(Pandora, Hope, and G.B. Wittington are seated at a patio table at the local Pei Wei restaurant. They've already discussed the lack of fortune telling from the fortune cookies and wait patiently for their dinner.)
Attendant: (comes out with the food) Honey Seared Chicken, Gluten Free Spicy Chicken, and Chopped Chicken Salad with no dressing. Anything else?
Pandora: No, thank you. Everything looks good.
Attendant: Okay then. Enjoy!
G.B. Wittington: I think I threw that guy off when I asked for no dressing. I mean, who does that? Who asks for no dressing? How many times has that happened to him? Once, like right now, or maybe twice? I bet no one asks for no dressing.
Hope: (looks at G.B. Wittington) Why didn't you ask for any dressing?
Pandora: Because he thinks dressing is the enemy.
Hope: What?
G.B. Wittington: (grimaces at Pandora) I have learned to simply enjoy the taste of food in its natural state.
Hope: But the chicken isn't in its natural state.
G.B. Wittington: ...
Hope: Well, it isn't alive right now, is it?
Pandora: (starts laughing)
Hope: I'm just saying, dead and cooked chicken isn't exactly a natural state.
G.B. Wittington: Ok, there's that, and salad dressing is just a glob of unnecessary goo so... I go without it.
Hope: But it's tasty goo, isn't it?
Pandora: Yes, but people like him think bland is healthy so... we let it go. Who needs the spice of life anyway?
G.B. Wittington: (takes a bite of bland salad) Spice is for sissies.
(everyone quietly eats for a bit and then...)
G.B. Wittington: (stares at his salad bowl)... this is pretty dry.
Pandora: (sneers) ...should've gotten salad dressing? The natural state isn't doing it for ya?
G.B. Wittington: (reaches his fork across the table and dips it into the sauce on Pandora's plate)
Pandora: What's this?
Hope: (holds up the serving spoon) This might work better, you could scoop more up and drizzle it over your salad better.
G.B. Wittington: I'm not trying to use it as dressing, I just wanted to taste it. (as he takes another bit of salad with sauce on his fork)
Pandora: Right...
Hope: Looks like you're "dressing" the salad to me.
G.B. Wittington: No! I just wanted to taste it!
Hope: Cuz the sauce is in its natural state?
G.B. Wittington: ... (with a strange look on his face)
Pandora: What? (noticing the strange look on his face) Are you okay?
G.B. Wittington: (looking a little pale) Yes.
Pandora: What's with that look on your face?
G.B. Wittington: Some salad is stuck in my throat.
Pandora: What? Are you choking?
G.B. Wittington: No, it just feels like a glob of salad is stuck in my throat. It's not going down right.
Pandora: Good grief...
G.B. Wittington: (picks up his water and stands up) Excuse me for a minute, please.
Pandora: What are you doing?
G.B. Wittington: I need to excuse myself.
Pandora: You're going to the men's room to gag and cough and clear your throat from the chopped chicken salad aren't you?
G.B. Wittington: (heads to the door) Yep. (comes back to the table after about five minutes of gagging absence) It's all good. I fixed it.
Pandora: Good grief... if you weren't trying to be some kind of Salad Bad Ass this wouldn't be happening.
G.B. Wittington: Salad Bad Ass?
Pandora: Yeah, Mr. I Asked For No Dressing. (in a mockingly low voice) "I threw that guy off when I asked for no salad dressing. Who does that? Me! I'm the only man on Earth that does that! No one does that because they are all pansies! I am the Salad Bad Ass!"
G.B. Wittington: Haha! Well, I am the Salad Bad Ass!
Pandora: Whatever! Salad Bad Asses don't go gag in the men's room because they're choking on the dryness of the salad without dressing.
Hope: Seriously... why did you do that?
G.B. Wittington: Because I'm a Mountain Man!
Pandora: What???
G.B.Wittington: I'm a Mountain Man! Mountain Men don't use salad dressing.
Pandora: Mountain Men don't eat salad!
G.B. Wittington: Yes they do! They eat grass!
Pandora: They eat meat!
G.B. Wittington: They eat grass and twigs because if they don't they experience extreme constipation and hemorrhoids!
Pandora: Since when have you seen a Mountain Man pull up a handful of grass from the ground and eat it cuz he needed some fiber? Those dudes are out there hunting bears and big game. They're not eating grass!
G.B. Wittington: They are too! They're eating grass and twigs because they're all natural.
Pandora: You're confused.
G.B. Wittington: I am not!
Pandora: Yes you are. You're thinking about those stupid granola hippies with the hemp necklaces. Those guys are out there eating grass and twigs because they're all vegans and can't hurt the living creatures of Earth and whatever the hell they're thinking. But Mountain Men? Those guys are killing every creature that crosses their path and they're eating them and making clothes out of their skin.
G.B. Wittington: No! You're the one that's confused! The stupid vegans don't live in the mountains, they live by the beach in California, where they can go to the all organic grocery store and buy their granola and their vegetables and go home and smoke pot and feel more enlightened than the rest of us. They're not trolling around the mountains where it takes work to live.
Pandora: You have a point there. Okay, but the Mountain Men still don't eat grass.
G.B. Wittington: What does the Mountain Man eat then?
Pandora: Meat! He kills things and skins them and puts them on a rotisserie pole and cooks them over a fire and maybe sometimes makes a stew.
G.B. Wittington: Okay, he makes a stew. What does he make a stew with?
Pandora: Meat and water.
Hope: ...and maybe some blood and some wild beans.
Pandora: (points at Hope) That's right! Maybe some blood... he may add some blood for ... flavor ... or whatever... (looks at Hope) ... blood?
Hope: Ya, Mom. They used blood.
G.B. Wittington: ...and what else, Hope? What else did they use?
Hope: beans
G.B. Wittington: Ha! Did you hear that??? They used beans!
Pandora: They did not!
G.B. Wittington: They did too! Your daughter said so!
Pandora: What? No she didn't!
G.B. Wittington: Yes she did! She just said beans!
Pandora: (to Hope) Did you say beans?
Hope: Yes, I did. And you agreed with me.
Pandora: You did not! You did not say beans!
Hope: Yes, I did, Mom. I said beans, and you agreed with me.
Pandora: I did not! I never agreed to beans! You said blood! I agreed to blood, but I never agreed to beans!
Hope: Well... I said beans. I said blood and wild beans and you agreed with me.
Pandora: ...
G.B. Wittington: And how do they get the beans, Hope?
Hope: They gather them. (she takes another bite of her food) Mountain Men are basically hunters and gatherers. They do both things to exist. They eat meat, and they eat wild beans and berries that they find growing in the wild.
G.B. Wittington: (smiles triumphantly at Pandora)
Pandora: Well... she didn't say they eat grass, and they certainly don't eat Chopped Chicken Salad without dressing from Pei Wei.
About Me
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Now I'm Schlepped
When I was a kid I used to look cross-eyed at people in an attempt to provoke a reaction from them. If my mother was around she'd usually say something like, "Your face is going to get stuck that way and you're going to look like that for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?" I'm not positive, but I think all moms of that generation said something like that. I know a few friends who had moms that said that right after bopping the kid on the forehead. And though I never believed my mom when she said that, I know some kids were absolutely convinced their mother was right. One time I made the cross-eyed face to a group of kids when there were no moms around at all and still some kid said to me (in a somewhat terrified voice), "Don't do that!!! Something could hit you on the head while you're doing that and your face will stay that way forever!!!" When I tried to argue with the kid and tell him that was a made up statement moms say to make us stop doing that, all I got was, "It will too! My mom went to school with a kid that happened to!"
