Body Medium

Instead of crabbing about how society and men in particular have failed to appreciate the beauty of my unruly hair and my large proportions, maybe I could look at myself as a work of art and consider my body a medium (insert size joke here). Right now, my body is more documentary than fiction. But maybe my body could be the lie that tells the truth of my inner worth.

Excerise doesn't bother me because (mostly because I don't do it often) all I really need is a decent pair of walking shoes. It's the thought of spending money on hair, make-up and clothes that makes me want to chew rocks. Can I learn to take pleasure in beauty treatments? Will I find hunter/gatherer satisfaction in shopping for flattering fashions?

One of my girly-girl friends loves to "treat herself" to visits to the salon. I'd rather treat myself to a root canal. At least oral surgeons give you nitrous oxide, if you need it, and they don't seem offended if you chose not to chat with them. Plus I have dental coverage. Hair stylists aren't satisfied with co-payments. Okay. I'll stop crabbing.

I really ought to accept the reality that I need to spend precious time and money on my appearance if I want to "maximize my potential." I must reframe the cost and see it as an investment, but I am frowning as I write this. That's not very attractive, now is it?

Give me your embarrassing childhood religious service stories

No flatuence stories, please, unless they're really good.

Comment Comment

I was thinking about blog comments. That reminded me of this small childhood moment.

When I was about 7 (I now believe I was 7ish), our little nuclear family was visiting my dad's folks in Tennessee. Of course, that meant we had to attend services at the family church, located in a tiny town outside of Memphis (and I feel fine calling it the family church because everyone there had the same last name). If sharing a last name with dozens of strangers in a foreign institution wasn't freaky enough, seeing members of the choir get the spirit sure was. All of the sudden, this lady just spazzed out and she had to be carried off into some back room. I thought they should call an ambulance, but my cousin assured me that she was fine. Okay. People just didn't get the spirit in suburban Minneapolis.

Anyway, this was the kind of church where Sunday worship lasted at least half the day, so we had to attend Sunday school. My older brother sat in dread as class began. His fists clenched. His jaw steeled. He was bracing himself for the inevitable moment when I, in the tradition of younger siblings, would embarrass him in front of yet another community. When the Sunday school teacher finished her little lecture, she asked, "Does anyone have any comments?"
I raised my hand up high.
"Yes?"
"I have a comment!" I piped. "What's a comment?"
To my brother, my statement was completely illogical and unnecessary, but to me, it was an act of sincere curiosity. As the other children laughed, my brother's forehead fell to his fist, filling me with satisfaction. For I had fulfilled my virtue. By simply being me, I had embarrassed my big brother in every state we had ever set foot in.

ENTP does not equal ODNF

According to the test I just took, I am an ENTP (Extraversion, iNtuition, Thinking, Perceptive), heavy on the P. How sexy is that?

I must resist the temptation to reinterpret the results as ODNF(Obnoxious Dreamy Nerdy Flaky) and instead focus on my ability to "see many ways of getting things done and logically analyze how different choices might turn out" and "demonstrate my understanding of the complex interrelationships between facts." One of the careers I ought to consider, according to the testing gizmo, is News Correspondent. If I chose to go that route, I will know I've made it big when Quiconque refers to me as a dullard.

Current Events

I'd like to be a solid citizen. I had good intentions for this election year, but so far, all I've done is send a fist full of bucks to a candidate and get on a mailing list. To be honest, I feel pretty snug in my left-leaning workplace and neighborhood. I live smack dab in the middle of the choir, so preaching feels a little silly. I limit my political action to a few outbursts of righteous indignation as I listen to the morning news on the radio. Still, sometimes I feel guilty for not having enough hard news and current events discussion in my blog.

Look, teacher, I brought an article.

Sontag's photo caption about "a larger confluence of torture and pornography" has great resonance for me.

What the Hell Is This?

I captured this image of a mini-sasquatch as it scampered across my ceiling.

No, it's not a silverfish. No, it's not a millipede. The high school kid who's "interning" in our office called it a catepede. So far, that's been the best guess yet.

Pleasant dreams!

This is What Happened to My Ambition

Fans of the time killing sport, know this. I am only 6 films away from seeing every movie that Russell Crowe has been in. Love in Limbo is available for only 4.99 pounds! If only I had a European Region 2 or multi-region DVD player. No matter. That's the type of challenge that will only add to the sense of accomplishment I will feel when I finally see what promises to be another great Russell Crowe film. As a side project, I am working on a system to rank these films according to important factors such as "shirtedness," just the kind of thing humanity is crying out for in these uncertain times. I imagine that this great act of cinematic scholarship will give me the confidence I need to clean out that nook in my hallway or get some exercise.

