I'm a big fan of the new television show "Who Do You Think You Are." And SURPRISE it's not a reality game show piece of crap.
The show takes a celebrity and helps them trace their genealogy. Genealogy is one of my hobbies, so the show is fascinating to me, but I think it would appeal to many people. We humans seem to have a need to know where it all started, where we come from.
The first episode I watched featured Matthew Broderick who, despite being freakin' adorable even at his age, I am not a big fan of. It didn't matter. As the researchers from the show helped Broderick research both sides of his family, the details were fascinating. His Grandpa, in other word's his father's father, was always just "Postman Joe" to those who knew him.
Broderick didn't have many memories of his grandfather, who died when Broderick was young. But family stories didn't prepare him for what the researchers found -- his grandfather had served in WWI and was a medic. He received a Purple Heart, which honors those who are injured in war, and a medal for bravery. Postman Joe was one of those brave souls who dashed out onto the battlefield to tend to the wounded, heedless of the bullets still flying around.
He survived the war and went on to become a father and grandfather. But he didn't brag about his war exploits, his medals or his bravery. His grandchildren had no idea their grandfather was a war hero.
Another relative turned out to have been killed in the Civil War. After that person's unit was involved in a battle in Georgia (near Atlanta) the casualties were buried quickly in a vacant lot. A few years later, the bodies were carefully excavated and moved to a local military cemetery. Every body had since been identified -- except one. This turned out to be Broderick's ancestor. So his search for family helped solve a historical mystery.
Other celebs who have participated in the show include Broderick's wife Sarah Jessica Parker, actress Susan Sarandon, model/actress Brooke Shields and actress Lisa Kudrow. It's really neat seeing their faces light up when they find a relative, and it's very moving when they shed a tear over a relative who lead a particular difficult life.
This is just fascinating stuff to me. I have been interested in genealogy for about four years, and I've found so many neat facts about my families and my husband's families. We found his great-grandfather's draft card for WWI -- written in his Ggrandfather's handwriting, along with a physical description. We found a WWII draft card for another Ggrandfather, who was a coal miner. My husband never knew that.
I've found graves of family members that, somehow, we had just lost track of. Tombstones can be great places to get information -- birth date, death date, sometimes a spouse is listed, maiden names for women. These things all help lead you to the next place where you'll find even more information.
I've also found sad facts, and facts that made me very uncomfortable. Recently, I found for the first time, an ancestor who owned slaves. I had always imagined that my family was so poor no one in the whole history of our family could have afforded slaves. Well, this ancestor actually left his slave, and the slave's family, to the ancestor's daughter in his will. It was very disturbing to see a person being willed off like a possession.
The best source I've had so far in finding family information has been the United States Censuses. Over the years, information requested on the census has changed. At some points, the respondents' name, age, years married, rent or mortgage, where you were born, as well as where your parents were born, taxable income, literacy, race were all part of the census. Then again, the earliest censuses often had the name of the head of household and a bunch of hashmarks indicated how many children and/or adults live in the home. Nothing else.
The Census we are all being asked to fill out this year is a bit of a yawn. Name, race, others living in your home. No occupations, no heritage, no ages. And there are still people protesting the Census as being too intrusive. Ha! Censuses are not released for public viewing for about 70 years after they are taken. Most folks would be dead, I'd suppose.
I still love the Census. I love running my finger down a row of names and BAM! There is my great-grandfather, his wife, their children, including my grandfather! And here's their address and by gosh, great-grandpa was a farmer. He could not read and write. In the next census (10 years later) Great-grandpa might be gone (deceased) and Grandma is soldiering on, raising her children alone. Or a child might be missing -- it could be a death, it could be that the child married. It's another door opening to another roomful of questions to answer.
If you like puzzles, or if you are interested in your heritage or just want to know if you are the first writer in your family (I'm not!), dabble into genealogy. If you're not hooked on it, you'll still have fun finding little tidbits. My favorite site for genealogical research is Ancestry.com. There is a fee, although there are some free sites where you can find a lot of info. You can try your local county historical society, as some do have census reports online. Most libraries have access to census reports, as well.
I prefer to pay Ancestry.com, because it contains so much and I can work at home on my research. There are just tons of databases to access, plus you can enter your family tree information right on the site so others researching your family can find you. That is a lot of fun, too. I've found some 7th-cousins twice removed and they've all been very nice.
Good luck researching your own family tree, and I suggest that your first step is to talk to your parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, whoever is around and knows the details of your family. Write it all down, then start looking for more. You'll be hooked.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Who's Cheating Who?
Take your moral outrage and save it for something really shocking, America.
Tiger Woods could cheat on his wife with every golf-groupie from Augusta to Torrey Pines and, still, it is not shocking. David Letterman can (and maybe will) sleep with every giggly intern at CBS -- still not shocking. And Jesse James cheating on Sandra Bullock? Come on, people! That guy has "bad boy" written all over him.
A lot of Americans, according to the media, are shocked and appalled at the sexual shenanigans of these celebrity husbands. And we seem to feel we have the right to know about the deep secrets of any celebrities' marriage, right? The celebrities do benefit from all of the vapid interest in their private lives. Right up until they screw up (no pun intended), the celebs kinda enjoy letting us see how fabulous their lives are. Yep, right up until they mess it up.
Then they really just want their privacy. They plead with us to give them time and space to work out their problems. Blah, blah, blah. You can not open up your life when it benefits you and your career, then try to lock everyone out when the ugly reality seeps out.
And we Americans just play right along with this little freak show. We buy the stupid magazines showing us "how the celebrities live", we watch E! TV, we even read the freaking National Enquirer, always seeking more and more information about celebrities, their private lives, their inner thoughts. It's nothing new, fans have obsessed over movie stars and other famous people for a long time.
What has changed, however, is America itself. We know our Presidents are capable of cheating on their spouses, even right in the White House. We have seen movie stars have long-term adulterous relationships and, hell, we kind of thought it was romantic -- remember Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn? They're often cited as one of the biggest romances in Hollywood, despite the fact that Tracy was married throughout their relationship.
Another thing that has changed in America is how we view relationships. It might surprise the more upright, uptight of us that some people choose to NOT live monogomous, faithful lives. There are open marriages, "arrangements", whatever you want to call them, and like it or not, they work for some people.
