Dude, if I ever commit a crime and must be incarcerated, deport me to the Philipines and send me over to THAT prison. Reformation never looked so fun.
Showing posts with label Strange but true. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Strange but true. Show all posts
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Grammy Mammy Pants
There are two things that run in my family along the matriarchal line: diabetes, and storing all our fat in the front of our stomachs, resulting in that six-months-pregnant look throughout the year.
Grandma, a diabetic of many years and a great lover of Dr Pepper and Mexican pastries, has finally reached the point of requiring insulin shots. It's kind of sad, but at least it's a tiny needle attached to a self-measuring device that looks like a pen, rather than the giant nail stuck to a glass tube her sister and mother used back in the day. Naturally Grandma has to worry about the usual related ailments, like slow-healing cuts and bug bites, shakiness, confusion, hypertension, and those whacked-out mood swings. Perhaps the strangest symptom of her diabetes has been her constant annoyance at anything squeezing her.
I wish I could count the number of times she's repeated "Diabetics don't like having anything pressing on us." She means things like the shoulder straps of purses, anything with a tight waistband, and overly tight socks (you've not been truly disturbed until you've seen a centenarian in leg warmers and flip-flops). But most of all, she can't stand to wear pants. In fact, I think it would not be a stretch to say she's probably never worn a single pair of pants in all of her 78 years. Elastic waist, jeans, slacks, belted stuff, things held up by suspenders, it doesn't matter, if the thing has a separate hole for each leg and is not a skirt or dress, she won't wear it, clamoring "It hurts, it hurts, I know it hurts, even though I have never tried it on, ever, I know it hurts."
However, for reasons that are bathroom related and are too gross to share with you, my grandma has now been forced to wear pants when she visits doctors' offices and labs.
Just as Grandma was worried about the possibility of giant needle-nails big enough to crucify with, she's also been concerned about the vice-grip waist of the slacks of yesteryear. She seems to forget that modern weighty women do not bother with the girdles and pointy bras of 50 years ago or, so help me, corsets. We would rather buy a larger size with a smaller number and feel comfortable while they trick ourselves into feeling thin.
Be that as it may, Mom and I were still worried that the elastic waistband of some stretch pants might still be too tight for my delicate little old flower of a granny. In fact, I thought it very likely that she'd let my mom buy the pants and then just not wear them. And of all the things that run in my family, the most powerful is the sense of pissed-offed-ness that comes from spending good money on something that isn't going to be used at all.
And then inspiration struck.
Since I inherited the looks-like-a-beer-gut gut, I've found that the easiest way to be comfortable without tossing on sweats is to put on my old maternity jeans. The elastic is a good two inches wide, so I don't have a narrow piece of rubber slicing into my belly, and it rests higher up on the abdomen. There are no drawstrings to stand there and mess with before I sit on the Throne. And the pants actually look nice while still being designed to expand as I need them to. I told Mom all about it.
I wonder if Grandma knows that she and I are basically wearing the exact same preggo pants without either of us actually being pregnant?
Grandma, a diabetic of many years and a great lover of Dr Pepper and Mexican pastries, has finally reached the point of requiring insulin shots. It's kind of sad, but at least it's a tiny needle attached to a self-measuring device that looks like a pen, rather than the giant nail stuck to a glass tube her sister and mother used back in the day. Naturally Grandma has to worry about the usual related ailments, like slow-healing cuts and bug bites, shakiness, confusion, hypertension, and those whacked-out mood swings. Perhaps the strangest symptom of her diabetes has been her constant annoyance at anything squeezing her.
I wish I could count the number of times she's repeated "Diabetics don't like having anything pressing on us." She means things like the shoulder straps of purses, anything with a tight waistband, and overly tight socks (you've not been truly disturbed until you've seen a centenarian in leg warmers and flip-flops). But most of all, she can't stand to wear pants. In fact, I think it would not be a stretch to say she's probably never worn a single pair of pants in all of her 78 years. Elastic waist, jeans, slacks, belted stuff, things held up by suspenders, it doesn't matter, if the thing has a separate hole for each leg and is not a skirt or dress, she won't wear it, clamoring "It hurts, it hurts, I know it hurts, even though I have never tried it on, ever, I know it hurts."
However, for reasons that are bathroom related and are too gross to share with you, my grandma has now been forced to wear pants when she visits doctors' offices and labs.
Just as Grandma was worried about the possibility of giant needle-nails big enough to crucify with, she's also been concerned about the vice-grip waist of the slacks of yesteryear. She seems to forget that modern weighty women do not bother with the girdles and pointy bras of 50 years ago or, so help me, corsets. We would rather buy a larger size with a smaller number and feel comfortable while they trick ourselves into feeling thin.
Be that as it may, Mom and I were still worried that the elastic waistband of some stretch pants might still be too tight for my delicate little old flower of a granny. In fact, I thought it very likely that she'd let my mom buy the pants and then just not wear them. And of all the things that run in my family, the most powerful is the sense of pissed-offed-ness that comes from spending good money on something that isn't going to be used at all.
And then inspiration struck.
Since I inherited the looks-like-a-beer-gut gut, I've found that the easiest way to be comfortable without tossing on sweats is to put on my old maternity jeans. The elastic is a good two inches wide, so I don't have a narrow piece of rubber slicing into my belly, and it rests higher up on the abdomen. There are no drawstrings to stand there and mess with before I sit on the Throne. And the pants actually look nice while still being designed to expand as I need them to. I told Mom all about it.
I wonder if Grandma knows that she and I are basically wearing the exact same preggo pants without either of us actually being pregnant?
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
St. School House Rocks
Even with all the wacky saints in the Catholic church's saint index (St. Eligius, patron saint of cab drivers), it's nice to know that there are still some saints who you can pray to (if you're so inclined) for something that makes sense. If I were the type to pray to a saint (which I'm not), I'd be directing my prayers to St. Martin de Porres, patron saint of public schools.
I count myself fortunate that my daughter is enrolling in one of the highest-scoring elementary schools in the state, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous about sending her to a school that relies on the local property taxes of a poor neighborhood for its funding. They've been using the same trash compactor for 20 years (yes, I did recognize it), and who knows if that thing's going to explode and shower all the children with mystery meat and chocolate milk?
Of course, this may all be just my delusional, insomnia-driven brain ramblings, brought on no doubt by receiving a phone call this morning telling me that my daughter has to come in for a test next week (two weeks before school actually starts). At first I thought it was a placement test. Silly me, thinking that just because my husband, who took the call, SAID it was a placement test, he would continue to say the same thing eight hours later. He's changed his story to "They didn't SAY what kind of test it was, I just THOUGHT that might be it, but I never SAID THAT."
Which I countered with, "Dude, I WROTE DOWN WHAT YOU SAID. Are you saying you MADE IT UP?"
