Hon! Can You Get Me a Sandwich?

On a recent Saturday I was enjoying an afternoon of cartoons. After about half an hour, I noticed a disturbing pattern in the commercials. For little boys there were commercials about monster trucks, muscular action figures, and things that explode. Little boys were shown throwing their heads back and giggling or making the sound effects that only little boys make when in the thick of playtime. It was all fun and games until the the commercials aimed at little girls aired. Toy ovens, little vacuum cleaners, and babies who could really cry and pee were advertised to appease little princesses. I kept watching hoping that at some point there would be a commercial for Ivy League, Presidential, or Business Suit Barbie, but that never happened. The whole experience got me thinking about the way we are trained to believe what our roles are from early on and how those assumptions can ultimately be a detriment to us as adults.

Based on what I saw that day, I feel it safe to assume that the message sent to our kids early on is that the role of boys is to play while girls are supposed to pick up the boys' toys and cook post-recreation snacks in a tiny oven heated by a light bulb. While Little Tommy is making his volcano explode and fighting imaginary wars with his superhero action figures, Little Susie is in the back room wearing an apron, pushing her baby mop, and trying to stop the crying of her ever peeing baby. As it is in kid land, so it is in adulthood.

Though many of us are much more evolved than what was implied by the advertising I saw, there are many who still subscribe to the implied theory that men make messes and women serve to clean them up. In adult television programming the husband is often a selfish, immature oaf who is always getting into trouble and the wife is a homemaking saint who rules with an iron fist (the other hand is used to dust something). This premise comes from somewhere and I am now convinced that place is childhood. Despite what appears to be a dire existence, I am convinced there is hope. That hope starts with teaching our children their REAL roles; those of self-sufficient, responsible, fair-minded, humans with integrity. Once we implement this theory, our boys will know they don't have to be limited to living as a silly man who does nothing but make trouble for his wife and our little girls will know their adult existence doesn't have to be spent at the beck and call of a man who "underappreciates" her greatness.

I am sure I won't have a job in advertising but I will have a hand in helping to mold the minds of my future children, nieces, and nephews. It is time we stop limiting our children based on gender and start encouraging them to move beyond the dribble we pass off as gender roles.

Chicken, Watermelon, and What Not

A few weeks back I went out for sushi with an old friend. While taking advantage of the 99 cent saki bombs, he decided to be generous and buy one for the stranger sitting next to us. After we toasted the man thanked my friend for the drink and asked what we were having. My friend told him since he's a regular and the chef experiments and makes him "surprises". I told him I wasn't a sushi fan and was opting for chicken instead. The man shook his head disapprovingly and said, "Well, that's what you people do. You're always eating chicken and watermelon". Wanting desperately to avoid assault charges and a trip to the county jail, we instead opted for open mouths indicating shock and mild chiding. Somehow I just couldn't see this one dummy being worth the trouble and high cost of legal fees (particularly without the privilege of being able to call the late, great Johnny Cocoran for back up).

After calming down, the incident made me think about all this crazy talk about a "post racial America". I looked it up on Google Maps, Mapquest, and even the foremost authority on all things; Wikipedia, but could find no information on the coordinates of this magical land. It seems just as elusive and mythological as the unicorn we all wished we could see as children. It is beyond naive for anyone to suddenly think the nomination of a half black president in these United States is the cure all for the institution of racism that has ailed us since the founding of this nation. Crosses haven't stopped burning, cops haven't stopped pulling over young black men who appear too smart, too hood, too affluent, or too confident as a way to satisfy their weekly "harass a nigga" quotas, and the housing, banking, and lending industries have not suddenly become level playing fields for blacks and other people of color. So, what exactly is this "post racial" utopia of which everyone has been speaking? If anything, the nomination of Barack Obama has only served to strengthen the resolve of those who would destroy black Americans if only given the chance.