Think about this: If you found out your neighbor was cheating on his wife, would you demand that he tell you all about it? And then would you expect an apology? I mean, the guy does borrow your rake every fall and your families have barbecues together, don't you have the right to every bit of information about his relationships? I think not.
If it were me, I'd want to know nothing. Nothing, I tell you. As a matter of fact, if any of my friends are reading this, never, ever tell me you are cheating on your spouse. I can not keep a secret and besides that, ewww. Now I have this awful picture of you cheating with some bimbo. Gah. TMI!!
But would I be shocked if I found out? For a few minutes. Then I'd say, OK, how do I remove this information from my memory banks? I do not want to know this. But we sure want to know details about celebrities!
Live and let live, America. If Mrs. Tiger Woods wants to kick his cheating ass out of their big old mansion, that's up to her. But as for the condemnation and shock and disapproval people are expressing? Hogwash. No one is really going to stop watching Letterman at night, Tiger as he wins yet another golf tournament, or Jesse James as he flexes and bad-boy pouts his way through whatever he does next.
And that's the way it should be. Yes, they're celebrities, but they owe the public nothing. Not even an explanation. And definitely not the apologies all three men have proferred. Save it for your wives, guys. This is between the two of you, not the two of you and all of America.
Tiger Woods could cheat on his wife with every golf-groupie from Augusta to Torrey Pines and, still, it is not shocking. David Letterman can (and maybe will) sleep with every giggly intern at CBS -- still not shocking. And Jesse James cheating on Sandra Bullock? Come on, people! That guy has "bad boy" written all over him.
A lot of Americans, according to the media, are shocked and appalled at the sexual shenanigans of these celebrity husbands. And we seem to feel we have the right to know about the deep secrets of any celebrities' marriage, right? The celebrities do benefit from all of the vapid interest in their private lives. Right up until they screw up (no pun intended), the celebs kinda enjoy letting us see how fabulous their lives are. Yep, right up until they mess it up.
Then they really just want their privacy. They plead with us to give them time and space to work out their problems. Blah, blah, blah. You can not open up your life when it benefits you and your career, then try to lock everyone out when the ugly reality seeps out.
And we Americans just play right along with this little freak show. We buy the stupid magazines showing us "how the celebrities live", we watch E! TV, we even read the freaking National Enquirer, always seeking more and more information about celebrities, their private lives, their inner thoughts. It's nothing new, fans have obsessed over movie stars and other famous people for a long time.
What has changed, however, is America itself. We know our Presidents are capable of cheating on their spouses, even right in the White House. We have seen movie stars have long-term adulterous relationships and, hell, we kind of thought it was romantic -- remember Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn? They're often cited as one of the biggest romances in Hollywood, despite the fact that Tracy was married throughout their relationship.
Another thing that has changed in America is how we view relationships. It might surprise the more upright, uptight of us that some people choose to NOT live monogomous, faithful lives. There are open marriages, "arrangements", whatever you want to call them, and like it or not, they work for some people.
Think about this: If you found out your neighbor was cheating on his wife, would you demand that he tell you all about it? And then would you expect an apology? I mean, the guy does borrow your rake every fall and your families have barbecues together, don't you have the right to every bit of information about his relationships? I think not.
If it were me, I'd want to know nothing. Nothing, I tell you. As a matter of fact, if any of my friends are reading this, never, ever tell me you are cheating on your spouse. I can not keep a secret and besides that, ewww. Now I have this awful picture of you cheating with some bimbo. Gah. TMI!!
But would I be shocked if I found out? For a few minutes. Then I'd say, OK, how do I remove this information from my memory banks? I do not want to know this. But we sure want to know details about celebrities!
Live and let live, America. If Mrs. Tiger Woods wants to kick his cheating ass out of their big old mansion, that's up to her. But as for the condemnation and shock and disapproval people are expressing? Hogwash. No one is really going to stop watching Letterman at night, Tiger as he wins yet another golf tournament, or Jesse James as he flexes and bad-boy pouts his way through whatever he does next.
And that's the way it should be. Yes, they're celebrities, but they owe the public nothing. Not even an explanation. And definitely not the apologies all three men have proferred. Save it for your wives, guys. This is between the two of you, not the two of you and all of America.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Bigger than Life
It's in the news again and my God are we ever going to just get over ourselves?
Movie director Kevin Smith, who I really can't imagine identifying as obese, was in the news recently when Southwest Airlines required him to buy two tickets, due to his size. He bought the tickets, then decided to fly stand-by. Suddenly there was only one seat open and Smith was out of luck. He had been agreeable to buying two seats, but gosh, they just couldn't find two seats on the stand-by flight.
As if it is a new phenomenon, the media is back to talking about fat people and airplanes. Talk about beating a dead horse. It's been hashed and re-hashed, and horror stories traded on both sides. There seems to be no solution.
And, according to comments Smith made after the debacle, he is not impressed with the media's handling of his mistreatment by the airlines. He told the Los Angeles Times, "I was unfairly bounced and discriminated against, but they never bothered to tell that story. They just went with the easy fat jokes."
Today, I'm going to tell you the straight story about this supposed problem.
Yes, there are fat people in the world. Yes, they want to ride on airplanes, just like the thinner folks do. And, yeah, those seats are too damn little for the fat people, so our bottoms do tend to edge over into the next seat. Sometimes we fat people have to wear a seat belt extension. Sometimes airlines make us buy two seats.
Those are the facts that we just know from living as fat people. Here's a few more facts that rarely get discussed:
1. The industry standard seat width is 17". Southwest Airlines, the airline who seems to most often ask customers to buy two seats, has seats where the cushions are 18.25" wide.
2. An article on the Center for Disease Control's website says about one-third of all Americans are obese -- not just fat, but obese, which is defined as having a Body Mass Index of 30% or higher.
3. The butt width of a person with 50 percent BMI (ahem, that would be me) is about 24 inches. That's 7 inches bigger than the average seat.
So, 30 percent of us are obese, with butt widths greater than the 17 inches provided by airlines. But 60 percent of you are not obese. You may be overweight, underweight, average weight, but you're not obese. So, it is assumed, you can fit into a 17" wide seat. Good for you!