Now for all I know it could a freaking TB test or something. That's all she needs, for the school nurse to stick a needle in her arm and inject her with fluid. I'm sure Gina will LOVE going to that nurse for her scrapes and cuts after that.
And can we talk for a minute about the paperwork I had to fill out? I know the school system has to be thorough, what with all the crazy allergies kids have these days and trying to make sure you actually live within the proper district boundaries, but you just KNOW they aren't handing that Migrant Worker Survey to the white families. The last time anyone in our family did migrant farm work was sixty years ago. That's why it didn't even occur to me to fill it out, and I had to stand there stupidly in the office and answer the questions verbally after handing in the 40 tons of papers I had to fill out and sign. Surely they saw the paper I filled out that said my daughter already HAD a TB test, right?
And will somebody please tell me why I can't pick up my five-year-old directly from her classroom? I'm walking the child to and from school, so why do I have to wait out in front, at a distance? I'll tell you why: two years ago there was a sudden surge in the number of divorces among this school's parent pool, and suddenly dads were walking in and picking up children even though it wasn't their assigned custody day, and by law the school had to allow it because both parents were listed on the registration card. But the moms were getting all pissed off, with the "Why would you let my child be picked up by her own father on the fourth Tuesday of the month, don't you know the intimate details of our private custody agreement?"
So the principal (who I really do admire, as she was my high school geometry teacher AND my husband's guidance counselor later on) said "To heck with this meshugas, I'm not having our classes disrupted because these people can't handle their own private affairs. Everybody wait out front for their kids, and there are no more after-school conferences. If it's that important that you tell the teacher what's going on, you have to make an appointment during the day, and if there's a problem with your custody agreement that doesn't involve having your ex removed from our registration card, tell it to the family court." To which I say rock on, except for the part where I can't go stand outside her classroom door and make sure no strangers try to take her before she makes it all the way to wherever I'm allowed to wait, if she even remembers where that spot is.
Then, of course, there's a whole set of papers you have to clear if your child was born in a foreign country, particularly if s/he's not a citizen of THIS country. Thank God my kids weren't born any farther away than North Carolina. I kind of feel sorry for the children of undocumented workers. Heaven knows what kind of lies those poor kids have to tell in today's anti-immigration political climate just to keep from being deported back to a country full of drug lords and mara salvatrucha.
Wow, they really have to deal with a lot at that school. Maybe if I have any Catholics in the readership, you could say a prayer to St. Martin for my school, that the teachers and administrators not go postal just trying to keep things running smoothly. I'll just be standing over here in the parents' waiting area with Gabriel the Archangel, patron saint of postal workers, radio, and television. Apparently he knows why FOX cancelled Firefly, and what better place to learn of the mysteries of fate and television workers than in the nearest House of Learning?
I count myself fortunate that my daughter is enrolling in one of the highest-scoring elementary schools in the state, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous about sending her to a school that relies on the local property taxes of a poor neighborhood for its funding. They've been using the same trash compactor for 20 years (yes, I did recognize it), and who knows if that thing's going to explode and shower all the children with mystery meat and chocolate milk?
Of course, this may all be just my delusional, insomnia-driven brain ramblings, brought on no doubt by receiving a phone call this morning telling me that my daughter has to come in for a test next week (two weeks before school actually starts). At first I thought it was a placement test. Silly me, thinking that just because my husband, who took the call, SAID it was a placement test, he would continue to say the same thing eight hours later. He's changed his story to "They didn't SAY what kind of test it was, I just THOUGHT that might be it, but I never SAID THAT."
Which I countered with, "Dude, I WROTE DOWN WHAT YOU SAID. Are you saying you MADE IT UP?"
Now for all I know it could a freaking TB test or something. That's all she needs, for the school nurse to stick a needle in her arm and inject her with fluid. I'm sure Gina will LOVE going to that nurse for her scrapes and cuts after that.
And can we talk for a minute about the paperwork I had to fill out? I know the school system has to be thorough, what with all the crazy allergies kids have these days and trying to make sure you actually live within the proper district boundaries, but you just KNOW they aren't handing that Migrant Worker Survey to the white families. The last time anyone in our family did migrant farm work was sixty years ago. That's why it didn't even occur to me to fill it out, and I had to stand there stupidly in the office and answer the questions verbally after handing in the 40 tons of papers I had to fill out and sign. Surely they saw the paper I filled out that said my daughter already HAD a TB test, right?
And will somebody please tell me why I can't pick up my five-year-old directly from her classroom? I'm walking the child to and from school, so why do I have to wait out in front, at a distance? I'll tell you why: two years ago there was a sudden surge in the number of divorces among this school's parent pool, and suddenly dads were walking in and picking up children even though it wasn't their assigned custody day, and by law the school had to allow it because both parents were listed on the registration card. But the moms were getting all pissed off, with the "Why would you let my child be picked up by her own father on the fourth Tuesday of the month, don't you know the intimate details of our private custody agreement?"
So the principal (who I really do admire, as she was my high school geometry teacher AND my husband's guidance counselor later on) said "To heck with this meshugas, I'm not having our classes disrupted because these people can't handle their own private affairs. Everybody wait out front for their kids, and there are no more after-school conferences. If it's that important that you tell the teacher what's going on, you have to make an appointment during the day, and if there's a problem with your custody agreement that doesn't involve having your ex removed from our registration card, tell it to the family court." To which I say rock on, except for the part where I can't go stand outside her classroom door and make sure no strangers try to take her before she makes it all the way to wherever I'm allowed to wait, if she even remembers where that spot is.
Then, of course, there's a whole set of papers you have to clear if your child was born in a foreign country, particularly if s/he's not a citizen of THIS country. Thank God my kids weren't born any farther away than North Carolina. I kind of feel sorry for the children of undocumented workers. Heaven knows what kind of lies those poor kids have to tell in today's anti-immigration political climate just to keep from being deported back to a country full of drug lords and mara salvatrucha.
Wow, they really have to deal with a lot at that school. Maybe if I have any Catholics in the readership, you could say a prayer to St. Martin for my school, that the teachers and administrators not go postal just trying to keep things running smoothly. I'll just be standing over here in the parents' waiting area with Gabriel the Archangel, patron saint of postal workers, radio, and television. Apparently he knows why FOX cancelled Firefly, and what better place to learn of the mysteries of fate and television workers than in the nearest House of Learning?
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Inappropriate yet commonplace comments
- So, the girl we're having this baby shower for, does she have a boyfriend or a fiance or something?
- Your daughter's pregnant? Better get out that shotgun.
- Oh, you're a single mom. Do all your kids have the same father?
- Oh, you're a single mom. Are you ever going to get back together with your kid's father?
- I know she's married, but do all her kids come from the same daddy?
- How long after you got pregnant did you get married?
- She has a figure like you used to have.
- Pregnant? You should have got her a dog.
- Are those kids mixed? What is their father?
And yes, I have heard every single one of these comments, either to me, about me, and/or about family or friends.
