Assignment #5: Write a feature story. I chose to write the following piece for Mothering Magazine based on my recent research and reading in my quest to become a doula. The statistics of the modern birthing scene are frightening and devastating and deserve to be uncovered. We'll see if I ever get the chutzpah to send this to the editor of Mothering Magazine!
Let’s just say that I’m an advocate of crisis management. If Chicken Little’s sky is truly going to cave in one day, then I’d like to read up on how to live successfully in a sky-less world. I rarely do or buy anything without researching the pros and cons, so with the thought of starting a family sometime in the next five years, it seemed only appropriate to read every book and magazine ever printed on the subject. The deeper I delved into my quest of understanding pregnancy and birth, the more aware I became of how scared I should be to have a baby.
My research produced astounding statistics that could turn many would-be mothers into birth control junkies. In a recent documentary, The Business of Being Born, former talk show host Rickie Lake fills the gaps between the miracle of life and the alarming statistics about our current maternity care system. Did you know that the United States has the second worst newborn death rate and the highest maternal mortality rate in the developed world? What about the fact that doctors and insurance companies are teaming up to make sure that women can’t get coverage for home birth, even though it’s the cheaper option?
Most doctors admit to chemically advancing a woman’s birth process, speeding up her delivery so that he can make it home in time for dinner. That same statistic fits pretty snugly with the fact that the Cesarean Section rate has increased by 46% in the last decade, making one out of every three births a C-Section. This increase, as most doctors will divulge, is a defense mechanism against getting sued and losing their malpractice insurance. This trend has become so widely accepted that mothers are now voluntarily electing for designer births where they get a c-section and a tummy tuck right after the doc pulls the baby out. What these women don’t know, or are choosing to ignore, is that recovering from a c-section takes almost four times longer and carries far more risk to both the mother and the baby than a vaginal birth.
Book after magazine after website, my research has led me to believe that a lot of high-ups in the medical field don’t trust the natural process of women’s bodies. If they did, they wouldn’t spend so much time convincing women that they don’t know how to give birth. Fearful of everything that could go wrong, instead of trusting what could go right, women are more than obliging to accept the too common cocktail of unnecessary modern birthing practices and interventions. Given a little time and space, most of these women would be able to give birth without the thick layer of fear factor action that doctors seem so fond of.
Call me crazy, but I think I might go find Chicken Little to ask her if the sky has fallen in. I had no idea about the predicament of the modern birthing scene. I’ll be glad to admit that hospitals give me peace of mind in a crisis, but giving birth shouldn’t be an emergency. In certain instances, yes, birth is an emergency, but in most cases it’s about creating life and celebrating a new person.
For all the fear I found in my research, I also found hope. The kind of hope that comes from knowing your options and learning how to set boundaries with your doctors. Knowing what questions to ask and doing what’s best for your long-term physical health and mental happiness. There are groups out there like the Coalition for Improving Maternity Services that are advocating for a medical system that improves birth outcomes and substantially reduces costs to both hospitals and families. It’s comforting to know that the partnership between modern medical technology and big business is being challenged and that I, an individual capable of making decisions, can help shape my future birth by reading up and speaking out.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Icy Sparks, by Gwen Rubio
Assignment #4: Write a book review. I hope this doesn't sound like a cheese-ball review...I just feel like reviews are so contrived and opinionated that it doesn't really matter what I say here. You might love the book or you might want to throw it at me after you get done reading it. Just give me some warning so I can duck out of the way.
I belong to a book club where it’s more about eating and gossiping than it is about reading the book. When I first joined, it took me three months before I actually read one of the selections. Not because I didn’t like the book, but because the only way I could finish reading a novel in a month was to take a weeklong vacation to the beach. I figured my time was short as a member in this elite group if I didn’t put forth some serious effort, so this month I ignored everyone I knew until I turned that last page. I wanted to show the girls at book club that yes, I can indeed decipher the printed word.