Oh, one more fact, and I have no source for it, it's just a fact: Everyone pays the same amount for a particular seat, no matter what their size. So that obese man in the middle seat paid the same amount his skinnier neighbor would pay for sitting in the same seat, same flight, same airline. Unless the fat man was forced to buy two seats, well, then that obese man in the uncomfortable middle seat and also the window seat paid TWICE what Skinny Sam paid for that middle seat, same flight, same airline.
Okay, now I'm out of facts and into questions: If that same man, weighing the same amount, was muscled and tall, instead of short and obese, would he be asked to buy two seats because his big shoulders and arms are spreading out into his neighbors' seats? In my experience the answer is no. Last flight I was on, the man sitting next to me was huge -- he was buff and tall and just a helluva big guy. His shoulders were definitely in my personal space. As were his legs, which he did not seem to be able to control, as they were splayed out into my space and the space of the woman in the window seat.
He was a very nice man and we chatted amiably, but I did get tired of his shoulder brushing my ear and his knee leaning against mine. Seriously, his shoulder was level with my ear -- the guy was huge. Did I say anything to him about this? Hell no. What would I say? "Hey, Buff Guy, your gorgeous, well-built physique is too big. You should have bought two seats."
No, I would not. First off, I am not rude. I would not comment on someone's body size in any situation. I don't ask thin people if they need a sandwich and I don't ask really well-built men why they don't get rid of some of those damned muscles so other people can be comfy in their airline seats.
But when the shoe is on the other foot . . .
If you're one of those skinny, snarky airline passengers, ask yourself: Do you believe it is rude to ask a fat person to get their body out of your space? Or to call the stewardess over and complain to her, in the hearing of the fat person? Do you honestly feel that fat people should have to buy two seats so their bodies do not impinge on anyone else's space? If you do feel that way, do you really need to express that to the fat person?
Any discussion of obesity and plane travel generally includes comments about that sweaty, dirty looking fat woman someone sat next to on their last flight. Or the hugely fat man whose butt touched their neighbor's butt throughout the trip.
Let me tell you, I've ridden on planes next to skinny little hippie girls, overly perfumed soccer moms and busy bees who bring their work with them, setting up a mini office right there in coach. None of these were enjoyable, but, gosh, believe it or not, none of them were obese! One stunk, one stunk of higher-priced stink and the other one pushed his papers and folders into my space, mumbling to himself the whole time.
But I did not complain to them nor did I call over the stewardess to complain. I just told myself "hey, it's just an hour or so, then I am off this plane." Kind of like what a grown-up would do in the same situation. I'm beginning to think this obesity-bashing is less a concern for anyone's welfare than just plain bad manners. Do you think the skinnies really care if we all lose weight and live healthy lives? Nah, they just don't want your bum touching their bum.
Have you gone to a rock concert or a sporting event lately? They pack the fans in like sardines! Your tush will definitely be in contact with someone else's tush before the night is over. Yet no one complains! No one says "This fat guy was sitting next to me at the football game and I was just so uncomfortable!" Nope. Folks just cheer for their team, eat another hot dog, wave their big foam fingers and get on with enjoying the game.
Trust me, as an obese person, I really, really wish my bum did not flow over the edges of my seat. Wait, let me rephrase that: I wish airplane seats were wide enough to accomodate my fat ass. Seven inches would do it.
Then the skinnies could fly in their little bubble of untouchability and we obese folks can get a break from all the dirty looks, jackass comments and society-inflicted guilt. And we could fly without the damned armrest poking us in the hip the whole flight.
I've heard people say that since it's just a lack of self-control and laziness that causes obesity, obese people are, well, sort of disgusting. And they should not fly on airplanes if they are so fat. When I fly, I usually don't have time to drop 50 or 60 pounds by flight time. It's usually about one month ahead when I buy my ticket and, truly, I would ask for the "fat seats" if they were available.
And I'm neither lazy nor do I lack self-control. I'm a big girl, yep, but I'm no sweaty, dirty hog shoving peanuts into my maw and sloshing down free sodas. When I fly, I am well-dressed, I carry a small purse and a small carry-on bag, which I store properly in the overhead bin, not trying to force it under the seat so I can get off the plane faster.
I also try not to visit with people who are obviously not wanting to chat, and I try to keep myself squeezed into my seat in as small a lump as I can. Even while someone's baby is screaming at full blast, tinny music coming out of the hippie chick's earbuds is imitating an annoying mosquito and a really tall guy's knees are forcing me to sit nearly sideways in the seat.
It's only an hour or two out of my life. I can live with it. I can call upon my good manners and not shoot dirty looks at anyone, not whisper loudly to anyone sitting nearby that the hippie chick smells like patchouli and I will not tell the tall man to push his knees together for God's sake.
But, then, I was raised with good manners.
Movie director Kevin Smith, who I really can't imagine identifying as obese, was in the news recently when Southwest Airlines required him to buy two tickets, due to his size. He bought the tickets, then decided to fly stand-by. Suddenly there was only one seat open and Smith was out of luck. He had been agreeable to buying two seats, but gosh, they just couldn't find two seats on the stand-by flight.
As if it is a new phenomenon, the media is back to talking about fat people and airplanes. Talk about beating a dead horse. It's been hashed and re-hashed, and horror stories traded on both sides. There seems to be no solution.
And, according to comments Smith made after the debacle, he is not impressed with the media's handling of his mistreatment by the airlines. He told the Los Angeles Times, "I was unfairly bounced and discriminated against, but they never bothered to tell that story. They just went with the easy fat jokes."
Today, I'm going to tell you the straight story about this supposed problem.
Yes, there are fat people in the world. Yes, they want to ride on airplanes, just like the thinner folks do. And, yeah, those seats are too damn little for the fat people, so our bottoms do tend to edge over into the next seat. Sometimes we fat people have to wear a seat belt extension. Sometimes airlines make us buy two seats.
Those are the facts that we just know from living as fat people. Here's a few more facts that rarely get discussed:
1. The industry standard seat width is 17". Southwest Airlines, the airline who seems to most often ask customers to buy two seats, has seats where the cushions are 18.25" wide.
2. An article on the Center for Disease Control's website says about one-third of all Americans are obese -- not just fat, but obese, which is defined as having a Body Mass Index of 30% or higher.
3. The butt width of a person with 50 percent BMI (ahem, that would be me) is about 24 inches. That's 7 inches bigger than the average seat.