Anyone who has a crush on anyone who is a cartoon had better not say anything!

Bougie Rage

According to imdb's gossip column(a sad source indeed), The Cos attacked "lower class African-Americans" at an NAACP gathering. Bougie Rage has been burning for years. Will it burn down the MF of uncivil behavior, self-hate, and general bone-headedness that has been bugging me for far too long? I'm not a pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps type at all, but I have to note that even though my parents grew up poor, their parents managed to raise them with more than a semblance of self-control and human dignity.

Rant over.

The Creamy Menace Strikes Again

I thought I was safe when I ordered a chicken kabob sandwich from an old reliable middle eastern food truck, but then I unwrapped the alumnimum foil and took a bite. It hit me, the unmistakeably creamy tang of that nasty pale condiment. Another non-Western fast food outlet has succumb to laziness and conformity. I returned to the truck and gently confronted the vendor.
"What's that sauce on my sandwich?" I asked.
"Oh, that's a garlic sauce." he smiled shiftily.
This is a typical ploy. They try to trick you with "garlic", "spicy sauce" and "aioli." But I kept looking at him until at last...
"Okay, it's m-------------." he confessed, then hastily prepared another sandwich for me with a proper middle eastern sauce, hummus.

Can't I order food anymore without having to ask, like someone obsessed, "does that have any m%^$#@*@#@*#@* in it?" It has already slimed its way into sushi. What's next, mu shu chicken?

No Class

I just filled out one of those online dating profiles. In the field that asked what celebrity I most resemble, I was tempted to say Russell from Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids. Even I'll admit that my figure is a bit shapelier than his, and I don't have freckles. Still, I feel we are kindred spirits.

Besides, what the heck kind of question is that for a dating profile?

Found It

On the Menu

Is it a coincidence that all the couples dining at Lemon Grass last night were inter-racial and that one of the desserts on the menu is called Jungle Fever?

This restaurant has many dishes with provocative names: Young Girl on Fire, Evil Jungle Princess, and Sweet Surrender to name a few. I guess this is supposed to be romantic, but I'd be more embarrassed than anything else if I were on a date and I had to ask for the Sweet Surrender.

But that wasn't an issue last night. As usual, I dined alone.

Personal Pep Fest

Be Organized. Got to be Organized.
Got to B-E-O-R-G
A-N-I-Z-E-D!

This one is a slow poke
That one is impatient
We need you for coordination!

Hurry Up! No, wait!
Don't forget to coordinate!
Don't be bitter. Don't you hate!
Get out there and coordinate!

Responsibility! Responsibility!
WIITHHOUTT
Authority!!

A-N-T-I-C-I-P-A-T-E
the needs of others!
Whoopeee!

Do not fumble
Do not punt
Guess what other people want!

It's all right, It's okay!
Just because you have a breadth of skills and no depth of skills
You're gonna beat 'em anyway!

What Ever Happend To

my ambition?

More Burning Questions

Netflix doesn't have it. My library doesn't have it. Video Library, nada. Will I ever get to see this film?

Before my mother wore him down with years of pushing products, my dad's only hair care aids were dial soap and vaseline. What is the most you ever paid for a hair treatment or styling product?

Get Your Rocks Off

So here's how it went down.

Melba and I were taking a break from toting boxes at Yoko's new place. Meanwhile, Yoko and Snacks were up in the NE returning the U-Haul. Melba and I sat on the marble steps, trying to catch a breeze when these two middle school aged kids walk up to us, a boy and a girl whom I took for siblings. The boy was wearing the current Philly teen uniform, an oversized white t shirt and baggy jeans with exposed drawers. The girl wore one of those charming t-shirts that gave instructions on what you could do if you didn't like her attitude. The kids asked if we wanted any help with the boxes. We declined. I don't mean to squelch enterprising youngsters, but years of urban living have made me wary of children who approach me with "helpful" offers.

Like most Philly kids and squirrels, this pair had no healthy fear/respect of strangers and their property, so even after we told them we didn't want their help, they started fingering Yoko's merchandise that we hadn't put inside yet. Like other Philly girls, this one wanted to know what was up with my hair.
"Why don't you get braids? Why is your hair all nappy?" she asked.
"That's the way my hair is. That how our hair is."
"No it's not!" she insisted. "It don't got to be!"
She went on to express her deep disapproval of my hair, which I should know is a satanic sign that the universe could unravel at any minute.
So I asked why she had to go up to people she didn't know and insult them.
"I'm telling you to your face!" she said in defense. This is a common Philly kid defense of verbal abuse. Somewhere along the line it became better to insult and attack people --regardless of the reason, with or without any real provocation-- than to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business.
During this tired conversation, the boy started scooting around on Yoko's office chair. Of course, this girl, who was all fired up to instruct me on grooming, didn't seem to care that her brother's fly was unzipped. Melba pointed this out and the boy nonchalantly zipped himself up.

