.
But that's not the point to this post. The point is something our teacher said in the beginning. I'm trying to remember exactly how he said it, but I probably have a few things wrong.
What's it feel like? (silence) What does it feel like to be doing? Doing something? (more silence)
Everyone get these ideas to try something, to do something that may make life better. That little seed gets planted, but for whatever reason the phone call isn't made, the appointment isn't set, the time never comes up. For whatever reason, we just never follow through.
But by virtue of you being here, at this class, you did it. You did something. Where ever the seed came from, you decided to give it a chance. And whether this is the last time you come here, or if you decided to continue, you made that step. You did something.
What does it feel like?
I'm not sure what it feels like. Like I want to keep making steps, like I need to keep making steps. Like I'm finally the one empowered rather than being the one who is empowering.
I think though that that little speech is gonna stick with me.
What does it feel like to be doing something?
Ever notice how it's mostly the men who whine in classes like that. The women stay silent. Maybe it's like a tool for attention or something. I dunno. All I know is that in all the classes I take I rarely hear a girl fuss or groan when we do something hard.
But that's not the point to this post. The point is something our teacher said in the beginning. I'm trying to remember exactly how he said it, but I probably have a few things wrong.
What's it feel like? (silence) What does it feel like to be doing? Doing something? (more silence)
Everyone get these ideas to try something, to do something that may make life better. That little seed gets planted, but for whatever reason the phone call isn't made, the appointment isn't set, the time never comes up. For whatever reason, we just never follow through.
But by virtue of you being here, at this class, you did it. You did something. Where ever the seed came from, you decided to give it a chance. And whether this is the last time you come here, or if you decided to continue, you made that step. You did something.
What does it feel like?
I'm not sure what it feels like. Like I want to keep making steps, like I need to keep making steps. Like I'm finally the one empowered rather than being the one who is empowering.
I think though that that little speech is gonna stick with me.
What does it feel like to be doing something?
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