Anyway, the other day I got into a bit of a stupid debate over the difference between "strolling" and "schlepping." Unless I have a definite purpose or destination to reach in a specific amount of time, I like to stroll -- that is, leisurely walk down the street. However, I was recently accused of "schlepping" instead of strolling. Of course, I highly objected to this.
I do not SCHLEP!!! The elephant man SCHLEPS!!! Igor SCHLEPS!!! Pandora strolls... she DOES NOT SCHLEP!!!
To SCHLEP is to walk as though one has a club foot, a curved spine, and a limp left arm.* So, much like looking cross-eyed at the guy, I demonstrated what it means to schlep: I proceeded to drag my right foot behind me as I hunched over and swung my left arm limply (and I'm pretty sure I made a few strange noises and perhaps drooled a bit for an extra special effect) all in an attempt to a) make a good impression on the guy, b) get a rise out of him, and c) prove my point. It worked beautifully! (particularly since he was forced to admit I was right, because I wasn't going to stop doing that until he couldn't withstand the eyeballs of the passers by and he was forced to say, "Okay okay! Pandora strolls, she doesn't schlep! Stop! STOP!") The problem is, I think the curse of my mother may be coming back to haunt me because I've been schlepping (minus the drool, strange noises, curved spine, and listless left arm) since Saturday morning.
Something happened between sleeping and waking that Friday night. My right hip keeps popping in and out of socket (something that has happened to me every so often since I gave birth to my daughter) causing me great pain and definitely affecting my ability to walk or stroll. Ever since I got out of bed Saturday morning, I've been standing up to hear myself let out a bit of a painful holler and then schlep the rest of the way to my intended destination. It was really great when I went to have lunch with my mother (who's now 70). When I got up from the table and started to schlep to the restroom she said, "Uh oh! You're walking like a cripple! What happened?" and my daughter said, "It's karma, Grandma! She was making fun of people who schlep and now she's stuck schlepping!" And though I denied mocking the schleppers of the world, my mother just gave me that knowing eyeball and shook her head as if to say, "I told you it would stick, and now look at you... you're schlepped."
Anyway, I'm not sure what to do about this. It's day three of schlepping and I have to say it doesn't do much for the power of the power suit when I schlep into the conference room instead of stride. I suppose I'll have to endure this for a while, a sort of penance for mocking the power of the schlep. And I suppose I'll have to start warning Hope about things like this, because she likes to make this sort of lizard looking face once in a while and I would hate for her to get stuck looking like that forever.
________________________________________
*not really. To Schlep means to walk slowly and awkwardly, perhaps even lugging something behind you, but it is still very different from strolling and I was using the art of exaggeration to prove a point.
Anyway, the other day I got into a bit of a stupid debate over the difference between "strolling" and "schlepping." Unless I have a definite purpose or destination to reach in a specific amount of time, I like to stroll -- that is, leisurely walk down the street. However, I was recently accused of "schlepping" instead of strolling. Of course, I highly objected to this.
I do not SCHLEP!!! The elephant man SCHLEPS!!! Igor SCHLEPS!!! Pandora strolls... she DOES NOT SCHLEP!!!
To SCHLEP is to walk as though one has a club foot, a curved spine, and a limp left arm.* So, much like looking cross-eyed at the guy, I demonstrated what it means to schlep: I proceeded to drag my right foot behind me as I hunched over and swung my left arm limply (and I'm pretty sure I made a few strange noises and perhaps drooled a bit for an extra special effect) all in an attempt to a) make a good impression on the guy, b) get a rise out of him, and c) prove my point. It worked beautifully! (particularly since he was forced to admit I was right, because I wasn't going to stop doing that until he couldn't withstand the eyeballs of the passers by and he was forced to say, "Okay okay! Pandora strolls, she doesn't schlep! Stop! STOP!") The problem is, I think the curse of my mother may be coming back to haunt me because I've been schlepping (minus the drool, strange noises, curved spine, and listless left arm) since Saturday morning.
Something happened between sleeping and waking that Friday night. My right hip keeps popping in and out of socket (something that has happened to me every so often since I gave birth to my daughter) causing me great pain and definitely affecting my ability to walk or stroll. Ever since I got out of bed Saturday morning, I've been standing up to hear myself let out a bit of a painful holler and then schlep the rest of the way to my intended destination. It was really great when I went to have lunch with my mother (who's now 70). When I got up from the table and started to schlep to the restroom she said, "Uh oh! You're walking like a cripple! What happened?" and my daughter said, "It's karma, Grandma! She was making fun of people who schlep and now she's stuck schlepping!" And though I denied mocking the schleppers of the world, my mother just gave me that knowing eyeball and shook her head as if to say, "I told you it would stick, and now look at you... you're schlepped."
Anyway, I'm not sure what to do about this. It's day three of schlepping and I have to say it doesn't do much for the power of the power suit when I schlep into the conference room instead of stride. I suppose I'll have to endure this for a while, a sort of penance for mocking the power of the schlep. And I suppose I'll have to start warning Hope about things like this, because she likes to make this sort of lizard looking face once in a while and I would hate for her to get stuck looking like that forever.
________________________________________
*not really. To Schlep means to walk slowly and awkwardly, perhaps even lugging something behind you, but it is still very different from strolling and I was using the art of exaggeration to prove a point.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Detoxing From The Detox
So I was diagnosed with Celiac last November. It's been a bit of a dietary adventure since then. My one standing complaint about this condition is that, thus far, "modern medicine" has no clue what to do with it. My experience has been that after months of testing for this or that they finally figure out what test they should run and then they say, "Oh, hey! Look at this! You're a Celiac! We have no clue what to do with this. Stay away from gluten. Here's pamphlet. Good luck!"
So basically you walk out of there feeling like hell, at the bare minimum knowing you can't eat bread or drink beer, and the rest is trial and error. At some point on your path you start running into other Celiacs who tell you to try this and stay away from that, and even further down the road you start listening to homeopaths, naturopaths, vegans, greenies, hippies, conspiracy theorists, and people who claim to be aliens because, well, they're apparently all Celiacs too. The next thing you know you're telling yourself that if you can do a shot of cheap tequila you can certainly drink this mixture of organic grapefruit juice, extra virgin olive oil, and Epsom salts in an attempt to heal your ailing intestinal tract. (and yes, I did drink that shit)
Anyway, I'd had this great run of almost three months without a gluten attack because I either prepared all of my own meals or I insisted on eating where I knew I would be safe. But (and this is a resounding BUT) there is that one lady (who will remain anonymous) that is a somewhat regular appearance in my life and despite her "knowing" I'm a Celiac and despite her attempts to prepare gluten free meals for me, 9 times out of 10 I get ill every time I eat something she prepares. And after three months of no trouble, I ate one of her dishes and late that evening I could feel it coming on, and the next day was a wash (if one can consider somewhere between my bed and the bathroom a "wash").