So, 30 percent of us are obese, with butt widths greater than the 17 inches provided by airlines. But 60 percent of you are not obese. You may be overweight, underweight, average weight, but you're not obese. So, it is assumed, you can fit into a 17" wide seat. Good for you!
Oh, one more fact, and I have no source for it, it's just a fact: Everyone pays the same amount for a particular seat, no matter what their size. So that obese man in the middle seat paid the same amount his skinnier neighbor would pay for sitting in the same seat, same flight, same airline. Unless the fat man was forced to buy two seats, well, then that obese man in the uncomfortable middle seat and also the window seat paid TWICE what Skinny Sam paid for that middle seat, same flight, same airline.
Okay, now I'm out of facts and into questions: If that same man, weighing the same amount, was muscled and tall, instead of short and obese, would he be asked to buy two seats because his big shoulders and arms are spreading out into his neighbors' seats? In my experience the answer is no. Last flight I was on, the man sitting next to me was huge -- he was buff and tall and just a helluva big guy. His shoulders were definitely in my personal space. As were his legs, which he did not seem to be able to control, as they were splayed out into my space and the space of the woman in the window seat.
He was a very nice man and we chatted amiably, but I did get tired of his shoulder brushing my ear and his knee leaning against mine. Seriously, his shoulder was level with my ear -- the guy was huge. Did I say anything to him about this? Hell no. What would I say? "Hey, Buff Guy, your gorgeous, well-built physique is too big. You should have bought two seats."
No, I would not. First off, I am not rude. I would not comment on someone's body size in any situation. I don't ask thin people if they need a sandwich and I don't ask really well-built men why they don't get rid of some of those damned muscles so other people can be comfy in their airline seats.
But when the shoe is on the other foot . . .
If you're one of those skinny, snarky airline passengers, ask yourself: Do you believe it is rude to ask a fat person to get their body out of your space? Or to call the stewardess over and complain to her, in the hearing of the fat person? Do you honestly feel that fat people should have to buy two seats so their bodies do not impinge on anyone else's space? If you do feel that way, do you really need to express that to the fat person?
Any discussion of obesity and plane travel generally includes comments about that sweaty, dirty looking fat woman someone sat next to on their last flight. Or the hugely fat man whose butt touched their neighbor's butt throughout the trip.
Let me tell you, I've ridden on planes next to skinny little hippie girls, overly perfumed soccer moms and busy bees who bring their work with them, setting up a mini office right there in coach. None of these were enjoyable, but, gosh, believe it or not, none of them were obese! One stunk, one stunk of higher-priced stink and the other one pushed his papers and folders into my space, mumbling to himself the whole time.
But I did not complain to them nor did I call over the stewardess to complain. I just told myself "hey, it's just an hour or so, then I am off this plane." Kind of like what a grown-up would do in the same situation. I'm beginning to think this obesity-bashing is less a concern for anyone's welfare than just plain bad manners. Do you think the skinnies really care if we all lose weight and live healthy lives? Nah, they just don't want your bum touching their bum.
Have you gone to a rock concert or a sporting event lately? They pack the fans in like sardines! Your tush will definitely be in contact with someone else's tush before the night is over. Yet no one complains! No one says "This fat guy was sitting next to me at the football game and I was just so uncomfortable!" Nope. Folks just cheer for their team, eat another hot dog, wave their big foam fingers and get on with enjoying the game.
Trust me, as an obese person, I really, really wish my bum did not flow over the edges of my seat. Wait, let me rephrase that: I wish airplane seats were wide enough to accomodate my fat ass. Seven inches would do it.
Then the skinnies could fly in their little bubble of untouchability and we obese folks can get a break from all the dirty looks, jackass comments and society-inflicted guilt. And we could fly without the damned armrest poking us in the hip the whole flight.
I've heard people say that since it's just a lack of self-control and laziness that causes obesity, obese people are, well, sort of disgusting. And they should not fly on airplanes if they are so fat. When I fly, I usually don't have time to drop 50 or 60 pounds by flight time. It's usually about one month ahead when I buy my ticket and, truly, I would ask for the "fat seats" if they were available.
And I'm neither lazy nor do I lack self-control. I'm a big girl, yep, but I'm no sweaty, dirty hog shoving peanuts into my maw and sloshing down free sodas. When I fly, I am well-dressed, I carry a small purse and a small carry-on bag, which I store properly in the overhead bin, not trying to force it under the seat so I can get off the plane faster.
I also try not to visit with people who are obviously not wanting to chat, and I try to keep myself squeezed into my seat in as small a lump as I can. Even while someone's baby is screaming at full blast, tinny music coming out of the hippie chick's earbuds is imitating an annoying mosquito and a really tall guy's knees are forcing me to sit nearly sideways in the seat.
It's only an hour or two out of my life. I can live with it. I can call upon my good manners and not shoot dirty looks at anyone, not whisper loudly to anyone sitting nearby that the hippie chick smells like patchouli and I will not tell the tall man to push his knees together for God's sake.
But, then, I was raised with good manners.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
One of my interests is art. I started doing crafts when I was very young -- everyone in my family is crafty in one form or another. In the last couple of years, I started doing "altered art" which is basically taking anything you find and making it into art. I've taken old books and transformed them into a different book by adding paint, stamps, photos, buttons, all kinds of tidbits. I've covered a wooden box with nails and screws and other hardware and painted the word "MANLY" on it. I've taken old family photos and adding sewing and buttons or old WWII ration coupons or just whatever somehow reflected that person. It's very enjoyable and I like doing it.
Anyway, my latest project has been more painting than altered art. I painted the whole background, then added just a pair of chipboard wings and a pair of wings cut from newspaper and words cut from paper. So, here's the picture:
This painting I wanted to convey the idea that we already have what we need inside of us, we just need to take the risks and go forward with confidence. Sort of like the Wizard of Oz saying "you had it inside you all along".
I've said it myself and heard most everyone I know say those words: "I could never..." I could never speak in front of a group, yet I did. I could never put a worm on a hook, yet I did. (fear of looking like a wimp in front of my young nephews was a great incentive.) I could never paint, yet I do.
As a writer, I've had a lot of people tell me they "could never write a story" or even a paragraph, sometimes. But they can, of course, if they can read and write, they can write a paragraph or a letter or a diary or a blog or a book. It might not end up being Pulitzer-prize winning prose, but it's writing.