"Get out of that chair, please. (I added the please because these were the kind of rude kids who would go ballistic at any show of disrespect) Put it back were it was."
Eventually the boy put the chair back. He looked at my watch and asked for the time, which I gave to him, adding "Don't you all have some place to be?"

This was one boy who showed more sense than his sister. He started walking away. But Miss Attitude wasn't satisfied. She noticed Yoko's Aikido stick sitting on the steps and grabbed it. "Is this your stick? Do you want this stick? Do you want this stick?"

She trotted down the sidewalk toward the end of the block dragging the stick behind her with a cruel smile. When she realized that Melba and I weren't about to chase after her, she brought the stick back like a poorly trained retriever, still asking if we wanted the stick back. Eventually, she let Melba take one end, then jerked back, as if she thought the stick would fly in Melba's face.
"How old are you?" Melba asked.
"Sixteen." said the girl, sticking her recently acquired hip out even further than before. "Don't try to roll your eyes at me!" she snapped.
We couldn't stop ourselves from laughing.
"Suck my dick!" the girl said.

I don't remember what other hateful nonsense this child said, but at some point Melba got up from the stoop, stick in hand, and approached the girl. I couldn't see the look on Melba's face, but whatever it was worked. The girl backed off at last with a frightened giggle. At last she went to the other side of the street and I thought we were rid of her. I couldn't resist waving good bye and blowing the little shit a kiss, but this was a mistake.
"Are you lesbians?"
I nodded, hoping she would run off or something.
"Are you lesbians?" she repeated.
"Why don't' you come over hear and find out?" said Melba.
"Don't try none of that gay shit on me!" said Miss Attitude.
Then she pulled a coupon circular bag out of a recycling bin and hurled it at us, missing Yoko's lamp by about a foot. That didn't cause any damage, so she trying throwing rocks at us. Her arm was not bad, but thankfully her aim sucked. The one rock tapped a window, but did no damage. Then Miss Attitdue, and her bother, who'd been pretty much standing around at a safe distance most of the time, ran away.

So basically, it was all Melba and I could do to stop ourselves from grabbing this horrible little girl and giving her an improvised Aikido lesson. I can see the headlines now "Mean White Lady and her Nappy Lover Assault Underprivileged Tot."

Newsflash: Ashy and Melba Survive Weekend Homophobic Street Urchin Stoning

Film at 11.

Frozen Novelty Confession

Last night I took a popcicle out of the fridge with the best of intentions, but then I put it down somewhere. Now I can't remember were it is. (At least I hadn't unwrapped it yet.)

THE Burning Question: Book Before Movie?

Here's what I was thinking as I left CVS. I used to think it best to read any book before seeing the movie version, but now I'm not so sure. In theory, seeing the movie first limits your enjoyment of the book by planting someone else images in your head, thus robbing you of the pure pleasure of imagining the book universe for yourself. On the flip side, no movie can ever compete with your imagination and no movie can capture the intellectual subtleties of the verbal language (for example pictures cannot depict the hypothetical. They cannot express IF, OR, BUT), so reading the book first sort of spoils the movie. I'm very liberal about film adaptations; so long as the movie works, I won't quibble about the actor having the wrong eye color or scream, "How could they leave out everything in chapter 72?" However, I've read books with the intention of seeing an upcoming film version, and wound up taking a pass on the film because I figured they'd just screw it up.(Gwenyth Paltrow cannot be my Emma. Please!)

Four Good Little Movies in One

Last night, I saw Robot Stories. It seems like there aren't enough movies like these around anymore (or maybe I'm just out of touch)--good low budget indies with solid character driven plots and a cast of "unknowns" who can actually act. Robot Stories isn't going to blow anyone's mind, but it might make a gal believe in little movies again.

Easy Being Green

Call it purile. Call it sensationalism. Call it a sad cry for help.
This Tuesday I posted this link, and nobody said nothing about it. I know it doesn't blink like that picture from my April 14th post, but please give it some loving.

Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown

Last night, I asked one of the members of the improv group I direct to leave. She just wasn't working out. I wish I could say I did it with laser beam precision. I was more like a tipsy chainsaw. It took way too long for me to make the cut. Finally, I had to admit to her, "This sucks and it sucks worse for you than it does for me." It was awkward. It was ugly. Now it's done. Afterwards, I treated myself to a screening of my brand spanking new Collectors Edition DVD of Master and Commander the Far Side of the World, compete with the deleted goat race scene.