I got pretty depressed over this because I'd been doing so well. And after a few days of ranting (and swearing that the next time I go to her place I'm going to eat nothing but lettuce leaves, sans dressing, and a glass of wine), I remembered that the same guy that sent me the crazy grapefruit juice elixir had attached something called The Master Cleanse -- a ten day detox that is supposed to clean out all of your internal organs, heal your allergies, heal your illnesses, and bla bla bla and so forth. The trick is you can do nothing but drink this crazy lemon juice concoction and some tea (and you all know how I feel about tea). No food... no coffee... no wine... none of the things that make Pandora tick, basically. But I was so depressed I had completely convinced myself that this Master Cleanse was a good idea.
On the morning of day three I found myself sitting in a meeting with one of the local Cities. The last time I had my dose of the stupid lemon juice was 9:00 a.m. and it was 10:00 a.m. when the meeting started. Within the first ten minutes of that meeting my intestines started to cramp up, indicating it was time to visit the bathroom (AGAIN), so I had to excuse myself from the meeting (which I never do) and go "release some toxins."
At about 10:30 I started feeling hungry (the thing with the lemon juice is I had to drink it every two hours or I would get really mean and grumpy due to out of control hunger), but there was nothing I could do in the midst of that stupid meeting. My hunger grew to unmanageable levels until the meeting came to a close and left me with a 30 minute drive back to the office.
As I was walking out of the building, one of the ladies asked if I was feeling okay because I "looked kind of green in there" and all I could do was fake a smile and tell her I wasn't quite up to snuff. (What was I going to do? Tell her I brought this on myself because I'm on the path to healing via starvation, lemon juice, Cayenne pepper, and some "Smooth Move" tea?) And as I sat in the back of the car we drove in, this other lady went on and on about this congressional act and that congressional act and my brain kept slipping in and out of consciousness and every once in a while I'd snap back in long enough to realize she was still looking into my dead eyes as she was talking to me, but all I could think about was how good that chicken was going to be when I cooked it for Hope's dinner and that I wouldn't be able to eat it with her. And then I started thinking about salad and how I would give anything for a stupid salad. And then I started thinking about chewing and how good it would be to chew something. And then I started thinking about my taste buds and how good it would be to taste something. And by the time we got back to the office I couldn't take it anymore! I didn't want to drink that stupid lemon juice!
"LEMON JUICE BE DAMNED!!! I'm having a salad!!!"
And that's what I did. I went down to the cafeteria and I made a salad and I ate it.
I had 7 more days to go and between the constant bathroom journeys and the lack of pleasure to my palate, I just couldn't do it anymore. I'd rather endure an Epsom salt enema than drink lemon juice for ten days straight!
How do people do this shit? These things may be effective, but who can do them and still have a smile on their face? Maybe these people will live to be healthy and functioning and 120 years of age, but I'm sorry... this is some seriously miserable shit here! (literally) And I don't give a crap about living to be a ripe and healthy 120 years old! I have no desire to live that long! Despite the happy moments here and there, life on Earth is a struggle and a somewhat miserable existence anyway! ...wars that have no real purpose and no solid end; the Cloward & Piven plan is destroying capitalism (as well as the vast majority of people who don't read, think, or do for themselves); the homeless people don't get to take a shower in their traveling shower power machine because the mayor used up their time slot with his photo op; Windmill Dick is down there making a living on camera while his kid is sending someone to the morgue via baseball bat bludgeoning; teachers are prostituting themselves for paid vacation time and the principal is skimming off the top of their tip money; my daughter's friends are either Team Jacob or Team Edward while maintaining a crush on some kid named Justin Beiber; there's a rapist in Lincoln Park and a crazy hippy in Yellowstone receiving messages from the Universe through rainbows; there are aliens implanting probes in all of us; and the government controls our minds by the contrails from US Airways. Why should I bother? So the anonymous lady kills me slowly with her rice pilaf, who gives a rip? The answer isn't in the lemon juice! The simple answer to it all my dear friends is this:
EAT DRINK AND BE MERRY!!!
(stay away from gluten though)
So basically you walk out of there feeling like hell, at the bare minimum knowing you can't eat bread or drink beer, and the rest is trial and error. At some point on your path you start running into other Celiacs who tell you to try this and stay away from that, and even further down the road you start listening to homeopaths, naturopaths, vegans, greenies, hippies, conspiracy theorists, and people who claim to be aliens because, well, they're apparently all Celiacs too. The next thing you know you're telling yourself that if you can do a shot of cheap tequila you can certainly drink this mixture of organic grapefruit juice, extra virgin olive oil, and Epsom salts in an attempt to heal your ailing intestinal tract. (and yes, I did drink that shit)
Anyway, I'd had this great run of almost three months without a gluten attack because I either prepared all of my own meals or I insisted on eating where I knew I would be safe. But (and this is a resounding BUT) there is that one lady (who will remain anonymous) that is a somewhat regular appearance in my life and despite her "knowing" I'm a Celiac and despite her attempts to prepare gluten free meals for me, 9 times out of 10 I get ill every time I eat something she prepares. And after three months of no trouble, I ate one of her dishes and late that evening I could feel it coming on, and the next day was a wash (if one can consider somewhere between my bed and the bathroom a "wash").
I got pretty depressed over this because I'd been doing so well. And after a few days of ranting (and swearing that the next time I go to her place I'm going to eat nothing but lettuce leaves, sans dressing, and a glass of wine), I remembered that the same guy that sent me the crazy grapefruit juice elixir had attached something called The Master Cleanse -- a ten day detox that is supposed to clean out all of your internal organs, heal your allergies, heal your illnesses, and bla bla bla and so forth. The trick is you can do nothing but drink this crazy lemon juice concoction and some tea (and you all know how I feel about tea). No food... no coffee... no wine... none of the things that make Pandora tick, basically. But I was so depressed I had completely convinced myself that this Master Cleanse was a good idea.
On the morning of day three I found myself sitting in a meeting with one of the local Cities. The last time I had my dose of the stupid lemon juice was 9:00 a.m. and it was 10:00 a.m. when the meeting started. Within the first ten minutes of that meeting my intestines started to cramp up, indicating it was time to visit the bathroom (AGAIN), so I had to excuse myself from the meeting (which I never do) and go "release some toxins."
At about 10:30 I started feeling hungry (the thing with the lemon juice is I had to drink it every two hours or I would get really mean and grumpy due to out of control hunger), but there was nothing I could do in the midst of that stupid meeting. My hunger grew to unmanageable levels until the meeting came to a close and left me with a 30 minute drive back to the office.
As I was walking out of the building, one of the ladies asked if I was feeling okay because I "looked kind of green in there" and all I could do was fake a smile and tell her I wasn't quite up to snuff. (What was I going to do? Tell her I brought this on myself because I'm on the path to healing via starvation, lemon juice, Cayenne pepper, and some "Smooth Move" tea?) And as I sat in the back of the car we drove in, this other lady went on and on about this congressional act and that congressional act and my brain kept slipping in and out of consciousness and every once in a while I'd snap back in long enough to realize she was still looking into my dead eyes as she was talking to me, but all I could think about was how good that chicken was going to be when I cooked it for Hope's dinner and that I wouldn't be able to eat it with her. And then I started thinking about salad and how I would give anything for a stupid salad. And then I started thinking about chewing and how good it would be to chew something. And then I started thinking about my taste buds and how good it would be to taste something. And by the time we got back to the office I couldn't take it anymore! I didn't want to drink that stupid lemon juice!
"LEMON JUICE BE DAMNED!!! I'm having a salad!!!"