I was about ten minutes into Icy Sparks, written by Gwyn Rubio, before I realized it wouldn’t be hard to delve into the story of a child with Tourett Syndrome. The story is set in Southern Appalachia and begins with a ten year old girl named Icy who is cared for by her grandparents after she was orphaned by the unfortunate deaths of her two parents. The reader is sent along the path of self-discovery with Icy as she learns how to deal with her tics and outbursts by hiding in the root cellar to let loose the perceived pressure of a pending explosion in her body. Having never met anyone or seen the outbursts of someone suffering from Tourett Syndrome, I was compelled to hop up on you tube to catch a few horrific glimpses of this socially devastating syndrome.
Icy Sparks seems to show the easiest ride between a potentially disastrous and debilitating condition to a peachy keen ending, but the story reads so quickly and effortlessly that the reader gets caught in the delight of Rubio’s prose rather than checking to see if reality is still a factor. I caught myself reading lines over and over again, marveling in the metaphorical glory of each chapter. For instance, when describing what happens to her eyes right before she has an outburst, Icy says, “Out popped my eyes, like ice cubes leaping from a tray.” With her mouth-watering metaphors and uncanny knack for describing what the reader can’t see, Rubio negates any need for a motion picture rendition of her story.
As a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Icy Sparks is proven to be worth the couch time it takes to read it. You will fall in love with Icy, clench your fists in response to her frustrations, and want to climb through the pages to save her from herself.
I belong to a book club where it’s more about eating and gossiping than it is about reading the book. When I first joined, it took me three months before I actually read one of the selections. Not because I didn’t like the book, but because the only way I could finish reading a novel in a month was to take a weeklong vacation to the beach. I figured my time was short as a member in this elite group if I didn’t put forth some serious effort, so this month I ignored everyone I knew until I turned that last page. I wanted to show the girls at book club that yes, I can indeed decipher the printed word.
I was about ten minutes into Icy Sparks, written by Gwyn Rubio, before I realized it wouldn’t be hard to delve into the story of a child with Tourett Syndrome. The story is set in Southern Appalachia and begins with a ten year old girl named Icy who is cared for by her grandparents after she was orphaned by the unfortunate deaths of her two parents. The reader is sent along the path of self-discovery with Icy as she learns how to deal with her tics and outbursts by hiding in the root cellar to let loose the perceived pressure of a pending explosion in her body. Having never met anyone or seen the outbursts of someone suffering from Tourett Syndrome, I was compelled to hop up on you tube to catch a few horrific glimpses of this socially devastating syndrome.
Icy Sparks seems to show the easiest ride between a potentially disastrous and debilitating condition to a peachy keen ending, but the story reads so quickly and effortlessly that the reader gets caught in the delight of Rubio’s prose rather than checking to see if reality is still a factor. I caught myself reading lines over and over again, marveling in the metaphorical glory of each chapter. For instance, when describing what happens to her eyes right before she has an outburst, Icy says, “Out popped my eyes, like ice cubes leaping from a tray.” With her mouth-watering metaphors and uncanny knack for describing what the reader can’t see, Rubio negates any need for a motion picture rendition of her story.
As a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Icy Sparks is proven to be worth the couch time it takes to read it. You will fall in love with Icy, clench your fists in response to her frustrations, and want to climb through the pages to save her from herself.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Decapitating Details
Assignment #3: Write a movie review. I am so sorry to say, but the Science Fiction genre is not really my thing. In some circles, I would be shunned for even thinking about writing a negative review of The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Thank goodness I don't hang around in the comicbook store in my free time...I might just come home with a few sword gashes and a sign on my back that says "I love Pokemon."
Some people wait until certain movies come to the two-dollar theater, while others wait until society has forced them to rent the DVD. We succumbed to peer pressure for The Big Lebowsky, when poker night was no longer fun because we didn’t catch the endless innuendos and line-quoting from our fellow friends who had latched on to “The Dude” craze. Maybe it was because we saw the movie in the wrong decade, or because we anticipated our induction into this cult too eagerly, but the movie somehow failed to live up to our expectations and while we sat there picking popcorn out of our teeth we just couldn’t reason as to why this movie warranted such a following.
We had precisely the same reaction to The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I now understand why I waited seven years to see this endless piece of cinema, much to the chagrin of the two boys I babysat for so long ago. For about three years we had nothing to talk about because they were obsessed over the trilogy and wouldn’t eat dinner until they recounted to me every decapitating detail of this nightmare-inducing movie.