I think that's the real problem with most of us. We say we can "never do that" because we don't think we'll be perfect at it. We may want to try to get up and sing at a karaoke night, but we could "never do it". Anyone can get up and sing at karaoke, that's the whole point of karaoke. You might sound terrible, but by golly, you can get up there and pretend you're Celine Dion or Elvis Presley for a few minutes.
If the fear of not being the best at something is keeping us from even trying, that is a sad thing. By the way, nowadays, I can jab a fish hook into a wiggly old worm without even squealing in horror one time. But I just knew I couldn't do it. Until I looked at those three little boys staring up at me with big eyes and a bit of challenge in their faces. Um, yeah, sure, I could put that worm on the hook. gulp. I actually had to squeal a bit the first time and the worm kept wiggling out of position and even falling off the hook on the way to the water.
But the worm got on the hook and the boys were fishing happily while I was scrubbing my hands clean. The next fishing trip, I just did it without squealing or scrubbing my hands raw with soap afterwards. And eventually the worms stayed on the hooks really well and it only took me one try to get them on the hook.
And I always said "I could never paint". Yet right up above of these words, there it is, a painting, done by me. So I guess I CAN paint. It's not perfect, it's not following any particular art style nor do I have any training. It's just me pushing paint around on the canvas and trying to express my feelings.
Before you say "I could never", just think again. Count to ten and think it over. Really you can't do it or are you just afraid of looking foolish? Or have you done it long ago and it didn't turn out well? Well, hell, this is NOW and if you think you want to give whatever it is a try, go for it. At the very least, you'll have a painting or a letter or a memory of singing your heart out. That's not a bad exchange.
Anyway, my latest project has been more painting than altered art. I painted the whole background, then added just a pair of chipboard wings and a pair of wings cut from newspaper and words cut from paper. So, here's the picture:
This painting I wanted to convey the idea that we already have what we need inside of us, we just need to take the risks and go forward with confidence. Sort of like the Wizard of Oz saying "you had it inside you all along".
I've said it myself and heard most everyone I know say those words: "I could never..." I could never speak in front of a group, yet I did. I could never put a worm on a hook, yet I did. (fear of looking like a wimp in front of my young nephews was a great incentive.) I could never paint, yet I do.
As a writer, I've had a lot of people tell me they "could never write a story" or even a paragraph, sometimes. But they can, of course, if they can read and write, they can write a paragraph or a letter or a diary or a blog or a book. It might not end up being Pulitzer-prize winning prose, but it's writing.
I think that's the real problem with most of us. We say we can "never do that" because we don't think we'll be perfect at it. We may want to try to get up and sing at a karaoke night, but we could "never do it". Anyone can get up and sing at karaoke, that's the whole point of karaoke. You might sound terrible, but by golly, you can get up there and pretend you're Celine Dion or Elvis Presley for a few minutes.
If the fear of not being the best at something is keeping us from even trying, that is a sad thing. By the way, nowadays, I can jab a fish hook into a wiggly old worm without even squealing in horror one time. But I just knew I couldn't do it. Until I looked at those three little boys staring up at me with big eyes and a bit of challenge in their faces. Um, yeah, sure, I could put that worm on the hook. gulp. I actually had to squeal a bit the first time and the worm kept wiggling out of position and even falling off the hook on the way to the water.
But the worm got on the hook and the boys were fishing happily while I was scrubbing my hands clean. The next fishing trip, I just did it without squealing or scrubbing my hands raw with soap afterwards. And eventually the worms stayed on the hooks really well and it only took me one try to get them on the hook.
And I always said "I could never paint". Yet right up above of these words, there it is, a painting, done by me. So I guess I CAN paint. It's not perfect, it's not following any particular art style nor do I have any training. It's just me pushing paint around on the canvas and trying to express my feelings.
Before you say "I could never", just think again. Count to ten and think it over. Really you can't do it or are you just afraid of looking foolish? Or have you done it long ago and it didn't turn out well? Well, hell, this is NOW and if you think you want to give whatever it is a try, go for it. At the very least, you'll have a painting or a letter or a memory of singing your heart out. That's not a bad exchange.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Never Say Never
I swore I would NEVER do it. I thought it was ridiculous, pointless, just a waste of money. And then one day my brain started whispering in my ear: "do it, do it. It's easy, everyone else is doing it, what have you got to lose?"
And, like the big old peer-pressure victim that I am, I joined one of those cheesy weight-loss programs. You know, Marie Osmond with big hair assuring you the food is delicious and the pounds will just melt off? Yeah. I fell for that.
I've been overweight for years and years and I thought I had come to peace with it. I wore clothes that, I felt, worked pretty well with my size. I went swimming in the summer with my nephews and nieces and, no, I didn't wear a bikini, I wore a big ol' cover-up-everything suit. But hey, I still got in the pool. I met lots of new people all the time on my job. I didn't let my mind mess with me about the weight. I just said "hey, take it or leave it. This is what I look like."
Sometimes I went dancing with my husband. We went on vacations. Just whatever we wanted to do, we did it.
Then I turned 40. I gained another block of weight (I think it is all in my ass area -- all 50 pounds). I started having trouble with my knees and back. Then I turned 48. Gasp! I realized I was middle-aged. So I decided to join an exercise program, to keep my knees and back limber and to maybe knock off a few pounds at the same time (at least that 50 pound block of butt fat).
I liked it. I was a little self-conscious at first, putting my legs up in the air and pushing them in and out, squeezing my knees all the way to my chest. Not really all the way to my chest, because I have an angry little bundle of belly fat whose whole purpose seems to be keeping my knees away from my chest. I perservered, though, and I started feeling better. My knees felt better, and my back felt better. But I was still eating whatever I wanted to and so I only lost four pounds. Okay, I had firmly told myself losing weight was the main issue, and now I was unhappy that I wasn't losing weight. Hmm.
Sometimes, I can be a little dense. I think I have a clear vision of how I feel about an issue, like weight, and I stop thinking about it. I just tell myself and everyone who asks me, hey, I have decided this, I don't care about my weight. Even when people have pointed out that sometimes extra weight brings health problems. Because I didn't have those kinds of health problems.
Oh, but, wait. I let something slide by when I told you about the exercise program. I had to wait for two weeks to actually start exercising, because a quick blood pressure check showed a crazy high reading. I immediately left the gym and went to my doctor. Yep, now I have high blood pressure. Oh, fuck. Time for a major attitidue adjustment.