Post election I've had more discussions on race with negative end results than ever before. I have found myself the brunt of blunt racial discrimination more often. My work place has become more racially charged and I am constantly being asked questions about the actions of the President in a ridiculous exercise in tokenism. And despite my anger at it being assumed I am some type of "Obamist" with all the answers on Barack and every other black person in the public eye, I still feel the need to speak up in the most dire situations because I feel we are often so misrepresented in every public arena.

The more I take the time to look around me, the more I am convinced of the impending arrival of a race war of epic proportions. Racists are mad as hell the President of "their" great nation is one of my fellow fried chicken and watermelon eating darkies and they aren't going to stand for it for too long. Words like "socialist" and "liberal" and phrases like, "I want my country back" are not pleas for peace in America, folks. These are covert attempts at describing the despair, disgust, and helplessness racists feel at the hands of a black world leader. These people won't just go around protesting and holding their misspelled signs for long. At some point more aggressive action will be taken and all Americans of color need to be prepared. This isn't something that can be fixed with a bomb shelter and a two year supply of Chef Boyardee. This is psychological warfare than can only be battled with the weapon of intellect. So, black folks, wake up. We are nowhere near a post racial America. We are nowhere near a country in which we can coexist peacefully and respectfully or hold hands and sing. And though this truth is ugly, it is real. We must put down the watermelon, turn off the deep fryer, and prepare for mental fisticuffs because this thing is not going away any time soon.

I'll Cut Ya!

Lately I've been avoiding the local news like a copy of the Watchtower but tonight I got sucked in. The first story of the evening was about three school districts in northern California that are laying off teachers, office workers, and custodial staff in the next three weeks. As I watched the wife of a soon to be unemployed custodian and thirty year school district employee cry and talk about how after all these years his take home pay is only about 22k, I thought about the future of our children and the Wall Street employees who are home sitting on a deck with a glass of fine wine while enjoying the fruits of my bailout money.

Surely this can't be right. How is it a bank can be too big to fail but we don't think of our children in the same way? Our young people are too RELEVANT to fail yet the more economically challenged our country becomes the more interest there seems to be in saving the necks of the haves. Who will have anything in the future if our children don't receive the quality foundational education needed to thrive? While parents in these districts may have to find new schools for their children to attend because of school closures, some seflish prick from Bear Stearns is preparing to send his child to some overpriced Ivy League school. I'm unable to close my eyes and convince myself that any of this is right.

People are constantly complaining about unruly, uncultured, uneducated, and uncouth children running about with no direction. We fuss when we see them crowding the malls and disturbing our shopping experiences (at least, I do). We shake our heads and roll our eyes when we see our young girls pregnant or our young boys standing on corners investing in lifetime careers in nothingness yet we stand by and watch our educational system, one of the few things that can actually serve to save our children, be destroyed due to greed and manipulation. Where are our priorities?

Teachers who help foster the academic growth of those who end up as Wall Street workers don't even make a third of what these fat cats receive in bonuses let alone annual income. However teachers are losing their homes, cars, and jobs due to no fault of their own. It disturbs me that we live in a society that goes to cuts of the most valuable services before considering the long term impact on our future. These cuts to our educational budget will only lead to our children "cutting up" or not making the cut when it comes time to apply for a decent college to attend. The last I checked, cuts of any kind have served no purpose other than to hurt.

Tryin' To Get It Write

I just completed my first of what feels like a million courses in my pursuit for an undergraduate degree. I wasn't naive enough to think that it would be easy, but I was just green enough to think I'd actually still have time for a personal life. Unfortunately, instead of a life of part time chillin' and part time schoolin', I've spent the past five weeks attached to my laptop or staring intently at my work pc trying to decipher the other people's crazy talk while attempting to write some of my own. I had classmate drama, encountered countless illiterates, and contemplated paying the price for a plane ticket that would get me to the right town to slap my learning team mate. In the midst of all this drama, the time I usually spend writing was taken up by a mandatory evil. I jotted down subjects I wanted to blog about but never seemed to have one good moment to sit down and type. Lack of writing for my much needed release was definitely beginning to take its toll on me. It all changed when I got some advice from someone dear to me. He told me not to let school stand in the way of my education. At first I thought, "Oh boy, another cliche for me to file away and never use again", but almost as soon as I tried to poo poo his words, they resonated with me. I really spent five weeks of my life so focused on something I had to do that I failed to make time for the thing that I WANT to do. Writing keeps me sane, sharpens my imagination, and releases my tension. Instead of writing for pleasure, I've been spending all of my time writing in order to be able to check a box. The words he spoke reminded me that school is not the only thing that is important. Though it will definitely help me in my future, writing is what continues to help me today. I'm back.