Okay all you masters and commanders out there, what is up with this? Another member of my improv group says he doesn't feel like we're making all possible progress because people arrive late for rehearsal too often. He admits that he is one of the worst offenders. He proposes that I lay down the law and tell the group that if they miss X rehearsals or are late for X rehearsals, they won't be in the next show. I tell him I'll consider doing that, but at the risk of not having anyone to perform at all. (Ironically, some of our best players are often late or absent for rehearsal because of work, etc.) Then I ask him, if he knows that his chronic lateness is hurting the group, then why doesn't he just f---ing show up on time? Because he knows he doesn't have to. And having been on the other end of this conversation, I know he's right.

So this guy wants me to crack the whip. Another winces at criticism. Some want collaborative decision making. Some want autocracy. It reminds me of the Beetlejuice Cartoon (yes, the Beetlejuice Cartoon from Saturday Morning TV) when some small creatures asked Lydia to be their queen "so you can take care of us and clean up after us."

Sex is Gross

WARNING: TOO MUCH INFORMATION AHEAD

Rather than clog up poor Zantimisfit's scrolly thing with my wackedness, I'm going to spill the beans here. Perhaps you recall this titilating thread:

Quiconque: Ashy, was the tax collector Benicio Del Toro?
...
ashyknees: Maybe I should have been played by Scarlett Johansen
ashyknees: Last night I dreamed that I was trying to convince a tax collector to let me off the hook by sprinkling bath powder on my décolletage. I was played by Lucille Ball.
brad pitt: blah blah blah blah scarlett johansen and benicio del toro fucking in an elevator blah blah

Okay, so no. The tax collector was not the amazing Benicio or any other dreamy guy, just some twerpy looking dude. Why? Because sex in my dreams is bad sex. In my teens, I once dreampt that I was in a kitchen looking at a sumptious banquet table. Someone said, "Hey there's an orgy going on upstairs. Want to join?" I said, "Eh, I'll just be in the kitchen with the shrimp scampi." That was probably the best sexual dream I ever had.

Middle school brain still sends out a strong "sex is gross" message. For a grown lady in her sexual prime this leads to inner conflict which is then played out in my dreams. The result is that in most of my dreams about sexual activities:
A)I am not "me". I am played by someone else, someone I would never chose to play me. If it were up to me, I'd be played by Gabrielle Union, not some crazy redhead.
B)I don't get to actually do it, at least not that I can recall upon waking.
C)If I do, it's very...Nature special. As if I were some animal who was minding her own business at the proverbial watering hole when suddenly some male comes up behind me. And my attitude is sort of a bemused, "Oh, well. This again."

There have been a few happy exceptions to these rules and a few scary exceptions. Still, I am struggling to overcome the belief that sex is gross, much as I am struggling to overcome the belief that guys should be good at math and lift heavy things. Once I am free of these harmful beliefs, I can truly enjoy the rest of my sexual prime time.

la la la la la la la la la la la

Back in the bedroom with her electric heater--
He says, "Are you cold?"
She says, "No, but you are." la la la la la la la la la

Are Your Ready for the Summer?

(to get the full effect of this post, sing "Good Friend" from the Meatballs soundtrack to yourself. "If you let me, I can be your good friend" Remember?)

Classes have ended. Now all my student workers have gone home for summer vacation. One is off to study in China. Two have fancy internships on Wall Street. And yes, one is going to work at a summer camp. While they're away, I'm going to miss:
-talk of Omarion and the break up of B2K
-outward displays of inner turmoil over the choice of majors
-offers of free bootleg media
-alarming DVD recommendations such as "You have to see the Mummy! It's the best!"
-reports of coming fraternity misbehavior a.k.a. listening to weekend plans
-preaching the gospel of comfortable shoes and the benefits of waists on pants and skirts
-Asian pop star boy pin ups
-listening to the boys argue about subway systems of the world
-warning the kids about the evils of www.thefacebook.com.

This is a Stoat

Now you know.

Double Feature at the Cinema of Frustration

Tonight, Cinema Frustre presents:

Brown Sugar, in which hip hop executives find love and For the Moment, in which WWII pilots find love

Remember, there's love for everyone at the Cinema Frustre.

You might also enjoy wasting precious time looking at dermatology of the Cinema. I admit I only gave it a glance, but Christopher Walken is prominently featured, so it must be good.

