The largest demographic in my office is American males. This is followed by Japanese males. The American males are only kept alive through their dependence on football season. The funny thing is that although I’ve told them repeatedly that I don’t watch or follow football, they think I MUST have some interest in BYU’s team. So they ask me all the time how I think BYU will do in an upcoming game or to explain what happened in the last game. I remind them every time that I don’t know anything about BYU football. This is so foreign to them that they are completely unable to comprehend what “don’t know ANYTHING regarding football teams/seasons” means. These people are not BYU fans. They just happen to know about every game played and continue to think that at the very least I have an interest in the school I went to. How wrong they are. I have not yet explained to them (but I really should) that I NEVER went to a football game during my undergraduate career. Not one. I was quite proud of this. I was even more proud to extend my football boycott throughout my graduate school career. Sadly, a nice guy offered a ticket…it seemed in poor form to refuse because I didn’t want to mess up my clean football record. Of course, I also didn’t have any interest in that particular activity (freezing my rear off watching an inane and violent activity), but that is almost never valid. So, in my characteristically good form, I went to the game. It was everything I thought it would be—sleet and all—the guy even wore the special headphones (not everyone has good form) leaving me to simply endure the discomfort alone, thinking how sad it was I had ruined my record—one I was proud of—for this??? (There’s a young women lesson in there…should have stuck to my no football standard.) Lucky for me, B has no interest in football either! Hooray! I really can’t believe my good fortune, considering how consumed by it some people are. Unfortunately though, after hearing enough people tell him he’s got to go to one GT football game while here, he started to believe it. Without the slightest interest in the team, the sport, or sitting in the cold for hours, he secured tickets for us to GT’s game last Thursday night. Imagine my supreeze when he told me Wednesday night that I would have to subway downtown from work the next night to go to a FOOTBALL game. What? Why on earth? “We’ve got to go to ONE! Everybody says so.” Sure. Experience is the best teacher… I didn’t end up seeing anything that seemed special at this game, so as to warrant its MUST EXPERIENCE status. We left in the middle of the weak halftime show. GT was ahead (of the Miami Hurricanes). There had been a number of interceptions, which was nice. GT has the world’s loudest sound system, we think. From the top few rows of the stadium you can see lovely Atlanta at night (that’s when it looks best).
Really though, I don’t mind hearing the males at the office talk to each other for hours about football. I like it because it’s really quite phenomenal to see just how much the human brain can keep straight—who’s playing who, every game everyone has ever won or lost, scores, coaches, EVERYTHING. They will know EXACTLY what happened in all the games played over a weekend. Amazing.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Penance for Gluttony
The strangest thing happened while my parents were here visiting. I ate so much I threw up—or I ate OUT so much I threw up. Either, and probably both. At least, that’s what I think happened. Is this even possible? On Mickey and the Beanstock they sing, "I'm gonna eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I die." My family sings that too. Often.
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Raptor [part II]
We went to an air show a year ago. It was my first and I had a great time. In addition to seeing crazy people trying to kill themselves in stunt planes and watching lots of parachuters, there are also a ton of military planes—on the ground and in the air. At that show we got to see demonstrations of (among other planes) the F-16, the Chinook, and the B-2 bomber (which looks JUST like a UFO and caused me to question whether or not people really HAVE seen UFOs. It was just like what happened at the Space Center when they showed a few “funny” clips of “fake” [made in studios] walking on the moon footage to recognize [and mock] the belief that the whole thing is a hoax. I had never doubted and always wondered about the people who did—until I saw this fake footage. Suddenly I realized it COULD be a hoax. Not funny. Same with the UFO-looking B-2 bomber. I’m fine with the possibility of UFOs existing, UFOs having been “sighted,” even people having been abducted. But now, wait, are they really ALL crazy? It’s all right though, Mulder. I still believe—at least the UFO controversy). At the air show there are tons of planes on the ground for you to admire and/or climb in. So, you just put your chairs down somewhere in case you want to sit down eventually (it doesn’t matter where—everything is a good seat since it’s in the air and no one can really block the view), then you go off walking around checking out all the planes on the ground and eating nachos. Anytime you want to look up there’s something awesome flying around doing tricks. A fun day. This year, I heard about a different air show up at a nearby air force base which I was certain B had not heard about (he would have told me, and we would have been planning on it). I looked it up and saw that, among other demonstrations, we would get to see the F-22 “RAPTOR,” which is his dream plane to fly. Of course, it’s also his dream to fly an F-16 or F-15 or anything—but if given the choice of all of them, he’d pick the new fancy F-22. (Also at this show we watched demonstrations of the F-15 and a Navy Hornet—which was my favorite, after the F-22, of course). So, the night before the show I told B I had this wonderful surprise day/date planned for us! It was tons of fun (after the nearly three hours we spent standing in line. We had even shown up an hour and fifteen minutes early and still got in late. This event had much more security than the last one—once we got through the initial security line, we were bussed a few miles away, where we stood in another security line... But because we got there so early, we got to see the F-22 “practicing,” yes, even from far away.) The practice flying we watched in the morning was the coolest thing of the day. It was all over the place. We saw it fly at the show again, and they had one for us to look at on the ground (only they wouldn’t let us get close enough to touch it. If you want photos though, we’ve got those…for a price. B took photos of the thing from every side (close-up of the landing gear. You hear that, China?)). While reading the brochures being handed out about the F-22, I noticed that the name of the plane (F-22RAPTOR) has a birdhead graphically designed into the lettering. It looked eagle-like, and as I only knew of raptors as dinosaurs I was confused. This was no dino head. I checked this out with Webster when we got home. One of the definitions is “a usually small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaur,” you know, like a velociraptor or a deinonychus. The other definition simply says “bird of prey.” Sure birds fly and I get that connection. This is more than a flying or even a fighting flying machine. This one is superior to all flying and fighting planes in the world AND uses stealth technology AND does ground attack, electronic warfare, and signals intelligence. It’s time for a new species, my friends. Birds just don’t cut it anymore. They should have gone with the small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaurs. I really get that comparison. It just makes more sense. Think Jurassic Park [shudder].
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
I'm a Georgia voter!
Of course, I prefer the mail-in ballot method that Oregon uses for its elections to the craziness of physical polling places found in the rest of the states, but I was so excited to get to experience voting the usual way. I’ll admit, I was sort of dreading the day-of madness and originally toyed with the idea of voting early. But early voting in Atlanta requires “normal” waits of 4-5 hours and “not uncommon” waits of 7-8 hours. Bless the 1.5 million Atlantans who suffered through this. I decided to wait till the day of in hopes that the 5 million of us remaining would be accommodated more quickly by election day’s polling stations on every corner. Here are some things I observed:
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
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