With each increasing hour, the grip around my abdomen covering the eyes and ears of my yet conceived children grew tighter. As soon as one hideous and completely understaffed battle was won by the good guys, another one came along with even more grotesque characters who were pretty likely candidates for what the monster under the bed looked like in my childhood. According to The Internet Movie Database, this trilogy is rated “PG-13 for intense epic battle sequences and frightening images.” Now, I’m the first one to admit that I’m not big on battle scenes or science fiction for that matter, but this movie series goes above and beyond any semblance of kid-friendly content.
Aside from frightening little children, we grew restless of this story’s incessant need to fill up the space between the beginning and end with so much pomp and circumstance of war, terror, and ugly enemies. I am fully aware that this film began life on the pages of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Hobbit and then flourished into a multi-billion dollar enterprise, with box-office totals coming in second to Titanic, so who am I to say that this movie is better off in pieces under my car tires in the driveway?
There were, however, several redeeming qualities of this trilogy. One being the landscape of New Zealand, two being the special effects, and three being the lucky chance that Viggo Mortenson was cast as a main character. It seems improbable that he could take on so many of his freakish enemies at one time, but it was all the more attractive when he emerged from battle without a single scar or beauty-diminishing sword gash. If I could have Mr. Mortenson save me a time or two in battle, I’d seriously consider scraping the DVD off my driveway, gluing it up and becoming a member of the trilogy followers.
Some people wait until certain movies come to the two-dollar theater, while others wait until society has forced them to rent the DVD. We succumbed to peer pressure for The Big Lebowsky, when poker night was no longer fun because we didn’t catch the endless innuendos and line-quoting from our fellow friends who had latched on to “The Dude” craze. Maybe it was because we saw the movie in the wrong decade, or because we anticipated our induction into this cult too eagerly, but the movie somehow failed to live up to our expectations and while we sat there picking popcorn out of our teeth we just couldn’t reason as to why this movie warranted such a following.
We had precisely the same reaction to The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I now understand why I waited seven years to see this endless piece of cinema, much to the chagrin of the two boys I babysat for so long ago. For about three years we had nothing to talk about because they were obsessed over the trilogy and wouldn’t eat dinner until they recounted to me every decapitating detail of this nightmare-inducing movie.
With each increasing hour, the grip around my abdomen covering the eyes and ears of my yet conceived children grew tighter. As soon as one hideous and completely understaffed battle was won by the good guys, another one came along with even more grotesque characters who were pretty likely candidates for what the monster under the bed looked like in my childhood. According to The Internet Movie Database, this trilogy is rated “PG-13 for intense epic battle sequences and frightening images.” Now, I’m the first one to admit that I’m not big on battle scenes or science fiction for that matter, but this movie series goes above and beyond any semblance of kid-friendly content.
Aside from frightening little children, we grew restless of this story’s incessant need to fill up the space between the beginning and end with so much pomp and circumstance of war, terror, and ugly enemies. I am fully aware that this film began life on the pages of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Hobbit and then flourished into a multi-billion dollar enterprise, with box-office totals coming in second to Titanic, so who am I to say that this movie is better off in pieces under my car tires in the driveway?
There were, however, several redeeming qualities of this trilogy. One being the landscape of New Zealand, two being the special effects, and three being the lucky chance that Viggo Mortenson was cast as a main character. It seems improbable that he could take on so many of his freakish enemies at one time, but it was all the more attractive when he emerged from battle without a single scar or beauty-diminishing sword gash. If I could have Mr. Mortenson save me a time or two in battle, I’d seriously consider scraping the DVD off my driveway, gluing it up and becoming a member of the trilogy followers.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Superstition at its best
Assignment two: Write your own obituary. I must interject and say that I am extremely superstitious and hated the thought of typing my own death and printing it out in ink. My teacher seems to think that I'll learn from this assignment, but all it really made me want to do was cut off my fingers for typing about the end.