Roy G Biv

I saw a rainbow today as I was walking from a campus food truck with my dinner. I don't think I've ever seen one here before. If that's not a sign of something, I'll make it a sign.

Mid Brain and Middle School Brain

In the interest of pseudoscience, I present my theory of the middle school brain.

The middle school brain is located directly above the mid brain, or so called "reptile brain." It is source of hopeless crushes, the snickering reflex, persistent irreverence, hateration, and the drive to purchase shiny knick knacks and pretty drinks rather than make sound investments.

I base my theory on the completely subjective observation of a sample of one. The subject, although well past junior high, continues to exhibit early adolescent behaviors. The only explanation must be the presence of a middle school brain tissue within the subject's head. When asked to comment, the subject replied, "Like, whatever."

The People in My Neighborhood

Almost everyday during the school year, I pass a crossing guard on the way to work. And if she's not concentrating on ushering kids across the street, we exchange perfunctory "good mornings". "Have a good day!" she'll add. This has been going on for four years. Being somewhat cold and awkward with strangers, I went through a brief period when I wished I didn't have to speak to the woman. Sometimes I'll turn my head away as if I'm looking for oncoming traffic so I won't have to risk doing any small talk. But often I'm glad she's there. We don't know each other's names. All I know is "good morning." All I see is a woman who's sweet and caring with every sleepy brat who crosses her path, and every commuting parent rushing to dump their kid off before they'll be late for work. She's friendly with the drivers, the teachers, and the other uniformed city workers that hang out in front of the school. Every day, for way more than four years.

A bit further down the street beneath an awning stands no one. The doorman used to be there. Slim, shoes too thin and shiny, mustache. "Have a good day, dear." He said he was working hard so that he could be a rich man...and he'd give all his money to me. Right. I never liked the looks of him. His "dear" made me cringe. His blessings were most unholy. I considered changing my route to work to avoid him, but I thought, I have every right to walk down my street without engaging in conversation with this creep. And he was there every day, school days, summer, everyday. But now he's gone. And I'll never know what happened to him. Maybe he finally struck it rich with doorman's wages.

Bake Sale for Art

I'm having a bake sale so I can by this camera. Here's the price list for my wares:

cookies...$250.00 each
cake...$1200.00 each
pie....$1500.00 each

If you buy my baked goods, I promise to make only art with the camera. I swear.

math is hard

I thought I had my math phobia licked when I passed my continuing education refresher in algebra and trig a couple of summers ago (I knew I could do it when it no longer made me cry). Not so. The math phobia resurfaced today as I was trying to explain my lack of progress on a project to my underboss. My underboss is one of the most intelligent people I ever worked for. There's no bamboozling her with Barbie-like claims that math is hard. The great shame of it all is that I am having trouble making charts in excel. Excel was mine. I had mastery, I swear, but this project has me reduced to dingbat again. I couldn't see the logic in it. I had to...ask for help...from a...business school student. He's the sweetest kid, really, so it wasn't that bad. He even admitted that the task wasn't very logical to begin with. But when this IT guy came by and asked what we were working on and started giving his two cents... I was about to lose it.

If anything, math and logic are supposed to be free from emotional entanglement. Yet for me, they form another treacherous swamp of shame and frustration, filled with thorny vines of sexism and nasty sibling rivalry gators lurking and waiting to take a chunk out of me. I hear the voice of my high school teacher, "You're not stupid. You're lazy!" That was inspiring. Yeah, he was a regular Jaime A. Escalante, that guy.

I just have to remember what my friend said about math. At the time I didn't believe her, but it's true. Eventually, I will find the answer.

Imagined Dialog from Two Spotless Minds

Inspired by true events.

Mother: Hey, the kids look bored.
Friend/Sister: Sure do. You know how left out toddlers feel when they're not on the town on a Saturday night.
Mother: I know, let's take them to the movies!
Friend/Sister: Right!
Mother: You know little Nae Nae has been begging me to take her to "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."
Friend/Sister: Is that what's she's been trying to say?
Mother: She thinks Jim Carrey is a trip. Well, let's go.

(later that night)
Friend/Sister: Can you believe those people, giving us dirty looks, shhing us like they owned the place!
Mother: Yeah, it's not our fault the babies were loud. It was the movie. I mean, what was up with that? Shit kept disappearing and rewinding. I was about to start babbling and running up and down the aisle myself. Nae Nae is very disappointed in Jim Carrey.
Friend/Sister: What's that, Nae Nae? What's she trying to say now.
Mother: What'd you think she's trying to say? "Kill Bill 2," of course.
Friend/Sister: Right!
Mother: That'll keep her quiet.