And that's what I did. I went down to the cafeteria and I made a salad and I ate it.
I had 7 more days to go and between the constant bathroom journeys and the lack of pleasure to my palate, I just couldn't do it anymore. I'd rather endure an Epsom salt enema than drink lemon juice for ten days straight!
How do people do this shit? These things may be effective, but who can do them and still have a smile on their face? Maybe these people will live to be healthy and functioning and 120 years of age, but I'm sorry... this is some seriously miserable shit here! (literally) And I don't give a crap about living to be a ripe and healthy 120 years old! I have no desire to live that long! Despite the happy moments here and there, life on Earth is a struggle and a somewhat miserable existence anyway! ...wars that have no real purpose and no solid end; the Cloward & Piven plan is destroying capitalism (as well as the vast majority of people who don't read, think, or do for themselves); the homeless people don't get to take a shower in their traveling shower power machine because the mayor used up their time slot with his photo op; Windmill Dick is down there making a living on camera while his kid is sending someone to the morgue via baseball bat bludgeoning; teachers are prostituting themselves for paid vacation time and the principal is skimming off the top of their tip money; my daughter's friends are either Team Jacob or Team Edward while maintaining a crush on some kid named Justin Beiber; there's a rapist in Lincoln Park and a crazy hippy in Yellowstone receiving messages from the Universe through rainbows; there are aliens implanting probes in all of us; and the government controls our minds by the contrails from US Airways. Why should I bother? So the anonymous lady kills me slowly with her rice pilaf, who gives a rip? The answer isn't in the lemon juice! The simple answer to it all my dear friends is this:
EAT DRINK AND BE MERRY!!!
(stay away from gluten though)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
My Soccer Mom Conversation
So I'm sitting at my daughter's soccer practice last night (something I work hard not to do, but because there was a severe storm watch warning, something rare around here, I got nervous and sat there through the entire hour and a half practice while it stormed all around us but not actually on us, and I'm sure it would've stormed if I hadn't stayed so... back to what I was saying) and I found myself greatly amused as the one guy said, "Did you hear about the teacher that was turned in for prostitution?" And after everyone gasped and we were all chided for not watching the local news, he went on to say, "Yeah, I guess she has two kids and after she got divorced she couldn't pay some of her bills so she started selling herself. Her husband called the principal of the school and turned her in, and after she got turned in she turned around and exposed the principal for embezzlement."
There were a few more gasps and oos and ahs and a couple, "You never know what kind of people you have teaching your children." Then this other lady chimed in and said, "It's like that other story that came out a few years ago about the teacher that was a stripper. You remember that one don't you?" And everyone sat there with a blank look on their face until I finally joined the land of the soccer mom and said, "Yes, I remember, but the issue was she made a pornographic film, not a stripper. And the school was trying to decide whether or not the woman should keep her job and the parents were making a lot of noise about the bad example for the children." And then the lady got all excited and started pointing at me saying, "Yes! Yes! That's the one! When was that? That was a while ago, wasn't it?" So I told her that was back in 2006 or 7, and then more moms started shaking their heads saying, "See... you never know who's teaching your child."
The strangest part about it all was there seemed to be an awkward silence, as though some would've liked to get on some kind of ethical high horse, but no one dared because, well... probably none of us are what we seem to be on the outside anyway and what if someone there had been a stripper or a prostitute in their past or in their present?
Breaking that strange silence, the originator of the conversation finally said, "I guess they should just refer back to their teaching record. I mean... if they are still good teachers and your children are learning, that should count for something, shouldn't it?" Unfortunately for him, he said that to a group of women who all happen to be mothers of daughters. Actions speak louder than words, and well... "my teacher is a porn star/prostitute" perhaps adds a little validation to something that no mother with dreams of her daughter getting a full ride scholarship to college gets excited about.
Obviously, his comment fell on nothing but more silence. Knowing that I used to be a teacher he looked to me for some back up, so after a few moments of his stare I finally said, "You have a point but the problem lies in the expectation that teachers do more than teach reading, writing, and arithmetic. They are expected, during the eight hours a day they are with your child, to help guide them on a path toward positive social existence. Teachers stop fights on the playground and when disciplining the child they are to discuss the difference between right and wrong. Teachers are to guide the child in academic honesty, no cheating and such, and instill a sense of self-worth and pride when the child performs well in these areas. They are to help children learn to communicate and maneuver through some of the more difficult things they do and will continue to experience in their daily lives, both in and out of the school arena. They are also defenders of the child's well being, keeping a watchful eye on behavior patterns that may indicate disorder or abuse and take the necessary steps to help the child out of that situation. This in mind, a teacher is a mentor of sorts. And how good of a mentor can the teacher be if he or she is caught in their own negative life pattern, be it prostitution or embezzlement?"
They all kind of nodded as I said that, but no one seemed too excited to chip in. So in a sort of conclusion I finally said, "Both of those teachers may have been excellent academically speaking, and I always felt a little bad for the porn actress teacher because it was my understanding that it was something she had done in the past, not something she was actively involved in. She had made a film sometime in college for a few extra dollars or something and it came back to haunt her and destroyed her career. That always seemed like an injustice of some kind. People make bad calls in their lives, particularly when they're young and stupid going through college, but people also change and work to improve themselves and well... that woman will probably never teach again and the public exposure of her past will probably leave a mark on her for years to come. But the woman who's prostituting herself? As a single parent I can say that the reason I left teaching was because I could've never raised Hope comfortably on that salary, and it was a struggle to get myself out of academics and into the corporate world, but stripping or prostitution never popped into my mind as a viable option. As a parent, prostituting herself while housing and raising two children is a problem all its own. And I'm sure we all agree, despite anyone's stance on prostitution theoretically, it isn't exactly a positive environment for the self, let alone for the children. And maybe, if the system would pay their teachers more, we wouldn't have people making decisions like that, who knows... I am amused though that she turned in the principal for embezzlement. The old, 'if I'm going down you're going down with me.'" And then they all kind of chuckled at my last comment and we all just sat there and stared out at the girls working hard on their soccer drills.
There were a few more gasps and oos and ahs and a couple, "You never know what kind of people you have teaching your children." Then this other lady chimed in and said, "It's like that other story that came out a few years ago about the teacher that was a stripper. You remember that one don't you?" And everyone sat there with a blank look on their face until I finally joined the land of the soccer mom and said, "Yes, I remember, but the issue was she made a pornographic film, not a stripper. And the school was trying to decide whether or not the woman should keep her job and the parents were making a lot of noise about the bad example for the children." And then the lady got all excited and started pointing at me saying, "Yes! Yes! That's the one! When was that? That was a while ago, wasn't it?" So I told her that was back in 2006 or 7, and then more moms started shaking their heads saying, "See... you never know who's teaching your child."
The strangest part about it all was there seemed to be an awkward silence, as though some would've liked to get on some kind of ethical high horse, but no one dared because, well... probably none of us are what we seem to be on the outside anyway and what if someone there had been a stripper or a prostitute in their past or in their present?
Breaking that strange silence, the originator of the conversation finally said, "I guess they should just refer back to their teaching record. I mean... if they are still good teachers and your children are learning, that should count for something, shouldn't it?" Unfortunately for him, he said that to a group of women who all happen to be mothers of daughters. Actions speak louder than words, and well... "my teacher is a porn star/prostitute" perhaps adds a little validation to something that no mother with dreams of her daughter getting a full ride scholarship to college gets excited about.