What is wrong with society today? I know the modern human family is being redefined daily and women don't have to walk around with a scarlet "A" on their chests anymore, and certainly people are more open about what they do. But seriously, have we fallen so far that we assume promiscuity at every turn? Are we so low that we don't even have manners anymore?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Happy Birthday Daniel Radcliffe
Now that you're 18, I'm breaking any laws when I find and stare at this:
I am now accepting members for Future Wives of Daniel Radcliffe (Anonymous).
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Friday, December 01, 2006
Rogue Santa
So there's this mall we love, my relative has got on good speaking terms with Santa and Mrs. Claus. (No, seriously, the wife was standing in the parking lot and introduced herself as MRS. CLAUS.) They're a popular Claus couple, and have been visiting this mall for years. They sometimes walk around the mall between picture sessions, talking to people and holding hands. *sigh* Love...
Anyhoo, one day Santa has a doppelganger usurping his Santa-ness, and I don't mean there are two Santa photo stands. Second Santa is sitting on a little chair RIGHT IN FRONT OF Real Santa. With a video camera. Making a little movie for his own personal use, NOT making videos to give/sell to parents. Real Santa calls Management. Management calls Mall Security.
Mgmt: Security, we have an unauthorized Santa sitting around taking video of kids. Go get him.
Security: Oh, we're ON that shit. Idiot Newbie, you hold down the fort, we've got a freak to catch.
Idiot Newbie: Whateeeeeever...
Security (two guys in uniform) walk toward the Santas. Fake Santa sees them coming and heads for the book store, as does another person who was with him. Security follows them into book store. Santa and Sidekick start running to the exit.
Security Dude #1: (rolls eyes) Oh shit. Now we've gotta run. (begins running)
Security Dude #2: (sighs in frustration) Damn it. (begins running too)
Security chases the Santafied Wierdos through the store, out the door, and halfway across the parking lot. Security Dude #2 shouts at them to stop. Santa Freaks come to a stop, but sidekick hides behind a car. Security is having none of that, and gets them both into view.
Security Dude #1: Why'd you get up and leave?
Santa: 'Cause I saw you coming.
Security Dude #2: Why'd you run?
Santa's Little Helper: 'Cause we knew you were gonna kick us out.
Security Dude #1: So you ran instead of explaining yourselves?
Santa: What's the big deal?
Santa Nutjobs think it's all fun and games until local cops show up.
Santa: This is public property! I can film people! We were just getting footage for a Christmas montage! Constitutional amendments! It's harmless! I swear!
Cop: This is PRIVATE property, dumbass. No one can take pictures unless they're doing it as part of their mall job. That means the portrait studios and the REAL Santa Claus, not fake Santas with no permits and no proof of what they're filming for.
Santa: (Starting to realize what he did) Look, watch the video. See for yourself.
Cops watch video. Nothing disturbing is found. Cops determine that Fake Santa is telling the truth, but he still can't just film people at the mall whenever he feels like it. Cops decide not to arrest Faux Santa or his plainclothes elf. Mall Security, on the other hand, bans the Santa Perps for one year each.
Security Dude #1: Fools made me RUN. You better believe Santa got banned.
Security Dude #2: Hell, they made us both run. They should have got two years.
Idiot Newbie: I don't see what's wrong with a guy dressing as Santa and taking pictures of children without their parents permission or a permit from the mall. Surely such a case would be innocent. Or, you know, whateeeeever.
Security Dude #2: Dude, how many times do I have to tell you to SHUT UP?
Security Dude #1: Bastards made me RUN, man...
Let us hope that Santas everywhere will soon recover from the shame of it all, and that the REAL Santa at this mall will not be the subject of foul gossip. He remained at his post, cheering up children and accepting wish lists like a good Santa should.
Long Live the Real Santa Claus!
Anyhoo, one day Santa has a doppelganger usurping his Santa-ness, and I don't mean there are two Santa photo stands. Second Santa is sitting on a little chair RIGHT IN FRONT OF Real Santa. With a video camera. Making a little movie for his own personal use, NOT making videos to give/sell to parents. Real Santa calls Management. Management calls Mall Security.
Mgmt: Security, we have an unauthorized Santa sitting around taking video of kids. Go get him.
Security: Oh, we're ON that shit. Idiot Newbie, you hold down the fort, we've got a freak to catch.
Idiot Newbie: Whateeeeeever...
Security (two guys in uniform) walk toward the Santas. Fake Santa sees them coming and heads for the book store, as does another person who was with him. Security follows them into book store. Santa and Sidekick start running to the exit.
Security Dude #1: (rolls eyes) Oh shit. Now we've gotta run. (begins running)
Security Dude #2: (sighs in frustration) Damn it. (begins running too)
Security chases the Santafied Wierdos through the store, out the door, and halfway across the parking lot. Security Dude #2 shouts at them to stop. Santa Freaks come to a stop, but sidekick hides behind a car. Security is having none of that, and gets them both into view.
Security Dude #1: Why'd you get up and leave?
Santa: 'Cause I saw you coming.
Security Dude #2: Why'd you run?
Santa's Little Helper: 'Cause we knew you were gonna kick us out.
Security Dude #1: So you ran instead of explaining yourselves?
Santa: What's the big deal?
Santa Nutjobs think it's all fun and games until local cops show up.
Santa: This is public property! I can film people! We were just getting footage for a Christmas montage! Constitutional amendments! It's harmless! I swear!
Cop: This is PRIVATE property, dumbass. No one can take pictures unless they're doing it as part of their mall job. That means the portrait studios and the REAL Santa Claus, not fake Santas with no permits and no proof of what they're filming for.
Santa: (Starting to realize what he did) Look, watch the video. See for yourself.
Cops watch video. Nothing disturbing is found. Cops determine that Fake Santa is telling the truth, but he still can't just film people at the mall whenever he feels like it. Cops decide not to arrest Faux Santa or his plainclothes elf. Mall Security, on the other hand, bans the Santa Perps for one year each.
Security Dude #1: Fools made me RUN. You better believe Santa got banned.
Security Dude #2: Hell, they made us both run. They should have got two years.
Idiot Newbie: I don't see what's wrong with a guy dressing as Santa and taking pictures of children without their parents permission or a permit from the mall. Surely such a case would be innocent. Or, you know, whateeeeever.
Security Dude #2: Dude, how many times do I have to tell you to SHUT UP?
Security Dude #1: Bastards made me RUN, man...
Let us hope that Santas everywhere will soon recover from the shame of it all, and that the REAL Santa at this mall will not be the subject of foul gossip. He remained at his post, cheering up children and accepting wish lists like a good Santa should.
Long Live the Real Santa Claus!
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Only in Texas
So, are you watching your caloric intake? Making every attempt to ban fatty foods and nourish yourself only with healthy meals?
Me neither.