GyNO Thank You

I like my gynecologist, at least as much as a woman can like a man who tells her medical future by ramming his fingers up her inside parts while telling her to please relax her stomach muscles. He's a nice man with kind eyes. He takes his time to answer my questions, and he actually listens when I'm talking to him. However, despite the many brownie points I give him for his excellent bedside manner, a trip to see him still entails all the things I hate about going to a gyno appointment.

First off, I hate the fact that I have to get on the scale when I'm really at the hospital to get something checked that has nothing to do with how fat or fit I am. I suppose the fact that I hate the scale has a lot to do with the fact that I am more fat than fit but, I digress. There is usually some chatty medial office technician rambling on and on in small talk language who I secretly wish had an actual zipper on her face that would close her mouth. After suffering the humiliation of the scale and a quick check of my blood pressure, it's on to the real fun in the examination room.

After further questions about why I'm there and when was the first day of my last period, the medical assistant tells me to further embarrass myself and possibly my gyno, by taking off all my clothes and putting on the pretty hospital gown with the gaping hole in the back just in case one wasn't suffering from enough chagrin already. During the disrobing process I find myself doing what I'm sure many other women do; I fold up my clothes leaving them in a neat pile on the chair then fold my bra and panties to the tiniest proportions possible and hide them between my top and pants. I don't really know why this is the protocol since the person I'm visiting is about to see parts of me I haven't even seen before. It's just some unspoken rule amongst women that undies are not to be left in plain sight even if one is clothed in a very unflattering hospital gown.

It seems as if the wait for the doctor is either too long or too short. Either I'm sitting on the examination table, cold and uncomfortable, reading a Ladies Home Journal from 1991 with Jane Seymour dressed as Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on the cover OR the gyno knocks on the door and enters just as I'm bent over with my soon to be hidden panties around my ankles. Of course it is also baffling why I jump and try to cover up when his entry precedes me getting on the gown considering the fact that I'm going to bare all in the near future. I sit on the table while we talk about any concerns I may have. After the niceties, the dreaded examination begins. It starts with about three palms full of lube followed by a speculum which I believe is an ancient Greek word for "evil instrument of torture made expressly for women".

The doctor gets a sample of what's happening with my innards, then helps me sit up and remove my feet from the stirrups. Now, when I was a young, pre-OB girl, I thought of stirrups as those awful looking leggings with straps for one's feet. Now I've come to think of them as an unfortunate yet necessary evil. Surely these things were created by a man because anyone who has had to put her feet in a pair would know the deal. Why don't stirrups move to the sides the way my feet move to the sides? They aren't really supporting my legs if I'm using my toes to grip the sides of the stirrups in an effort to avoid falling off the table. Oh, the horror!

After the exam, my gyno tells me I can get dressed and open the door when I'm finished so he can come back in and finish speaking with me. He hands me a box of tiny ass tissues that are almost too small to wipe a newborn baby's nose so I can clean up the 64 ounces of goo he used on me before the examination. Who's idea was it to use the smallest tissues known to man? Frankly, after an appointment with the gyno, I need a roll of soft ply paper towels to get myself to my original state. I wonder why he is even bothering to leave the room at all. The conversation started with me wearing that stupid gown so there's no reason why it can't end with me donning the same thing. I can't imagine that it's for modesty because a man who just had his fingers on my cervix should certainly not be embarrassed about chatting with me further while I'm wearing an open in the back gown. Maybe it's just me, but I doubt it.