Obviously, his comment fell on nothing but more silence. Knowing that I used to be a teacher he looked to me for some back up, so after a few moments of his stare I finally said, "You have a point but the problem lies in the expectation that teachers do more than teach reading, writing, and arithmetic. They are expected, during the eight hours a day they are with your child, to help guide them on a path toward positive social existence. Teachers stop fights on the playground and when disciplining the child they are to discuss the difference between right and wrong. Teachers are to guide the child in academic honesty, no cheating and such, and instill a sense of self-worth and pride when the child performs well in these areas. They are to help children learn to communicate and maneuver through some of the more difficult things they do and will continue to experience in their daily lives, both in and out of the school arena. They are also defenders of the child's well being, keeping a watchful eye on behavior patterns that may indicate disorder or abuse and take the necessary steps to help the child out of that situation. This in mind, a teacher is a mentor of sorts. And how good of a mentor can the teacher be if he or she is caught in their own negative life pattern, be it prostitution or embezzlement?"
They all kind of nodded as I said that, but no one seemed too excited to chip in. So in a sort of conclusion I finally said, "Both of those teachers may have been excellent academically speaking, and I always felt a little bad for the porn actress teacher because it was my understanding that it was something she had done in the past, not something she was actively involved in. She had made a film sometime in college for a few extra dollars or something and it came back to haunt her and destroyed her career. That always seemed like an injustice of some kind. People make bad calls in their lives, particularly when they're young and stupid going through college, but people also change and work to improve themselves and well... that woman will probably never teach again and the public exposure of her past will probably leave a mark on her for years to come. But the woman who's prostituting herself? As a single parent I can say that the reason I left teaching was because I could've never raised Hope comfortably on that salary, and it was a struggle to get myself out of academics and into the corporate world, but stripping or prostitution never popped into my mind as a viable option. As a parent, prostituting herself while housing and raising two children is a problem all its own. And I'm sure we all agree, despite anyone's stance on prostitution theoretically, it isn't exactly a positive environment for the self, let alone for the children. And maybe, if the system would pay their teachers more, we wouldn't have people making decisions like that, who knows... I am amused though that she turned in the principal for embezzlement. The old, 'if I'm going down you're going down with me.'" And then they all kind of chuckled at my last comment and we all just sat there and stared out at the girls working hard on their soccer drills.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Lacan and The Junk Trunk
[Disclaimer: This has been a long time coming. And for the non-academic, I will not only do my best to break down the ludicrously complicated aspects of this subject matter into somewhat comprehensible terms, I will do my best to make it as entertaining as possible. And for the academics (particularly those still holding the torch for psychoanalytic theory), I really could care less if I offend you or if you want to correct me or if you think I take something out of context or what ever. At this point, this isn't about academic accuracy nor am I trying to impress you with my understanding of Freud and his stupid cohorts. The beauty of finally being outside of the academic world is that I finally get to say what I want, when I want, where I want, and how I want with no regard for impressing "the powers that be" and no concern for a letter grade or publication. Oh, and I should probably add, for those who may be "faint at heart" when it comes to speaking openly about certain body parts and their theoretical significance in the Psychoanalytic realm, as well as an aversion to the "F word" and perhaps a few "D words" and such, this post is most likely not for you at all.]
I threw Lacan in the junk trunk the other day. I have a book that I used in one of my graduate classes called _Feminine Sexuality_ by Jacques Lacan and I usually save all of my books (even though this one in particular is far from useful) just in case I may need or want to reference them at some random point in the future. (What a Land Agent may need Lacan for, I don't know, but this is how I roll.) Anyway, I was cleaning up and reorganizing a bit around here, and I found myself standing there with this stupid book in my hand. I stared at the cover for a minute and I felt myself hate the thing and I flipped it open to one of the sections that the broken binding indicates I spent much time reading, and I read, "There is no such thing as The woman since of her essence -- having already risked the term, why think twice about it? -- of her essence, she is not at all." At that point, I closed the book, walked over to what I currently refer to as the junk trunk, and I threw it in there. I then sent a text message to an old colleague of mine who knows my loathe for Lacan, and told her what I did. She responded with, "Good. And I anticipate a blog post on this action?"
Hell yes! You ready for this? Here we go:
Excuse me, Mr. Lacan, but I would like to say that my lack of a "phallus," as you like to politely refer to it, does not mean that I am lacking. I am inclined to say that I am The Woman, completely whole, in all that I think, say, write, and do spiritually, intellectually, physically, and sexually. I take serious issue with your claim that The Woman doesn't know what she's saying, "which is all the difference between [The Woman and you]" because your genitalia (symbolically or otherwise) happens to be all that and a bag of chips and The Woman gets to enjoy said chips as a "supplementary' as opposed to "complementary" component of your own or any man's physical existence. Are you fucking kidding me???
And you're damn right "there is a jouissance of being," you're damn right there is "a jouissance beyond the phallus," and you're damn right that "thought is jouissance." So here's a thought for you: the world does not revolve around the damn phallus. (and while I'm at it, stop referring to The Woman as "castrated" because castrated implies that The Woman had something to castrate in the first place, and the last time I checked, creationists and evolutionists alike would agree, The Woman has nothing, nor ever had anything, to castrate in the first place, you idiot. And I'm pretty sure all phallus bearing men in the real world cringe whenever you use that word anyway so... do us all a favor and just shut up on that one too.)
And if "truth" really is "the name of that ideal movement which discourse introduces into reality," then let's have a little bit of discourse about your statement that The Woman's "condition is fundamentally that of accepting herself as an object of desire for the man." First of all, the word "condition" implies that being the object of desire for the man is a disease or ailment that The Woman must bring to the attention of a physician and receive a prescription for an antibiotic of some kind. As far as The Woman is concerned, being the object of desire places the power of negotiation right in the palm of her manipulative hand. Additionally, The Woman is well aware that her curves are enticing, that she is lovely and quite often the object of lust and desire, but The Woman also knows that it doesn't matter if you're the big time executive upstairs or the crazy stalker from behind the counter at Walgreens, you aint gettin' any unless The Woman says so. And should you try to take it by force, at least This Woman will rip your trachea out and well... that's pretty much that. Furthermore, The Woman is well aware of the power of her appearance in the business world: her smile, the twinkle in her eye, her raised eyebrow, the placement of her hair, the hint of a form beneath her conservative business suit. But as The Woman sits in the conference room, sharing her thoughts and ideas on how things are and where they should go, the employer cares more about what The Woman brings to the table in a business sense than whether or not The Woman's appearance may or may not have invoked a fleeting moment of desire in their minds, because what The Woman brings with her mind is what makes everything financially and professionally lucrative for them, you idiot.