I give you the latest innovation in state fair food: Fried Coke! Remember, it's a Texas Food! Yet another claim to fame for my prideful state. (Really, we DO all ride horses to school, and there really ARE Longhorn cattle grazing within fifteen minutes of Downtown Houston.)
Personally, I can't wait to try this recipe. I wonder how hard it is to fry Coke?
Buen provecho!
Me neither.
I give you the latest innovation in state fair food: Fried Coke! Remember, it's a Texas Food! Yet another claim to fame for my prideful state. (Really, we DO all ride horses to school, and there really ARE Longhorn cattle grazing within fifteen minutes of Downtown Houston.)
Personally, I can't wait to try this recipe. I wonder how hard it is to fry Coke?
Buen provecho!
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Un-freaking-believable
So, did you hear the one about the parent who tried to ban the book about book-banning, DURING Banned Book Week?
No, I'm not telling a stupid joke. It really happened, and not fifty miles away from my own school district. The book in question is Fahrenheit 451, written over fifty years ago, and still a part of public school reading lists. (No, I never read it, because it wasn't part of my school's criteria, and I'd never heard of it until this past year. Rest assured, it will be next on my list from the local public library.)
See, this kind of crap just pisses me off. Because one or two people got their feathers ruffled by the first FOUR PAGES of a book (I kid you not), a parent saw fit to try to ban the whole thing from all the kids in school.
I cannot begin to imagine how many things are wrong with this whole scenario, but I'll certainly try:
No, I'm not telling a stupid joke. It really happened, and not fifty miles away from my own school district. The book in question is Fahrenheit 451, written over fifty years ago, and still a part of public school reading lists. (No, I never read it, because it wasn't part of my school's criteria, and I'd never heard of it until this past year. Rest assured, it will be next on my list from the local public library.)
See, this kind of crap just pisses me off. Because one or two people got their feathers ruffled by the first FOUR PAGES of a book (I kid you not), a parent saw fit to try to ban the whole thing from all the kids in school.
I cannot begin to imagine how many things are wrong with this whole scenario, but I'll certainly try:
- We live in a country that guarantees free speech (including what is written in books). It seems incredibly stupid to ban a book about what happens when society puts a ban on free speech. Unless you think free speech shouldn't be part of a free society, in which case you should just leave the country.
- The parent in this case sited "taking of the Lord's name in vain" and swearing as part of the reason nobody should have to read this book. Excuse me, if you don't want your child exposed to swearing and shouts of "Oh my God," then you should take him/her out of public school, forego private school altogether, and just home school the kid. That's the only way you're going to escape that kind of language. Even the teachers and principals say "Oh God," especially when listening to senseless bull.
- The young lady who so objected to this book (after those four pages) was upset about the depicted burning of the Bible. Yeah, honey, no kidding. It's a book about WHY BURNING BOOKS IS A BAD THING, and how warped society becomes without those books. Using the Bible as part of the imagery should serve to prove the author's point, and make you think about why censorship should not be allowed to go too far.
- "Downgrading Christians???" I'm not even sure what you mean by that, Mr. Irate Parent. But if you want to ban a book that makes Christians look bad, why not petition to ban The Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne. You could argue it makes Christians look overly judgemental, unforgiving, and hypocritical. I don't know that any of that is true, but I'm sure there are plenty of students who'd LOVE to have that book banned.
- While we're on the subject, why is it that required books can bag on any other group EXCEPT non-denominational Christians? My school was always assigning books that basically talked trash about the French, or Catholics, or French Catholics, but you didn't hear anyone complaining (and we had a lot of Catholics). And when we read Chaucer and other English fiction from that era, did the Muslim students complain about the depiction of Moors and try to get it banned? No, they did not. Why weren't the crazy kids rioting about Catcher In The Rye depicting them as unstable? Did any of the black students bitch and moan about Tennessee Williams using the term "darkies" in his play The Glass Menagerie, or Faulkner's use of the N word in his novels? If they did, it certainly didn't do any good, because we had to read them anyway. But paint some white Christians in anything other than a positive light, or even write in such a way that someone might misconstrue the book in such a way, and it's uproar!
- The book was "talking about our firemen," was it? Did you READ the book, or even a review of the book? A quick synopsis from amazon.com or Wikipedia explains what the term "fireman" means in the context of this book: a book burner, not a fire fighter. So you need to just put it in reverse, dude. Clearly you don't even know what you're talking about.
- One of the societal problems pointed out in this book is how television consumes people and discourages things like literature and (gasp!) ideas. Surely a man so concerned about his daughter's education would want her to understand the dangers of too much TV.
- Dollars to doughnuts, the daughter was just trying to get out of an assignment, and hoping she'd get some easy busywork to do instead of having to think about what she was asked to read, and (heaven help her) write a paper. I hope the instructor did assign Hawthorne. Maybe she'll learn something. I'm not saying this girl doesn't have the right to request a different assignment if the book she's reading truly bothers her, and leaves dark feelings on her soul. I'm saying her discomfort should not translate to the complete banning of a book for all her classmates who obviously don't have the problem with it that she has.
- What I notice about books that do tend to expose Christians in negative ways is that these books usually don't condem Christianity itself. It's the people who don't seem to know how to follow the teachings of Christ that get mocked. Like I said, I haven't read this book yet, so I don't know what it says that "downgrades" Christians, but I have a feeling it's not what Irate Parent thinks.
- If you know what's best for everyone's kids, why aren't you on the school board or an editor for a parenting magazine? What makes YOU, Mr. Irate Parent, the foremost authority on which books are Not Good For Teenagers? Are all of them books you haven't read yet, or just this one? Do you have a degree in American Literature, or Secondary Education, or any type of certification that makes you qualified to tell other people what kind of books they should make their nearly-grown kids read? And please, while we're at it, tell me why "God's name in vain being in there" is "the number one reason" why the book should be banned, and not the suicides, murders, or destruction of property? Destruction of property? Killin'? Well heck, that's not ban-worthy, that's just good entertainment...
- The child, Diana Verm, said: "The book had a bunch of very bad language in it. It shouldn't be in there because it's offending people. ... If they can't find a book that uses clean words, they shouldn't have a book at all." I just...don't even know where to start with this girl. Let's take away all the books because I don't like the curse words in this book about what happens when they take away all the books. Do she and her father say the same thing to the local movie theater whenever they play PG-13- and R-rated movies? Or radio stations that play songs with the word "damn" in them? I know. How about if we have all the history books banned because they're offensive to whoever lost the wars described? It won't be hard to learn anything without books, I'm sure. Ban all the Spanish texts, because those are certainly offensive to anti-immigration policy makers. And while we're at it, let's ban the algebra books, because the word problems are offensive to railway superintendants who insist that their trains most certainly travel in opposite directions at much greater speeds than 45 mph, resulting in fewer delays and cheaper fares. Let me tell you something, sweet cheeks: if my algebra books had contained a few dirty words, you can just be sure I'd have been paying WAY more attention in math class. Shouldn't have a book at all, indeed...you really should have read this one, hon. Maybe you'd be able to appreciate the irony of your own statement.