All told, a trip to my gyno or any other gyno can be a trying experience. It is one thing I'm glad I only have to endure once every other year, sort of like smog checks. At least with those, I get a certificate. Happy paping.

Lent Lament

Yesterday I ate a small loaf of sourdough bread slathered in butter, three white chocolate chip cookies, and some brandy fried chicken that had been cooked in a vat of grease. And, while I woke up with heartburn, I have to say it was worth it. All of those foods were a way for me to enjoy my very own Fat Tuesday.

Every year for the past three or four years I've considered observing Lent and each year I manage to forget all about it until about midway through when I hear someone mention it. At that point, I shrug it off and make a mental note to try again next year. Now that I've finally caught it on time, I feel good about my decision to make a personal sacrifice but I'm only 8.5 hours in and I miss my bread, rice, potatoes, and tortillas. I'm depressed about the idea of withdrawal headaches from a lack of carbs, having to constantly remind myself that I can't eat one thing or another, and the chore of having to learn a bunch of new recipes that don't require the very things I love to eat most. I am sad that I may have to refrain from eating out some of the time because the temptation may be too great. Or, I'll be that one annoying person at the table who doesn't eat this or that thing which may encompass the entire meal. I like to think of it as carb quarantine.

Even though I'm feeling more than a bit whiny about my undertaking, I'm also excited. I am challenging my mind and body and improving my spiritual connection. And, if I'm fortunate, I'll also be shaving off a few inches from the spare tire I've been developing over the past few years. Closer to God, closer to my weight loss goal; both seem well worth the sacrifice my taste buds will experience. So, despite my complaining, I know I am doing something good for myself. In the meantime, I'll close my eyes at night and dream of pancakes, a variety of rice dishes, and a mountain of hot french fries covered in delicious salty goodness all while reflecting on the sacrifices made on my behalf. One down, forty five more to go.

Wear Me Down Love

"Well there's a rose in a fisted glove. And the eagle flies with the dove. And if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with." When that song comes on the radio, I find myself humming along and tapping my toes but it isn't because I agree. Frankly, it is because the music is great and the melody is catchy but in my mind, the message is terrible. As a thirty something year old woman, I, and many women I know in my age group, have received the recommendation to rethink our real or imagined list of attributes for men we want. For some, the list goes from containing things like integrity, intelligence, stability, and attractiveness to "have pulse, will travel" due to a lack of viable choices. And while I do understand stripping what one wants to the bare minimum, I don't believe long periods of singlehood are enough to convince me to lower my standards.

I'm reminded of the many episodes of Family Matters I watched in which Urkel would be the recipient of an act of kindness granted by Laura Winslow. Instead of being grateful, he'd simply say, "I'm wearing you down, Baby"! And even though she may have eventually realized she wanted Urkel, I have to say that I am nobody's Laura Winslow. If a man is missing the core qualities I'm looking for, no amount of time, money, energy, kind acts, or conversation is going to make him a viable candidate. I've had men pushed on me in the past by others who insist that being with someone who is "a little bit off" but a nice man overall is better than being single but I can't manage to see how I could live with myself or continue to fake feelings for someone who I don't even want to touch my elbow.

I do agree that one's standards shouldn't be set so high as to prevent any fallible human being from reaching viable choice status, however, I also don't think we should ultimately give up what we want all for the sake of saying we have someone. I've never just wanted someone. I want THE one and refuse to settle for less. Besides, I've tried the Urkel route and frankly, it isn't worth the effort and usually leads to Urkel getting his feelings hurt when he realizes I never really liked him in the first place.

So, to save myself and Urkel, I remain single for the time being. I want a love that builds upon the good foundation that has already been set for my life. I don't want to be with someone I don't like simply because he asked enough times for me to finally say yes out of aggravation. I want a love that elevates me and not one that wears me down.