Born into a farmhouse surrounded by lush fields, lavish gardens, and the sound of cowbells, Sara Levine began her life in the rolling hills of eastern Connecticut. The product of two idealistic hippies, Sara soon learned that life was more about living than it was about working. On more than one occasion, she was taught that running away from a job was a better solution to toughing it out and that another door would always open after you left the last one swinging on its hinges.
Sara went to college because it was the next thing on the “to-do list” of life but having no idea what to study, she chose a major in Recreation Management knowing it used to be called Leisure Studies. It was a course of learning that enhanced the use of common sense and led her to be adaptable in life, no matter what career path she decided to take. And speaking of careers, Sara always said that having one was the last thing in life she would ever be excited about.
As a world traveler, Sara began to journal the differences between her own life and how it compared to everyone else’s. She felt that traveling to distant places would unlock the secret of life and open up the mysteries of the world’s constant evolution. In her novel, Everyone Else, Sara described how humbling it was to be in the presence of those who “have it figured out and seem to be content with what they have chosen to do with their time.” She was always on the quest for satisfaction, whether it came from people, relationships, food, travel, or scenery.
Early in life, Sara made a few wise investment decisions enabled her to purchase a vacation villa in Southern Spain, for which she gave each of her friends and family members a key to. Each year, Sara hosted a reunion for all her acquaintances, near and far and even paid the price of plane tickets for those who were unable. Sara has willed the vacation villa to her survivors under the stipulation that they continue the tradition of its annual party.
Born into a farmhouse surrounded by lush fields, lavish gardens, and the sound of cowbells, Sara Levine began her life in the rolling hills of eastern Connecticut. The product of two idealistic hippies, Sara soon learned that life was more about living than it was about working. On more than one occasion, she was taught that running away from a job was a better solution to toughing it out and that another door would always open after you left the last one swinging on its hinges.
Sara went to college because it was the next thing on the “to-do list” of life but having no idea what to study, she chose a major in Recreation Management knowing it used to be called Leisure Studies. It was a course of learning that enhanced the use of common sense and led her to be adaptable in life, no matter what career path she decided to take. And speaking of careers, Sara always said that having one was the last thing in life she would ever be excited about.
As a world traveler, Sara began to journal the differences between her own life and how it compared to everyone else’s. She felt that traveling to distant places would unlock the secret of life and open up the mysteries of the world’s constant evolution. In her novel, Everyone Else, Sara described how humbling it was to be in the presence of those who “have it figured out and seem to be content with what they have chosen to do with their time.” She was always on the quest for satisfaction, whether it came from people, relationships, food, travel, or scenery.
Early in life, Sara made a few wise investment decisions enabled her to purchase a vacation villa in Southern Spain, for which she gave each of her friends and family members a key to. Each year, Sara hosted a reunion for all her acquaintances, near and far and even paid the price of plane tickets for those who were unable. Sara has willed the vacation villa to her survivors under the stipulation that they continue the tradition of its annual party.
A new one
Ok, kids. I'm back. It's been three long years since I've posted and I just gave my new writing instructor my url and now I feel the need to make it look like I've been working. I know that no matter what, he's probably gonna rip me a new one for using the ellipses...gasp, in the wrong way!...(Hi Mr. Loewer) but I guess we'll have to duke that one out in the parking lot after class.
I'm going to start by adding my writing assignments for this class I'm taking. Not because I think any of you really care to read about forced subject matter, but because it will give me a start, a kick in the ass, a return to feeling like I've contributed to the literary pool of the internet blog scene.
Enter the first assignment: 500 words on Brit Brit
I have to say that some of the ridiculous lifestyles and absurd choices I’ve watched my friends put together would lay the tabloid headlines of Britney Spears to shame. The folks I like to spend my time with are literally obsessed with juicy, drama-filled lives and think that divorcing their husband is a better alternative to teaching him how to kiss better. It seems like Britney’s custody battle and horrendous driving record pales in comparison to the scandalous things I’ve seen my friends pull off. This all makes me wonder if we’re reading Britney’s gossip to see how bizarre her life is, or if we’re just checking in to make sure the paparazzi would find our lives to be just as news-worthy.