And finally, I would like to address the fact that you continually reference the male and his phallus as the subject, relegating The Woman to the object and ultimately defining the woman as The Other -- little more than a figment of the male imagination, your egotistical way of taking credit for thinking The Woman into existence. I am specifically talking about this notion that The Woman "[follows] from the deviation of man's needs by the fact that he speaks, in the sense that as long as his needs are subjected to demand they return to him alienated. This is not the effect of his real dependency but precisely of the putting into signifying form as such and of the fact that it is from the place of the Other that his message is emitted." Seriously? As far as This Woman is concerned, this translates to, "wow... she had a good idea there. Well, that wasn't really her own thought, that was mine. She's just here because I need her to be, because I imagined her into my own existence, and she's basically telling me my own thoughts and words anyway." Shut up, little French man. You are the epitome of what This Woman would call an egotistical prick with enough education and rhetoric behind him to make an average male's response sound intellectual. The "truth" is, as brought into reality by this discourse, you're no different than the guy in the white wife-beater shirt with a Paps beer in his hand sitting on the patio of his double-wide at the local trailer park. The Woman is her own id and ego and whatever the hell else your stupid mentor Freud called it. And if you imagined me into being at all, I guess I must be your worst nightmare because I'm pretty sure anything The Woman said here wasn't a part of the "message" you wanted "emitted."
So... my dear friend, it is finished. After I write out the pages of your work that I referenced, you're going back into the junk trunk and it's there you will stay until I decide to take you down to the used bookstore for someone else to fondle. Now put that in your fat phallic pipe and smoke it.
[for those of you who are interested, and for the sake of citing my source, I referenced _Feminine Sexuality_ by Jacques Lacan, Edited by Juliet Mitchell and Jacqueline Rose. The various quotations and references were taken from the following pages: 63; 68; 79-81; 83; 142; and 144-145]
I threw Lacan in the junk trunk the other day. I have a book that I used in one of my graduate classes called _Feminine Sexuality_ by Jacques Lacan and I usually save all of my books (even though this one in particular is far from useful) just in case I may need or want to reference them at some random point in the future. (What a Land Agent may need Lacan for, I don't know, but this is how I roll.) Anyway, I was cleaning up and reorganizing a bit around here, and I found myself standing there with this stupid book in my hand. I stared at the cover for a minute and I felt myself hate the thing and I flipped it open to one of the sections that the broken binding indicates I spent much time reading, and I read, "There is no such thing as The woman since of her essence -- having already risked the term, why think twice about it? -- of her essence, she is not at all." At that point, I closed the book, walked over to what I currently refer to as the junk trunk, and I threw it in there. I then sent a text message to an old colleague of mine who knows my loathe for Lacan, and told her what I did. She responded with, "Good. And I anticipate a blog post on this action?"
Hell yes! You ready for this? Here we go:
Excuse me, Mr. Lacan, but I would like to say that my lack of a "phallus," as you like to politely refer to it, does not mean that I am lacking. I am inclined to say that I am The Woman, completely whole, in all that I think, say, write, and do spiritually, intellectually, physically, and sexually. I take serious issue with your claim that The Woman doesn't know what she's saying, "which is all the difference between [The Woman and you]" because your genitalia (symbolically or otherwise) happens to be all that and a bag of chips and The Woman gets to enjoy said chips as a "supplementary' as opposed to "complementary" component of your own or any man's physical existence. Are you fucking kidding me???
And you're damn right "there is a jouissance of being," you're damn right there is "a jouissance beyond the phallus," and you're damn right that "thought is jouissance." So here's a thought for you: the world does not revolve around the damn phallus. (and while I'm at it, stop referring to The Woman as "castrated" because castrated implies that The Woman had something to castrate in the first place, and the last time I checked, creationists and evolutionists alike would agree, The Woman has nothing, nor ever had anything, to castrate in the first place, you idiot. And I'm pretty sure all phallus bearing men in the real world cringe whenever you use that word anyway so... do us all a favor and just shut up on that one too.)
And if "truth" really is "the name of that ideal movement which discourse introduces into reality," then let's have a little bit of discourse about your statement that The Woman's "condition is fundamentally that of accepting herself as an object of desire for the man." First of all, the word "condition" implies that being the object of desire for the man is a disease or ailment that The Woman must bring to the attention of a physician and receive a prescription for an antibiotic of some kind. As far as The Woman is concerned, being the object of desire places the power of negotiation right in the palm of her manipulative hand. Additionally, The Woman is well aware that her curves are enticing, that she is lovely and quite often the object of lust and desire, but The Woman also knows that it doesn't matter if you're the big time executive upstairs or the crazy stalker from behind the counter at Walgreens, you aint gettin' any unless The Woman says so. And should you try to take it by force, at least This Woman will rip your trachea out and well... that's pretty much that. Furthermore, The Woman is well aware of the power of her appearance in the business world: her smile, the twinkle in her eye, her raised eyebrow, the placement of her hair, the hint of a form beneath her conservative business suit. But as The Woman sits in the conference room, sharing her thoughts and ideas on how things are and where they should go, the employer cares more about what The Woman brings to the table in a business sense than whether or not The Woman's appearance may or may not have invoked a fleeting moment of desire in their minds, because what The Woman brings with her mind is what makes everything financially and professionally lucrative for them, you idiot.
And finally, I would like to address the fact that you continually reference the male and his phallus as the subject, relegating The Woman to the object and ultimately defining the woman as The Other -- little more than a figment of the male imagination, your egotistical way of taking credit for thinking The Woman into existence. I am specifically talking about this notion that The Woman "[follows] from the deviation of man's needs by the fact that he speaks, in the sense that as long as his needs are subjected to demand they return to him alienated. This is not the effect of his real dependency but precisely of the putting into signifying form as such and of the fact that it is from the place of the Other that his message is emitted." Seriously? As far as This Woman is concerned, this translates to, "wow... she had a good idea there. Well, that wasn't really her own thought, that was mine. She's just here because I need her to be, because I imagined her into my own existence, and she's basically telling me my own thoughts and words anyway." Shut up, little French man. You are the epitome of what This Woman would call an egotistical prick with enough education and rhetoric behind him to make an average male's response sound intellectual. The "truth" is, as brought into reality by this discourse, you're no different than the guy in the white wife-beater shirt with a Paps beer in his hand sitting on the patio of his double-wide at the local trailer park. The Woman is her own id and ego and whatever the hell else your stupid mentor Freud called it. And if you imagined me into being at all, I guess I must be your worst nightmare because I'm pretty sure anything The Woman said here wasn't a part of the "message" you wanted "emitted."
So... my dear friend, it is finished. After I write out the pages of your work that I referenced, you're going back into the junk trunk and it's there you will stay until I decide to take you down to the used bookstore for someone else to fondle. Now put that in your fat phallic pipe and smoke it.
[for those of you who are interested, and for the sake of citing my source, I referenced _Feminine Sexuality_ by Jacques Lacan, Edited by Juliet Mitchell and Jacqueline Rose. The various quotations and references were taken from the following pages: 63; 68; 79-81; 83; 142; and 144-145]
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Cup Of Tea
I'm sitting here with a cup of tea. This is new. I never really drink tea. I suppose it's an acquired taste that I've never had much interest in acquiring. I've always seen it as something with medicinal purposes only -- to imbibe when I'm not feeling well, to soothe the sore throat, to help open the blocked sinus cavity a bit, to help the body release the toxins that ail me. But to sit and sip a cup while I sit and try to write? Unheard of.
Generally there is always a cup of something beside me as I write. Maybe I'll have a cup of coffee to stimulate the mind, or perhaps a glass of wine if I need to reign in a bit of the creative fire that spirals out of control, or maybe a gin and tonic if I'm feeling feisty, but tea? No offense to myself but, that just doesn't sound like my style, does it?