Now I had to realize that my weight really isn't okay. It's not just a matter of other people judging me based on my weight. My weight was actually affecting my health. And I couldn't prove it was anything other than my weight. I had to start taking blood pressure medication. And I got to thinking.
I thought about it nearly all the time. I had been wrong for a long, long time. That's hard to admit. And now I had to do something to fix it. I knew what I needed, I needed to stop eating junk food, eat a healthy diet and lose some weight. The exercise wasn't taking off weight very quickly and I knew I was still eating the wrong kinds of food. So I knew there had to be a next step. I needed to go on a diet.
I hate diets. I hate when people tell me about their diets. I hate the "you'll like yourself so much better when you are thin" mentality. The "your husband will finally be attracted to you if you lose weight." Sure, forget all that love and commitment stuff, just eat carrots and keeps your abs looking amazing and your husband will REALLY love you. Not like he loved you when you were fat, but a new, better skinny love.
Well, crap. I had to do something. I just closed my eyes, screwed up my courage and decided "I have to do a diet plan because I will never be able to do this on my own." So I talked it over with my husband and my mother, then got the OK from my doctor. I chose NutriSystem. I mean, who doesn't want to look like Marie Osmond? Are you kidding, that tall hair and those pearly whites? Sign me up.
That is not a real difficult process, to join NutriSystem. I did it all online and my food arrived the next week. A whole big box of food. It's all shelf-safe food, none of it needs refrigeration or freezing. So I got this big old box and I dug through and found lots of things that didn't really look too bad. So I put together a menu for the week and bought a bunch of vegetables and fruit to go along with it.
Trust me, I am not a vegetable and fruit person. You do not get to be my size eating snow peas and mangos. I eat french fries, hamburgers, I practically live on pizza, I love ice cream. Oddly enough, Nutrisystem hadn't included any ice cream in the package. And the pizzas are all tiny. Like the size of a saucer, tiny. Very tasty, but TINY. The theory is that you fill up on vegetables and fruit, those things I just told you I don't really care for.
It's been one week and I've lost 5 pounds. Mostly eating things I haven't really loved. Maybe I just don't have Marie Osmonds' perkiness, but this ain't delicious food, here. It's edible. Some of it's okay. The oatmeal cookies are really good. The cheese tortellini doesn't taste like diet food at all. But then there are the other things -- a LOT of "bars". Bars for lunch, bars for dinner. I can't eat a bar and feel satisfied.
But I can eat some of the things, next month I'll just make sure they don't send me some of the freakier food and that I get plenty of pizzas, tiny though they may be, and lots of granola cereal, which is the best breakfast option for me. And I drink a lot of water. So I'm peeing all the damned time. Hey, more exercise!
I'm just trying to be patient, keep exercising, keep eating the "good" food and hope for the best. But I don't have a goal of losing all my weight, not even half of it. I just want to try for that 50 pounds of butt fat. And to get my blood pressure back in line and my knees and back feeling better. I don't want to be old before I'm old.
So I gotta go heat up some black bean soup, consume far too many vegetables and maybe a nice slice of cantoulope. Baby steps. Just little baby steps.
And, like the big old peer-pressure victim that I am, I joined one of those cheesy weight-loss programs. You know, Marie Osmond with big hair assuring you the food is delicious and the pounds will just melt off? Yeah. I fell for that.
I've been overweight for years and years and I thought I had come to peace with it. I wore clothes that, I felt, worked pretty well with my size. I went swimming in the summer with my nephews and nieces and, no, I didn't wear a bikini, I wore a big ol' cover-up-everything suit. But hey, I still got in the pool. I met lots of new people all the time on my job. I didn't let my mind mess with me about the weight. I just said "hey, take it or leave it. This is what I look like."
Sometimes I went dancing with my husband. We went on vacations. Just whatever we wanted to do, we did it.
Then I turned 40. I gained another block of weight (I think it is all in my ass area -- all 50 pounds). I started having trouble with my knees and back. Then I turned 48. Gasp! I realized I was middle-aged. So I decided to join an exercise program, to keep my knees and back limber and to maybe knock off a few pounds at the same time (at least that 50 pound block of butt fat).
I liked it. I was a little self-conscious at first, putting my legs up in the air and pushing them in and out, squeezing my knees all the way to my chest. Not really all the way to my chest, because I have an angry little bundle of belly fat whose whole purpose seems to be keeping my knees away from my chest. I perservered, though, and I started feeling better. My knees felt better, and my back felt better. But I was still eating whatever I wanted to and so I only lost four pounds. Okay, I had firmly told myself losing weight was the main issue, and now I was unhappy that I wasn't losing weight. Hmm.
Sometimes, I can be a little dense. I think I have a clear vision of how I feel about an issue, like weight, and I stop thinking about it. I just tell myself and everyone who asks me, hey, I have decided this, I don't care about my weight. Even when people have pointed out that sometimes extra weight brings health problems. Because I didn't have those kinds of health problems.
Oh, but, wait. I let something slide by when I told you about the exercise program. I had to wait for two weeks to actually start exercising, because a quick blood pressure check showed a crazy high reading. I immediately left the gym and went to my doctor. Yep, now I have high blood pressure. Oh, fuck. Time for a major attitidue adjustment.
Now I had to realize that my weight really isn't okay. It's not just a matter of other people judging me based on my weight. My weight was actually affecting my health. And I couldn't prove it was anything other than my weight. I had to start taking blood pressure medication. And I got to thinking.
I thought about it nearly all the time. I had been wrong for a long, long time. That's hard to admit. And now I had to do something to fix it. I knew what I needed, I needed to stop eating junk food, eat a healthy diet and lose some weight. The exercise wasn't taking off weight very quickly and I knew I was still eating the wrong kinds of food. So I knew there had to be a next step. I needed to go on a diet.
I hate diets. I hate when people tell me about their diets. I hate the "you'll like yourself so much better when you are thin" mentality. The "your husband will finally be attracted to you if you lose weight." Sure, forget all that love and commitment stuff, just eat carrots and keeps your abs looking amazing and your husband will REALLY love you. Not like he loved you when you were fat, but a new, better skinny love.