I'm sending a link to the original article to my old sociology professor. The good doctor will be absolutely beside himself with simultaneous disgust (at the audacity of the parent) and glee (at the assignments he can now generate from this event).
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Caution: Coffee is hot!
Remember that story about the lady who sued McDonald's because of the hot coffee spilled on her lap? Admit it, you made cracks about it too. I think it would be good if you read this. Bet you won't make fun anymore.
Funny how quickly our perspectives can change.
Funny how quickly our perspectives can change.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Maybe some Scientologists should embrace karma
Seriously, people. Have you heard about this? Paramount has just up and decided not to renew their contract with Tom Cruise, or rather his production company Cruise/Wagner (C/W), on the grounds that Tom's personal conduct is...unbecoming? Unacceptable. Something like that. Actually, the man who makes such decisions (Sumner Redstone of Viacom) said Tom "effectuates creative suicide and costs the company revenue," and thus should not be "on the lot."
Currently the celebrity gossip columns are making much of Cruise's unfavorable ratings with the public (what, he's the president now, that he gets his own approval rating?), and everyone seems to be blaming his couch-jumping, anti-depressant-hating, Scientology-spewing conduct for the relative failure of Mission Impossible 3 ($398 million worldwide, when they were all expecting half a billion dollars), which in turn is viewed, by the columnists, as the reason for Paramount's latest decision. But a simple search pulls up an article in Variety, dated July 10 of this year, which reveals this interesting factoid:
Although the company has provided Par[amount] with some heavy hitters at the box office -- "War of the Worlds" and May's "Mission: Impossible III" -- it has also delivered a string of recent disappointments like "Suspect Zero," "Elizabethtown" and "Ask the Dust."
The article goes on to say that "Cruise's deals are notoriously rich and hard to make," and points out that chairman Brad Grey's first priority, when he took over Paramount in 2005, was to reduce the budget for MI3.
So you see, folks, it's not just that Tom Cruise is a stark raving wacko. It's that he's a wacko who produces crappy movies that don't sell at all and expensive movies that don't quite sell enough to make up the difference.
Although, really, I have to admit the wacko factor is what kept me from going out to watch MI3.
Currently the celebrity gossip columns are making much of Cruise's unfavorable ratings with the public (what, he's the president now, that he gets his own approval rating?), and everyone seems to be blaming his couch-jumping, anti-depressant-hating, Scientology-spewing conduct for the relative failure of Mission Impossible 3 ($398 million worldwide, when they were all expecting half a billion dollars), which in turn is viewed, by the columnists, as the reason for Paramount's latest decision. But a simple search pulls up an article in Variety, dated July 10 of this year, which reveals this interesting factoid:
Although the company has provided Par[amount] with some heavy hitters at the box office -- "War of the Worlds" and May's "Mission: Impossible III" -- it has also delivered a string of recent disappointments like "Suspect Zero," "Elizabethtown" and "Ask the Dust."
The article goes on to say that "Cruise's deals are notoriously rich and hard to make," and points out that chairman Brad Grey's first priority, when he took over Paramount in 2005, was to reduce the budget for MI3.
So you see, folks, it's not just that Tom Cruise is a stark raving wacko. It's that he's a wacko who produces crappy movies that don't sell at all and expensive movies that don't quite sell enough to make up the difference.
Although, really, I have to admit the wacko factor is what kept me from going out to watch MI3.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Big Brother at the Photo Lab
You'd have to be stupid to take pictures of your naked body, send the film to a 2-day or mail-away photo lab, and not expect someone other than yourself to see your glory (or shame, as the case may be).
But you'd be an absolute idiot to send that same film to a 1-hour photo lab.
The tech who takes your film? She's probably the one who will actually stick her hands into the black box and pull your film out of its nifty little plastic canister to dip it in developer fluid. She will probably be the one who sticks the film into the machine, where it uses those film negatives to produce pictures in just a few short minutes. She will look through every single photo, checking that each one has developed properly into whatever it's supposed to look like. Anything that is all grey, or excessively blurry, etc., will be thrown away. She will see these nude photos. She will see the face (if there is one) that goes with the body. So when you come back to pick up those pictures, she will instantly know the most intimate details of your anatomy.
Furthermore, she knows who you are, has your name and phone number written on that little envelope you handed her, and have the rest of your info if you pay with plastic. She can track you down and stalk you if she really wants to. And heaven help you if your tech is a big burly dude who doesn't understand "boundaries."
And finally, in case you think that tech will be the only one to see the pictures and probably won't make a big deal out of it, I can assure you that the opposite is true. That tech will either keep the original photos and not give them to you at all, or print extra copies unbeknownst to you. The pictures will be kept in a special little box that is filled with the nude photos from other customers who've been so foolish in the past. These pictures will occasionally be passed around the store for all to see. If you're lucky, most of the store clerks will be like me and not want to see that raunchy crap, and will not look in the box. Unfortunately, for every clerk like me, there are five clerks who are not like me, and will at least give a cursory glance if not a full inspection of all the nude pics. Furthermore, store management will most likely occasionally take the box and empty it of its contents, to either be shredded or kept in the manager's private collection.
Trust me on this. You really don't want to get stares every time you walk into your favorite photo lab.
Author's note: My experience in this matter is limited to my previous employment at a Wal-Mart in the 1990s, when I was told it was store policy to confiscate and keep on file all nude photos processed in the one-hour lab. This was not told to me directly by a member of management, nor was I told if this policy held for all stores or only our own. I do not know what current policy is in effect. So don't sue me. I don't have money anyway.
But you'd be an absolute idiot to send that same film to a 1-hour photo lab.
The tech who takes your film? She's probably the one who will actually stick her hands into the black box and pull your film out of its nifty little plastic canister to dip it in developer fluid. She will probably be the one who sticks the film into the machine, where it uses those film negatives to produce pictures in just a few short minutes. She will look through every single photo, checking that each one has developed properly into whatever it's supposed to look like. Anything that is all grey, or excessively blurry, etc., will be thrown away. She will see these nude photos. She will see the face (if there is one) that goes with the body. So when you come back to pick up those pictures, she will instantly know the most intimate details of your anatomy.
Furthermore, she knows who you are, has your name and phone number written on that little envelope you handed her, and have the rest of your info if you pay with plastic. She can track you down and stalk you if she really wants to. And heaven help you if your tech is a big burly dude who doesn't understand "boundaries."
And finally, in case you think that tech will be the only one to see the pictures and probably won't make a big deal out of it, I can assure you that the opposite is true. That tech will either keep the original photos and not give them to you at all, or print extra copies unbeknownst to you. The pictures will be kept in a special little box that is filled with the nude photos from other customers who've been so foolish in the past. These pictures will occasionally be passed around the store for all to see. If you're lucky, most of the store clerks will be like me and not want to see that raunchy crap, and will not look in the box. Unfortunately, for every clerk like me, there are five clerks who are not like me, and will at least give a cursory glance if not a full inspection of all the nude pics. Furthermore, store management will most likely occasionally take the box and empty it of its contents, to either be shredded or kept in the manager's private collection.