To be absolutely honest with myself, and you, the cup of tea isn't a result of some new found intellectual enlightenment I've achieved. It actually came about because I simply didn't have a lot of options. I already had a cup of coffee around 8:00 p.m., which my daughter wisely pointed out would probably keep me awake longer than I'd like and ultimately make me late for work tomorrow morning, so I couldn't really counter what she said with another cup of coffee. And given the writer's block I've had lately, I'm certainly not in need of wine to help reign in the wild fires of creative thought passing through my head right now. And my fairly new life as a Celiac has made gin a forbidden spirit, so obviously we will have none of that, regardless of how feisty I may be, in the weeks/months/years to come (those days are gone... wave goodbye to the Bombay Sapphire and Stellar). So, my only options were water (life or not, it just lacks in flavor), orange juice (um... no thanks, not writing material at all), or tea (Good Earth Original or Mint Medley and the word Medley beat out the word Original so I went with the mint).
To be even more honest with myself, and you, I sit here drinking this minty fresh cup of tea because I promised myself I would write tonight even if I had nothing grand and spectacular on my mind, and I must have something to sip while I do that. (Obviously, this post is far from grand and spectacular. I'm working very hard not to delete this stupid thing right now. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're all just as bored as I am, but you're going to continue to read it just as I'm going to continue to write it with the hope that something somewhat amusing may come from it. You know, something odd like the fact that I just google searched mint tea and ran across some homeopathic guru's advice on the pros and cons of mint tea. One of the cons, for you gentlemen out there, is that prolonged use of mint tea can lower testosterone levels. For women with Polycystic whatever that is called on your ovaries, lowering testosterone levels in your body is a good thing, but for the men of Earth who take great pride in their virility well... you might want to stop drinking it lest you find yourself with a prescription for cialis much earlier in your lives than originally anticipated.)
I suppose I could get all mystical right now and say something like I'm drinking tea because it does "soothe the throat" and having writer's block is a form of "sore throat" since I can't really "speak my mind," but that would be a little ridiculous (or, at least I'm not in the mood to be that ridiculous right now). I might as well call upon the power of the unicorns and leprechauns and ask them if they'd like to join me in the study for a spot of tea and a cigar (though, I guess the cigar would require a glass of port instead of tea. What does one smoke with a cup of tea? Maybe some strange rose petal tobacco out of one of those dirty hookahs the local college kid stole from the Oasis Hookah Bar down the street?)
Wow... I'm really reaching here. This has got to be one of the worst posts I've ever put up here. (Oh boy... I just stared at the clock and talked myself out of deleting this again. I'm actually sitting here telling myself that writing is a craft that requires discipline, and yes I do believe that's true,and yes I know that if I don't write something I know of at least two people who are going to start hounding me again the way they did last week. But seriously... tea? What was I thinking? The best I got out of it was a lower testosterone level and a minty fresh aftertaste in my mouth, which is also a little strange. It's like some downgraded peppermint schnapps or something, which I always hated. Maybe I should've gone with the Good Earth Original. It at least has a bit of spice to it. If one wants to soothe the throat and clear the way for the creative voice, maybe one should spice it up a bit. Who knows... I guess I'm not really down with this "cup of tea" thing. I'll give myself points for trying and I'll hit the post button before I give in to the delete button.)
Generally there is always a cup of something beside me as I write. Maybe I'll have a cup of coffee to stimulate the mind, or perhaps a glass of wine if I need to reign in a bit of the creative fire that spirals out of control, or maybe a gin and tonic if I'm feeling feisty, but tea? No offense to myself but, that just doesn't sound like my style, does it?
To be absolutely honest with myself, and you, the cup of tea isn't a result of some new found intellectual enlightenment I've achieved. It actually came about because I simply didn't have a lot of options. I already had a cup of coffee around 8:00 p.m., which my daughter wisely pointed out would probably keep me awake longer than I'd like and ultimately make me late for work tomorrow morning, so I couldn't really counter what she said with another cup of coffee. And given the writer's block I've had lately, I'm certainly not in need of wine to help reign in the wild fires of creative thought passing through my head right now. And my fairly new life as a Celiac has made gin a forbidden spirit, so obviously we will have none of that, regardless of how feisty I may be, in the weeks/months/years to come (those days are gone... wave goodbye to the Bombay Sapphire and Stellar). So, my only options were water (life or not, it just lacks in flavor), orange juice (um... no thanks, not writing material at all), or tea (Good Earth Original or Mint Medley and the word Medley beat out the word Original so I went with the mint).
To be even more honest with myself, and you, I sit here drinking this minty fresh cup of tea because I promised myself I would write tonight even if I had nothing grand and spectacular on my mind, and I must have something to sip while I do that. (Obviously, this post is far from grand and spectacular. I'm working very hard not to delete this stupid thing right now. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're all just as bored as I am, but you're going to continue to read it just as I'm going to continue to write it with the hope that something somewhat amusing may come from it. You know, something odd like the fact that I just google searched mint tea and ran across some homeopathic guru's advice on the pros and cons of mint tea. One of the cons, for you gentlemen out there, is that prolonged use of mint tea can lower testosterone levels. For women with Polycystic whatever that is called on your ovaries, lowering testosterone levels in your body is a good thing, but for the men of Earth who take great pride in their virility well... you might want to stop drinking it lest you find yourself with a prescription for cialis much earlier in your lives than originally anticipated.)
I suppose I could get all mystical right now and say something like I'm drinking tea because it does "soothe the throat" and having writer's block is a form of "sore throat" since I can't really "speak my mind," but that would be a little ridiculous (or, at least I'm not in the mood to be that ridiculous right now). I might as well call upon the power of the unicorns and leprechauns and ask them if they'd like to join me in the study for a spot of tea and a cigar (though, I guess the cigar would require a glass of port instead of tea. What does one smoke with a cup of tea? Maybe some strange rose petal tobacco out of one of those dirty hookahs the local college kid stole from the Oasis Hookah Bar down the street?)
Wow... I'm really reaching here. This has got to be one of the worst posts I've ever put up here. (Oh boy... I just stared at the clock and talked myself out of deleting this again. I'm actually sitting here telling myself that writing is a craft that requires discipline, and yes I do believe that's true,and yes I know that if I don't write something I know of at least two people who are going to start hounding me again the way they did last week. But seriously... tea? What was I thinking? The best I got out of it was a lower testosterone level and a minty fresh aftertaste in my mouth, which is also a little strange. It's like some downgraded peppermint schnapps or something, which I always hated. Maybe I should've gone with the Good Earth Original. It at least has a bit of spice to it. If one wants to soothe the throat and clear the way for the creative voice, maybe one should spice it up a bit. Who knows... I guess I'm not really down with this "cup of tea" thing. I'll give myself points for trying and I'll hit the post button before I give in to the delete button.)
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Word Of The Day
Pandora meets up with G.B. Wittington on the way out to the car.
G.B. Wittington: Hey there!
Pandora: (smiles) Hello.
G.B. Wittington: So, how was your day?
Pandora: Nothing significant. You?
G.B. Wittington: Same.
Pandora: Did you catch the word of the day today?
G.B. Wittington: Yep. Behemoth. Impressive. Ever count how many days go by before they actually put a word out you didn't know?
Pandora: No, but that's a good idea.
G.B. Wittington: Yep. It's been ten days since they threw down zaftig. That was a new one for me.