Well, crap. I had to do something. I just closed my eyes, screwed up my courage and decided "I have to do a diet plan because I will never be able to do this on my own." So I talked it over with my husband and my mother, then got the OK from my doctor. I chose NutriSystem. I mean, who doesn't want to look like Marie Osmond? Are you kidding, that tall hair and those pearly whites? Sign me up.
That is not a real difficult process, to join NutriSystem. I did it all online and my food arrived the next week. A whole big box of food. It's all shelf-safe food, none of it needs refrigeration or freezing. So I got this big old box and I dug through and found lots of things that didn't really look too bad. So I put together a menu for the week and bought a bunch of vegetables and fruit to go along with it.
Trust me, I am not a vegetable and fruit person. You do not get to be my size eating snow peas and mangos. I eat french fries, hamburgers, I practically live on pizza, I love ice cream. Oddly enough, Nutrisystem hadn't included any ice cream in the package. And the pizzas are all tiny. Like the size of a saucer, tiny. Very tasty, but TINY. The theory is that you fill up on vegetables and fruit, those things I just told you I don't really care for.
It's been one week and I've lost 5 pounds. Mostly eating things I haven't really loved. Maybe I just don't have Marie Osmonds' perkiness, but this ain't delicious food, here. It's edible. Some of it's okay. The oatmeal cookies are really good. The cheese tortellini doesn't taste like diet food at all. But then there are the other things -- a LOT of "bars". Bars for lunch, bars for dinner. I can't eat a bar and feel satisfied.
But I can eat some of the things, next month I'll just make sure they don't send me some of the freakier food and that I get plenty of pizzas, tiny though they may be, and lots of granola cereal, which is the best breakfast option for me. And I drink a lot of water. So I'm peeing all the damned time. Hey, more exercise!
I'm just trying to be patient, keep exercising, keep eating the "good" food and hope for the best. But I don't have a goal of losing all my weight, not even half of it. I just want to try for that 50 pounds of butt fat. And to get my blood pressure back in line and my knees and back feeling better. I don't want to be old before I'm old.
So I gotta go heat up some black bean soup, consume far too many vegetables and maybe a nice slice of cantoulope. Baby steps. Just little baby steps.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Books and stupidity
One of my goals this year is to read four books a week. I am also trying to exercise three times a week. It is more likely that I will read four books a week.
I'm pretty sure I can do this, since I've been a dedicated reader since I first learned to string words into a sentence. Being a reader helped me become a writer, and I'm positive that good reading skills and a love of reading helped make me a good student in school.
One of my theories in life is that reading helps make you smart and it helps keep you smart. I have a deathly fear of losing my eyesight and being unable to read. I am convinced that if I can't read books, I will gradually grow dumber and dumber until I start voting Republican and sending fan mail to George W. Bush.
If only more people would read, I think, we'd all be smarter. Imagine: more smart people = fewer people wearing butt-crack exposing pants, watching reality TV shows and trying out for "American Idol."
One thing I hate to hear is "No one reads anymore." I've heard it a million times and it's just such a lie! Maybe not an intentional lie, more like an urban myth. A society where no one reads, next on Geraldo. Book selling is still a huge business. And since money rules everything in our capitalist nation, people are reading and buying books or Barnes and Noble would close its doors and open up Stores for the Very Dumb throughout the country.
Okay, some of those books are pure crap. My friends, we live in a crap-filled world. TV is mostly crap, but still, I am not selling my TV anytime soon. And I will keep reading books, at the risk of reading some crap, until my eyes quit working or my heart stops beating. Whichever comes first.
And in the era of texting, emails and voice messaging, I can see where a person might think "no one" is reading. But I know tons of people who read. They may not read what I read, they may read much more high falutin' literature than I do, or they may read People magazine and consider that sufficient. So what, they're reading. Oh, and for the technology-obsessed out there, Kindle is a nifty little device where you can download entire books onto a small, hand-held apparatus and read the book anywhere. I still like the feel of pages under my fingertips and the smell of ink when I'm reading, but a lot of people swear by Kindles. But hey, I still write actual pen-and-paper letters to people and actually mail them, with a stamp and everything. So I'm not seeing a Kindle in my future anytime soon.
Every time I read a book (well, unless it's a piece of crap book), I get to go somewhere else, be someone else, learn more about the world, even if it's a made-up world. I've even read a book about one of my ancestors, John Berry Hill, who was a prospector and went to California during the Gold Rush. Fascinating reading, especially when you know it's your own family member.
I just read two books by Stiegg Larsson, a Swedish writer who was also a social activist against racism and right-wing extremism in his home country. The books are set in Sweden, a country I previously knew very little about. Now, I may not know it all and I wasn't there in person, but I feel like my mind has stretched just a little bit more to include the people of Sweden and how they live. Larsson died in 2004 of a heart attack, before his three novels were published. Published posthumously, they were bestsellers. Aspiring novelists, pay attention here! Write that book! You know you want to, so just do it and see what happens. None of us lives forever.
For booklovers like me, keep reading. Pick up a Harlequin romance, check out "War and Peace" from the library or go through your own bookshelves and re-read one of your childhood favorites, like "The Wind in the Willows".
Just read. I promise you it will make you smarter. Anyway, you will feel smarter.
I'm pretty sure I can do this, since I've been a dedicated reader since I first learned to string words into a sentence. Being a reader helped me become a writer, and I'm positive that good reading skills and a love of reading helped make me a good student in school.
One of my theories in life is that reading helps make you smart and it helps keep you smart. I have a deathly fear of losing my eyesight and being unable to read. I am convinced that if I can't read books, I will gradually grow dumber and dumber until I start voting Republican and sending fan mail to George W. Bush.
If only more people would read, I think, we'd all be smarter. Imagine: more smart people = fewer people wearing butt-crack exposing pants, watching reality TV shows and trying out for "American Idol."
One thing I hate to hear is "No one reads anymore." I've heard it a million times and it's just such a lie! Maybe not an intentional lie, more like an urban myth. A society where no one reads, next on Geraldo. Book selling is still a huge business. And since money rules everything in our capitalist nation, people are reading and buying books or Barnes and Noble would close its doors and open up Stores for the Very Dumb throughout the country.
Okay, some of those books are pure crap. My friends, we live in a crap-filled world. TV is mostly crap, but still, I am not selling my TV anytime soon. And I will keep reading books, at the risk of reading some crap, until my eyes quit working or my heart stops beating. Whichever comes first.