Trust me on this. You really don't want to get stares every time you walk into your favorite photo lab.
Author's note: My experience in this matter is limited to my previous employment at a Wal-Mart in the 1990s, when I was told it was store policy to confiscate and keep on file all nude photos processed in the one-hour lab. This was not told to me directly by a member of management, nor was I told if this policy held for all stores or only our own. I do not know what current policy is in effect. So don't sue me. I don't have money anyway.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
100 Posts! Hooray, I can't shut up!
Random topics for today:
Animal Kingdom:
My home and property seems to be filled with animals that are killing other animals. My fish tank is home to a fiercely dominant cichlid who has killed no less than four (but more likely seven) other cichlids introduced to the tank. He seems to be allowing one submissive male to live, but he certainly does pick on the pour little guy a great deal. My dog killed a bird yesterday and left it in her water dish. I hope it wasn't one of the baby birds that lives in the carport pole. And finally, I allowed a common garden lizard to come into the house, because I am seriously sick of the insects that have come into the house to escape the heat. So far I've not seen a visible difference, but I can be patient.
Genetic Memory and Music:
I read once about a young Asian-American girl who, upon first hearing music from her family's country of origin, felt that "there was something inside of me that liked it--like it synchronized right with the pulsing of my blood through my body." (Laurence Yep, Child of the Owl) This is, of course, part of a work of fiction, but I recognize that feeling. When I hear the music of Mexico, there are two distinct feelings: personal memory and unfamiliar familiarity.
To explain: I heard certain types of Mexican music all the time growing up, because Grandma would put it on the record player. I have a personal memory of these sounds, and they motivate me do do certain things that Grandma always did while listening. Like make blankets, or mop.
But then, of course, there is that other part, the unfamiliar familiarity. I hear a song I've never heard before, but it sounds right, somehow, and my blood races, and I feel like I'm somewhere else, or even someONE else, but not in a way that is uncomfortable.
What I do find interesting is that it is not only Mexican music that makes me feel this way. Once in a while I will get that odd and wonderful sensation when I hear a traditional Native American song, or (if you can believe it) that one song you always hear at Bar Mitzvahs, the one that sounds almost as if a snake-charmer is part of the band. I wish I knew what that song is called so I could speak of it properly and not like some ignoramus who lives in a Christian vacuum. In any case, the sounds in that song feel good to me, like they make sense in a way I don't understand. It's not like that for me for most other ethnic music (and believe me, my experience is varied). But there's something about these songs, these sounds...they just feel so comfortable, like pulling on some long-forgotten favorite item of clothing and realizing that it still fits.
Of course, this could all be nonsense. It could just be that I like accordion music, or something. I do come from a family of musicians, so maybe what I'm feeling is more of a genetic predisposition to music in general. I really can't trace my family tree further back than 150 years, so who's to say I don't have these ethnic groups somewhere in my background?
FOOD!:
I spent part of my evening baking a Chocolate Cherry Torte (which takes FOREVER by the way) all because my father is getting pissy about whether or not the new oven is properly calibrated. I pop the cake pans in the oven and set the timer. At T minus 17 minutes, I go to read Gina her bedtime story. It takes forever. I get out of her room to find the timer at 14 minutes and rising. Yeah, that's right, the cake sat in the oven 14 extra minutes, and my husband (who was in that part of the house) didn't take it out of the oven because he "didn't hear it." I think maybe he "wasn't paying attention" because he can't stop playing his new video game. Well, at least the cake isn't burned, though it is a little dryer than I'd like. I'll have to tell my dad that the results of this baking test were inconclusive. Oh fooey. Now I'll have to bake another cake. *wink*
Funny Stuff:
For a good time, go check out cockeyed.com. Dude is hilarious and inventive, and I can't get enough of him. I feel inspired to invent new fun things to do every time I look at his website.
Britney Spears is pregnant again. Yankees everywhere can't understand why she won't wear shoes. Personally, I think it may have something to do with swollen ankles and the heat, but then I don't wear shoes all that much to begin with. Also: somebody please just take KFed to get snipped. The man needs to be removed from the gene pool already. He's like a younger version of my father-in-law (three wives, seven kids ages 1 to 28, only ten years to go before retirement age, and still hasn't decided now might be a good time to take the bullets out of the gun). Seriously, somebody explain to KFed that his best course of action is to stop producing heirs to his madness. While we're at it, will someone please send SuperNanny over to Britney's house? Because clearly she needs to be taught how to care for children, or at least how to choose a permanent nanny more carefully. Baby's seven months old and Family Services has investigated them TWICE. Anyone else might have had their baby taken away from them by now.
It's late, and I must get to sleep. Good night, all, and a special Happy Birthday to Nilo!
Animal Kingdom:
My home and property seems to be filled with animals that are killing other animals. My fish tank is home to a fiercely dominant cichlid who has killed no less than four (but more likely seven) other cichlids introduced to the tank. He seems to be allowing one submissive male to live, but he certainly does pick on the pour little guy a great deal. My dog killed a bird yesterday and left it in her water dish. I hope it wasn't one of the baby birds that lives in the carport pole. And finally, I allowed a common garden lizard to come into the house, because I am seriously sick of the insects that have come into the house to escape the heat. So far I've not seen a visible difference, but I can be patient.
Genetic Memory and Music:
I read once about a young Asian-American girl who, upon first hearing music from her family's country of origin, felt that "there was something inside of me that liked it--like it synchronized right with the pulsing of my blood through my body." (Laurence Yep, Child of the Owl) This is, of course, part of a work of fiction, but I recognize that feeling. When I hear the music of Mexico, there are two distinct feelings: personal memory and unfamiliar familiarity.
To explain: I heard certain types of Mexican music all the time growing up, because Grandma would put it on the record player. I have a personal memory of these sounds, and they motivate me do do certain things that Grandma always did while listening. Like make blankets, or mop.
But then, of course, there is that other part, the unfamiliar familiarity. I hear a song I've never heard before, but it sounds right, somehow, and my blood races, and I feel like I'm somewhere else, or even someONE else, but not in a way that is uncomfortable.
What I do find interesting is that it is not only Mexican music that makes me feel this way. Once in a while I will get that odd and wonderful sensation when I hear a traditional Native American song, or (if you can believe it) that one song you always hear at Bar Mitzvahs, the one that sounds almost as if a snake-charmer is part of the band. I wish I knew what that song is called so I could speak of it properly and not like some ignoramus who lives in a Christian vacuum. In any case, the sounds in that song feel good to me, like they make sense in a way I don't understand. It's not like that for me for most other ethnic music (and believe me, my experience is varied). But there's something about these songs, these sounds...they just feel so comfortable, like pulling on some long-forgotten favorite item of clothing and realizing that it still fits.