Pandora: Ya, that one was news to me too. I will say this, in definition two of behemoth I noticed that they made a reference to the book of Job, and they said the book's reference to behemoth was "perhaps the hippopotamus." You grew up in Sunday school, didn't you? I don't know about you, but I don't remember any of the Sunday school teachers talking about the hippos in the Old Testament.
G.B. Wittington: Hahahahaha... Right? I had a similar feeling when reading definition number two. I couldn't help but think, "hippopotamus? There was a hippopotamus in the book of Job? I don't remember that." I'm sure that would've been a big deal in my formative years at the ultra-conservative Baptist school I went to as a kid. I imagine we would've sung songs about Job's hippo, if that were the case. I remember boils and crop failures and dead family members, but no hippopotamus.
Pandora: I know! The only mighty creature I remember being worthy of the name behemoth in the book of Job was the random reference to Leviathan, but no one knows what the heck God was talking about there. Some people think it was some sort of sea creature.
G.B. Wittington: Yeah, I once read 4 chapters of a book titled Leviathan, and I think there was a movie about that thing, and it was some insane sea creature thing.
Pandora: ... four chapters, eh?
G.B. Wittington: Come on now... it was a book called Leviathan... some idiot gave it to me and it wasn't any good. Give me a break.
Pandora:... four chapters?
G.B. Wittington: Leviathan is a cool name used by a heavy metal band that sucks too. What do you want from me?
Pandora: pfft... anyway, I have heard some people say they think it was a reference to dinosaurs, but a hippo? Seriously? I know the hippo can be a formidable foe, should one make it angry, but most of the time they're just slothing about eating plants and bathing in lakes and rivers and aren't exactly the picture of an ominous and threatening power. They're no behemoth. I mean, seriously... hippos can sometimes be trained circus animals, they wear tutus and balance psychedelic patterned balls on their nose and suddenly it's possible that they're the "behemoth" from the book of Job? The creature God has bragging rights on as something He created that can neither be killed nor conquered by any man??? Really??? At least Leviathan has yet to be discovered or defined, but we know from our latest visit to Ringling Brothers that the hippo can be conquered. It is no behemoth. I mean... think about this for a minute... really... Oh no! Run! RUN!!! LEVIATHAN THE HIPPO IS GOING TO EVISCERATE ME WITH HIS SHARP QUADRUPEDAL CLUB FEET THINGS AND EAT MY BRAINS FOR DESSERT!!!
G.B. Wittington: ...
Pandora: ... What?
G.B. Wittington: ...
Pandora: What? That wasn't funny? You know that was funny!
G.B. Wittington: I think you should apologize to the hippos.
Pandora: What?
G.B. Wittington: Apologize to the hippos. You need to apologize to the hippos.
Pandora: Are you serious?
G.B. Wittington: I know they aren't that fearsome, but give 'em some respect. I know they're pretty docile, if they weren't that little girl wouldn't have sang about wanting one for Christmas, but I've seen them on the Discovery Channel and they can be kind of scary. And in your case, they can smell pride and arrogance. They will lure you in with their Lennie-like appearance and just when you think they are harmless, your head is gone and the hippos are laughing at your headless body which they turn into a puppet for children's story time at the local library.
Pandora: ... lennie-like appearance..?
G.B. Wittington: Yes. Lennie-like appearance.
Pandora: What does that mean?
G.B. Wittington: It means, be kind, rewind. Apologize to the hippos and get into your car and go home. This Phoenix sun is hot like a behemoth.
G.B. Wittington: Hey there!
Pandora: (smiles) Hello.
G.B. Wittington: So, how was your day?
Pandora: Nothing significant. You?
G.B. Wittington: Same.
Pandora: Did you catch the word of the day today?
G.B. Wittington: Yep. Behemoth. Impressive. Ever count how many days go by before they actually put a word out you didn't know?
Pandora: No, but that's a good idea.
G.B. Wittington: Yep. It's been ten days since they threw down zaftig. That was a new one for me.
Pandora: Ya, that one was news to me too. I will say this, in definition two of behemoth I noticed that they made a reference to the book of Job, and they said the book's reference to behemoth was "perhaps the hippopotamus." You grew up in Sunday school, didn't you? I don't know about you, but I don't remember any of the Sunday school teachers talking about the hippos in the Old Testament.
G.B. Wittington: Hahahahaha... Right? I had a similar feeling when reading definition number two. I couldn't help but think, "hippopotamus? There was a hippopotamus in the book of Job? I don't remember that." I'm sure that would've been a big deal in my formative years at the ultra-conservative Baptist school I went to as a kid. I imagine we would've sung songs about Job's hippo, if that were the case. I remember boils and crop failures and dead family members, but no hippopotamus.
Pandora: I know! The only mighty creature I remember being worthy of the name behemoth in the book of Job was the random reference to Leviathan, but no one knows what the heck God was talking about there. Some people think it was some sort of sea creature.
G.B. Wittington: Yeah, I once read 4 chapters of a book titled Leviathan, and I think there was a movie about that thing, and it was some insane sea creature thing.
Pandora: ... four chapters, eh?
G.B. Wittington: Come on now... it was a book called Leviathan... some idiot gave it to me and it wasn't any good. Give me a break.
Pandora:... four chapters?
G.B. Wittington: Leviathan is a cool name used by a heavy metal band that sucks too. What do you want from me?
Pandora: pfft... anyway, I have heard some people say they think it was a reference to dinosaurs, but a hippo? Seriously? I know the hippo can be a formidable foe, should one make it angry, but most of the time they're just slothing about eating plants and bathing in lakes and rivers and aren't exactly the picture of an ominous and threatening power. They're no behemoth. I mean, seriously... hippos can sometimes be trained circus animals, they wear tutus and balance psychedelic patterned balls on their nose and suddenly it's possible that they're the "behemoth" from the book of Job? The creature God has bragging rights on as something He created that can neither be killed nor conquered by any man??? Really??? At least Leviathan has yet to be discovered or defined, but we know from our latest visit to Ringling Brothers that the hippo can be conquered. It is no behemoth. I mean... think about this for a minute... really... Oh no! Run! RUN!!! LEVIATHAN THE HIPPO IS GOING TO EVISCERATE ME WITH HIS SHARP QUADRUPEDAL CLUB FEET THINGS AND EAT MY BRAINS FOR DESSERT!!!
G.B. Wittington: ...
Pandora: ... What?
G.B. Wittington: ...
Pandora: What? That wasn't funny? You know that was funny!
G.B. Wittington: I think you should apologize to the hippos.
Pandora: What?
G.B. Wittington: Apologize to the hippos. You need to apologize to the hippos.
Pandora: Are you serious?
G.B. Wittington: I know they aren't that fearsome, but give 'em some respect. I know they're pretty docile, if they weren't that little girl wouldn't have sang about wanting one for Christmas, but I've seen them on the Discovery Channel and they can be kind of scary. And in your case, they can smell pride and arrogance. They will lure you in with their Lennie-like appearance and just when you think they are harmless, your head is gone and the hippos are laughing at your headless body which they turn into a puppet for children's story time at the local library.
Pandora: ... lennie-like appearance..?
G.B. Wittington: Yes. Lennie-like appearance.
Pandora: What does that mean?
G.B. Wittington: It means, be kind, rewind. Apologize to the hippos and get into your car and go home. This Phoenix sun is hot like a behemoth.
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