And in the era of texting, emails and voice messaging, I can see where a person might think "no one" is reading. But I know tons of people who read. They may not read what I read, they may read much more high falutin' literature than I do, or they may read People magazine and consider that sufficient. So what, they're reading. Oh, and for the technology-obsessed out there, Kindle is a nifty little device where you can download entire books onto a small, hand-held apparatus and read the book anywhere. I still like the feel of pages under my fingertips and the smell of ink when I'm reading, but a lot of people swear by Kindles. But hey, I still write actual pen-and-paper letters to people and actually mail them, with a stamp and everything. So I'm not seeing a Kindle in my future anytime soon.
Every time I read a book (well, unless it's a piece of crap book), I get to go somewhere else, be someone else, learn more about the world, even if it's a made-up world. I've even read a book about one of my ancestors, John Berry Hill, who was a prospector and went to California during the Gold Rush. Fascinating reading, especially when you know it's your own family member.
I just read two books by Stiegg Larsson, a Swedish writer who was also a social activist against racism and right-wing extremism in his home country. The books are set in Sweden, a country I previously knew very little about. Now, I may not know it all and I wasn't there in person, but I feel like my mind has stretched just a little bit more to include the people of Sweden and how they live. Larsson died in 2004 of a heart attack, before his three novels were published. Published posthumously, they were bestsellers. Aspiring novelists, pay attention here! Write that book! You know you want to, so just do it and see what happens. None of us lives forever.
For booklovers like me, keep reading. Pick up a Harlequin romance, check out "War and Peace" from the library or go through your own bookshelves and re-read one of your childhood favorites, like "The Wind in the Willows".
Just read. I promise you it will make you smarter. Anyway, you will feel smarter.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Ordinary Days
Today is an ordinary day, the day when I decide to start a blog. Which is just as well, because special occasions are really just ordinary days when we decide to be the stars of our own little soap operas. We dress up, we put on a happy face, we exude warmth, even if we feel like wearing our pajamas, snarling at any other life forms, and poking them in the eye if they try to talk to us.
Weddings are a good example of how we produce little soap operas to celebrate "big days" in our lives. The bride has to wear the most uncomfortable dress she will ever wear in her lifetime. The groom will never let on that he'd rather eat ground glass than hug every guest. The whole damned dysfunctional family will line up for photographs which show them as loving, beautiful people. More money will be spent than anyone can afford.
So we pretend to be beautiful, stylish, loving, wealthy people for one day. Trust me, you will never again in your marriage feel all four of those things in one day. Reality always gives us a pimple on our nose, more bills than we can pay, and niggling little differences that keep our relationships slightly out of balance no matter how much love we feel.
Even funerals become productions. Through our grief, we want to send our loved one off to the grave with panache. Armloads of beautiful flowers they can't smell, clothes they wouldn't have been caught dead in ... oops, well, you know what I mean. And sometimes, we have a little party after the funeral, where all the "guests" eat, drink and try not to be overly merry. And, again, we pretend we're rich by spending a ludicrous amount of money on a casket, a plot of ground in the cemetery and a gravestone nobody will ever visit.
But ordinary days string together to make a life. They are not all good, not all bad, and rarely do they require a white dress with veil. We are ourselves on ordinary days. We smile, we laugh, we like to look nice, those are not bad things. But we also cry, yell, ignore one another, wear questionable clothing, hang up on telemarketers and eat cold pizza for breakfast. And we choose to spend our time with those we enjoy being around, we spend our money on things we need like food and books, and we wear clothes straight out of our own closets.
Evidently, most people enjoy those special days, because weddings are still being thrown and we still gather 'round to see our loved ones off to the next world. But luckily those days are rare and ordinary days far outnumber special days. We need ordinary days to find out who we really are and where we're really going. Ordinary days are also the days when we wash our clothes, put gas in the car and earn a living.
So today is just another ordinary day when I decided to start a blog and who knows, probably no one will even notice. If you have noticed, and you're reading my blog, thank you. If you don't like it, go away. I say that lovingly -- don't read things you don't enjoy, that's just a waste of time. If you like this blog, I'll try to provide more of the same. And I hope you'll be back to share an ordinary day with me.
Weddings are a good example of how we produce little soap operas to celebrate "big days" in our lives. The bride has to wear the most uncomfortable dress she will ever wear in her lifetime. The groom will never let on that he'd rather eat ground glass than hug every guest. The whole damned dysfunctional family will line up for photographs which show them as loving, beautiful people. More money will be spent than anyone can afford.
So we pretend to be beautiful, stylish, loving, wealthy people for one day. Trust me, you will never again in your marriage feel all four of those things in one day. Reality always gives us a pimple on our nose, more bills than we can pay, and niggling little differences that keep our relationships slightly out of balance no matter how much love we feel.
Even funerals become productions. Through our grief, we want to send our loved one off to the grave with panache. Armloads of beautiful flowers they can't smell, clothes they wouldn't have been caught dead in ... oops, well, you know what I mean. And sometimes, we have a little party after the funeral, where all the "guests" eat, drink and try not to be overly merry. And, again, we pretend we're rich by spending a ludicrous amount of money on a casket, a plot of ground in the cemetery and a gravestone nobody will ever visit.
But ordinary days string together to make a life. They are not all good, not all bad, and rarely do they require a white dress with veil. We are ourselves on ordinary days. We smile, we laugh, we like to look nice, those are not bad things. But we also cry, yell, ignore one another, wear questionable clothing, hang up on telemarketers and eat cold pizza for breakfast. And we choose to spend our time with those we enjoy being around, we spend our money on things we need like food and books, and we wear clothes straight out of our own closets.
Evidently, most people enjoy those special days, because weddings are still being thrown and we still gather 'round to see our loved ones off to the next world. But luckily those days are rare and ordinary days far outnumber special days. We need ordinary days to find out who we really are and where we're really going. Ordinary days are also the days when we wash our clothes, put gas in the car and earn a living.
So today is just another ordinary day when I decided to start a blog and who knows, probably no one will even notice. If you have noticed, and you're reading my blog, thank you. If you don't like it, go away. I say that lovingly -- don't read things you don't enjoy, that's just a waste of time. If you like this blog, I'll try to provide more of the same. And I hope you'll be back to share an ordinary day with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)