Of course, this could all be nonsense. It could just be that I like accordion music, or something. I do come from a family of musicians, so maybe what I'm feeling is more of a genetic predisposition to music in general. I really can't trace my family tree further back than 150 years, so who's to say I don't have these ethnic groups somewhere in my background?
FOOD!:
I spent part of my evening baking a Chocolate Cherry Torte (which takes FOREVER by the way) all because my father is getting pissy about whether or not the new oven is properly calibrated. I pop the cake pans in the oven and set the timer. At T minus 17 minutes, I go to read Gina her bedtime story. It takes forever. I get out of her room to find the timer at 14 minutes and rising. Yeah, that's right, the cake sat in the oven 14 extra minutes, and my husband (who was in that part of the house) didn't take it out of the oven because he "didn't hear it." I think maybe he "wasn't paying attention" because he can't stop playing his new video game. Well, at least the cake isn't burned, though it is a little dryer than I'd like. I'll have to tell my dad that the results of this baking test were inconclusive. Oh fooey. Now I'll have to bake another cake. *wink*
Funny Stuff:
For a good time, go check out cockeyed.com. Dude is hilarious and inventive, and I can't get enough of him. I feel inspired to invent new fun things to do every time I look at his website.
Britney Spears is pregnant again. Yankees everywhere can't understand why she won't wear shoes. Personally, I think it may have something to do with swollen ankles and the heat, but then I don't wear shoes all that much to begin with. Also: somebody please just take KFed to get snipped. The man needs to be removed from the gene pool already. He's like a younger version of my father-in-law (three wives, seven kids ages 1 to 28, only ten years to go before retirement age, and still hasn't decided now might be a good time to take the bullets out of the gun). Seriously, somebody explain to KFed that his best course of action is to stop producing heirs to his madness. While we're at it, will someone please send SuperNanny over to Britney's house? Because clearly she needs to be taught how to care for children, or at least how to choose a permanent nanny more carefully. Baby's seven months old and Family Services has investigated them TWICE. Anyone else might have had their baby taken away from them by now.
It's late, and I must get to sleep. Good night, all, and a special Happy Birthday to Nilo!
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Signs in Houston, Part 2
This weekend my father and I went to the appliance store to look at stoves. On the way home, we passed a family medical clinic. It's been under construction for months. In fact, I think it was already open for business while parts of the building were still being constructed.
This clinic is located in a lower to lower middle class community. I am assuming that this explains the need for a clinic, as opposed to some fancy shmancy, 12 story medical office building. I'm glad it's there; the people really do need to feel like they are getting quality medical care, and there are few things more comforting in life than to be sitting in a clean exam room, as opposed to one with empty blood tubes on the floor under the exam table, or worse, cockroaches.
The lettering on the outside wall is big and bold, supposedly acting as a beacon to the surrounding families. The different sections of the building have their specialties emblazoned in the same manner. "FAMILY PRACTICE." "PEDIATRICS." "GYNECOLOGIST."
Yeah, you read that right. In big glowing letters (that's right, GLOWING) about 10 or 15 feet across is the word GYNECOLOGIST. Not Obestrician or Women's Health.
My father offered his opinion on the matter.
Dad: What the hell kind of dumbass clinic puts "GYNECOLOGIST" in big ole letters over the front door?
Me: Um...
Dad: Who wants to be seen walking into a building that's marked like that?
Me: They could have put OB/GYN or obstetrician. It's more or less the same thing.
Dad: So why didn't they put that?
Me: I don't know...they thought it would be better advertising for this community? There are a lot of pregnant teenagers around that area...
In any case, I kind of agree with my dad on one point: nobody, particularly men, wants to see the word GYNECOLOGIST on the side of the road in giant glowing letters as they're driving home and about to eat dinner. It's the kind of thing most men don't really want to think about, period.
This clinic is located in a lower to lower middle class community. I am assuming that this explains the need for a clinic, as opposed to some fancy shmancy, 12 story medical office building. I'm glad it's there; the people really do need to feel like they are getting quality medical care, and there are few things more comforting in life than to be sitting in a clean exam room, as opposed to one with empty blood tubes on the floor under the exam table, or worse, cockroaches.
The lettering on the outside wall is big and bold, supposedly acting as a beacon to the surrounding families. The different sections of the building have their specialties emblazoned in the same manner. "FAMILY PRACTICE." "PEDIATRICS." "GYNECOLOGIST."
Yeah, you read that right. In big glowing letters (that's right, GLOWING) about 10 or 15 feet across is the word GYNECOLOGIST. Not Obestrician or Women's Health.
My father offered his opinion on the matter.
Dad: What the hell kind of dumbass clinic puts "GYNECOLOGIST" in big ole letters over the front door?
Me: Um...
Dad: Who wants to be seen walking into a building that's marked like that?
Me: They could have put OB/GYN or obstetrician. It's more or less the same thing.
Dad: So why didn't they put that?
Me: I don't know...they thought it would be better advertising for this community? There are a lot of pregnant teenagers around that area...
In any case, I kind of agree with my dad on one point: nobody, particularly men, wants to see the word GYNECOLOGIST on the side of the road in giant glowing letters as they're driving home and about to eat dinner. It's the kind of thing most men don't really want to think about, period.
*snicker*
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Signs in Houston
The other night as I was driving to a Cub Scout parent's house, I passed one of those little taco stands on wheels. There are a LOT of these in Houston, particularly in lower income areas. This one caught my eye because of its name: Taqueria La Panza Feliz. Translation: The Happy Belly Taco Stand. Seriously, how can you not love a little food stand or casual eatery that calls itself The Happy Belly? If it hadn't been dark out, I probably would have stopped there and had a couple of fajita tacos.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Trigger Happy Retirees
If you're going to be in the Houston area, you'd better take cover, because the old people are shooting!
This morning in a grandfather accidentally shot a 17-year-old who was arguing with his 18-year-old grandson on their porch. Grandpa says he intended to raise his gun in the air and fire a warning shot to scare the youngster off, but he accidentally discharged the weapon in the wrong direction (or something) and shot the kid in the head. The argument? A fight over money.
Across town in League City, an 87-year-old woman shot her 80-year-old caretaker in the leg. First of all, why is an 80-year-old man (not her husband) responsible for an 87-year-old woman? Is she his girlfriend? Well, she's not anymore. And second, why does a woman this age have access to a freakin' .38? Is it for protection? Is it for the Octagenarian Gun Club? Why? Why? Why! And furthermore, why did she think shooting this man in the legs was an appropriate way to resolve a dispute over the car keys?
I think I'm with Eddie Izzard (the comedian) on this: Why do these grandfathers (and grandmothers) have these arsenals? We're all concerned about the kids going and getting guns and going Columbine, but what the heck are the grandparents planning on doing with them? Thank heaven my mother had the good sense to take away Grandpa's hunting rifles. At least, I hope she did. Hey, Ma?! We gotta talk!
This morning in a grandfather accidentally shot a 17-year-old who was arguing with his 18-year-old grandson on their porch. Grandpa says he intended to raise his gun in the air and fire a warning shot to scare the youngster off, but he accidentally discharged the weapon in the wrong direction (or something) and shot the kid in the head. The argument? A fight over money.
Across town in League City, an 87-year-old woman shot her 80-year-old caretaker in the leg. First of all, why is an 80-year-old man (not her husband) responsible for an 87-year-old woman? Is she his girlfriend? Well, she's not anymore. And second, why does a woman this age have access to a freakin' .38? Is it for protection? Is it for the Octagenarian Gun Club? Why? Why? Why! And furthermore, why did she think shooting this man in the legs was an appropriate way to resolve a dispute over the car keys?
I think I'm with Eddie Izzard (the comedian) on this: Why do these grandfathers (and grandmothers) have these arsenals? We're all concerned about the kids going and getting guns and going Columbine, but what the heck are the grandparents planning on doing with them? Thank heaven my mother had the good sense to take away Grandpa's hunting rifles. At least, I hope she did. Hey, Ma?! We gotta talk!
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
And you thought YOU had problems
I do not want to know who owns this poor cat. I only want to know what restaurant he works at.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Cultural Corner: Valuable contributions to society by Lebanon
Before you get all "Hey wait just a dang minute," no, I am not talking about Beirut.
I am referring to pop culture, actually. Yes. Lebanon. And pop culture. It's really there.
My first submission is one singer named Shakira. "But she sings in Spanish" you say. "She's Hispanic, from one of those Hispanic countries, you know, Hispania." Au contraire! Shakira is in fact an Arabic name, meaning "thankful." Yes, she is from Colombia, according to her biography. My private source insists that she exhibits heavy Lebanese influence. The way she shakes her...um, assets, is not this grand new and unique provocative dance, but is in fact derived from Arabian Belly Dancing, an art taught to her by her grandmother. (Dude, the most exotic thing my grandma ever taught me was how to crochet blankets while listening to Ramon Ayala.) And yes, she does speak Arabic, along with about four other languages.
My second submission is one actress named Salma Hayek. "No, Sleepless Mama, surely you jest. Just listen to her accent!" She is from Mexico, born and raised, but (and she freely admits this) her oil-executive father is what she calls "Lebanese-Mexican." According to my source, the Hayeks are one of the richest families in Lebanon. Salma is Arabic for "peace." And Hayek is no Mexican name that I've ever come across. Ms. Hayek herself speaks fluent Arabic, and three other languages besides.
These women do not lie about their Lebanese heritage. But nobody makes much about it. The focus is always on their Latin-American heritage. I think this makes them more...acceptable to North American audiences. I suppose that should tell you something about North America.
Just who is my mysterious source? Now why would I want to go and tell you that? Suffice it to say, he's from Lebanon.
One more thing my source has to say about Lebanon: the people there do not know how to cuss properly. You remember that move Bad Boys, starring Will Smith and that short dude, what's-his-name, Martin Lawrence? In that movie is a convenience store scene in which the cashier pulls out a weapon and screams, "Freeze, mother-b****es!" Yeah, that's actually how people in Lebanon curse. In fact, that particular phrase became quite popular there after the release of that movie.
This concludes your Cultural Corner for the day.
I am referring to pop culture, actually. Yes. Lebanon. And pop culture. It's really there.
My first submission is one singer named Shakira. "But she sings in Spanish" you say. "She's Hispanic, from one of those Hispanic countries, you know, Hispania." Au contraire! Shakira is in fact an Arabic name, meaning "thankful." Yes, she is from Colombia, according to her biography. My private source insists that she exhibits heavy Lebanese influence. The way she shakes her...um, assets, is not this grand new and unique provocative dance, but is in fact derived from Arabian Belly Dancing, an art taught to her by her grandmother. (Dude, the most exotic thing my grandma ever taught me was how to crochet blankets while listening to Ramon Ayala.) And yes, she does speak Arabic, along with about four other languages.
My second submission is one actress named Salma Hayek. "No, Sleepless Mama, surely you jest. Just listen to her accent!" She is from Mexico, born and raised, but (and she freely admits this) her oil-executive father is what she calls "Lebanese-Mexican." According to my source, the Hayeks are one of the richest families in Lebanon. Salma is Arabic for "peace." And Hayek is no Mexican name that I've ever come across. Ms. Hayek herself speaks fluent Arabic, and three other languages besides.
These women do not lie about their Lebanese heritage. But nobody makes much about it. The focus is always on their Latin-American heritage. I think this makes them more...acceptable to North American audiences. I suppose that should tell you something about North America.
Just who is my mysterious source? Now why would I want to go and tell you that? Suffice it to say, he's from Lebanon.
One more thing my source has to say about Lebanon: the people there do not know how to cuss properly. You remember that move Bad Boys, starring Will Smith and that short dude, what's-his-name, Martin Lawrence? In that movie is a convenience store scene in which the cashier pulls out a weapon and screams, "Freeze, mother-b****es!" Yeah, that's actually how people in Lebanon curse. In fact, that particular phrase became quite popular there after the release of that movie.
This concludes your Cultural Corner for the day.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Out of the mouths of Latinos...
During our Hurricane Rita House Arrest, my mother-in-law told me about something she heard on a Spanish radio station. Apparently the DJs were reporting the mayor's call to stop with the evacuating already, the storm was too close. The DJs, after reading this, proclaimed: "Te chinga, nos vamos a Mexico." (F*** you, we're going to Mexico.) They then abandoned their post. Mom-in-law said you could hear them leaving, then it was just dead air. Nice to know the Hispanic community can count on the local Spanish radio announcers to continue broadcasting information.
Interestingly, the Spanish-language TV channels and radio stations are considered to be "the ones who tell you what's really going on" in this area. I don't know why, but for some reason the attitude of the local Mexicans is that the "white" TV stations hold back the truth. I've never really watched Univision's news broadcast, since I don't understand enough spoken Spanish to make sense of what's being said, so I couldn't tell you what channel 45 is saying that ABC is not. I just think it's funny that my grandmother thinks ABC, NBC, and CBS news all lie to her.
Interestingly, the Spanish-language TV channels and radio stations are considered to be "the ones who tell you what's really going on" in this area. I don't know why, but for some reason the attitude of the local Mexicans is that the "white" TV stations hold back the truth. I've never really watched Univision's news broadcast, since I don't understand enough spoken Spanish to make sense of what's being said, so I couldn't tell you what channel 45 is saying that ABC is not. I just think it's funny that my grandmother thinks ABC, NBC, and CBS news all lie to her.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