As I’m standing in the longest line at the grocery store, just to make sure I can flip through each and every page of mouth-watering “Britney and friends” rumors, my boyfriend gives me that look. You know, the one that says I should be reading something worthy like National Geographic instead of drooling over the fact that Branjelina is pregnant with twins. I think he’s just scared that I secretly desire the life of four-thousand dollar purses, yappy little dogs, and fake boobs. The fact is, I like my quiet little life where I can sit back and watch my friends try to mimic the worst qualities of movie stars.
I was somehow blessed with parents that had a drama rating of negative three, which means that should I want to create drama in my own life, I would have a really hard time figuring out how. That’s why I have friends who let me listen to the “Oops, I did it again” single while telling me that they messed with their birth control so they could get pregnant.
I could fill the pages of a weekly magazine with the outlandish situations that my friends put themselves in. It leads me to believe that the gossip-laden newsstands aren’t that far from what I have here in my own backyard. In my everyday life, I’d put Britney’s mental breakdown in the category of normal. I mean, if my friends can flip out enough to pop xanax like candy, then I think that we should cut Britney some slack and thank our lucky stars that the camera’s aren’t after us and our bad haircuts, bald monkeys, and baby daddies.
I'm going to start by adding my writing assignments for this class I'm taking. Not because I think any of you really care to read about forced subject matter, but because it will give me a start, a kick in the ass, a return to feeling like I've contributed to the literary pool of the internet blog scene.
Enter the first assignment: 500 words on Brit Brit
I have to say that some of the ridiculous lifestyles and absurd choices I’ve watched my friends put together would lay the tabloid headlines of Britney Spears to shame. The folks I like to spend my time with are literally obsessed with juicy, drama-filled lives and think that divorcing their husband is a better alternative to teaching him how to kiss better. It seems like Britney’s custody battle and horrendous driving record pales in comparison to the scandalous things I’ve seen my friends pull off. This all makes me wonder if we’re reading Britney’s gossip to see how bizarre her life is, or if we’re just checking in to make sure the paparazzi would find our lives to be just as news-worthy.
As I’m standing in the longest line at the grocery store, just to make sure I can flip through each and every page of mouth-watering “Britney and friends” rumors, my boyfriend gives me that look. You know, the one that says I should be reading something worthy like National Geographic instead of drooling over the fact that Branjelina is pregnant with twins. I think he’s just scared that I secretly desire the life of four-thousand dollar purses, yappy little dogs, and fake boobs. The fact is, I like my quiet little life where I can sit back and watch my friends try to mimic the worst qualities of movie stars.
I was somehow blessed with parents that had a drama rating of negative three, which means that should I want to create drama in my own life, I would have a really hard time figuring out how. That’s why I have friends who let me listen to the “Oops, I did it again” single while telling me that they messed with their birth control so they could get pregnant.
I could fill the pages of a weekly magazine with the outlandish situations that my friends put themselves in. It leads me to believe that the gossip-laden newsstands aren’t that far from what I have here in my own backyard. In my everyday life, I’d put Britney’s mental breakdown in the category of normal. I mean, if my friends can flip out enough to pop xanax like candy, then I think that we should cut Britney some slack and thank our lucky stars that the camera’s aren’t after us and our bad haircuts, bald monkeys, and baby daddies.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Bodygaurd
Whenever a doctor enters the waiting room to fetch a family member of mine, we all stand and head to the back like a pack of loyal wolves coveting our leader.
Our family motto: NOBODY goes to the doctor alone.
It's a proven fact in my family that if you're the one being the patient...you don't listen to the diagnosis. So with notebook and pen in hand, the rest of us take notes and ask questions with the same seriousness and intensity that Mr. Mafia man uses for grilling a suspect accused of stealing drugs from his men. I'm sure it's an intimidating site for the doctor...especially if he doesn't have an answer for our problem.
Earlier today, as my name was wedged in between bad elevator music and screaming kids, my mother and I rose to accompany the "how are you today?" sweeter than sweet voice of the waiting room pickup nurse. Armed to the teeth, my mother was foaming at the mouth, waiting to rack my doctor's brain as to why I have all these extra cells growing abnormally in my body.
My mom's attitude is quite contrary to my sweaty hands, nervous speech, self-centered, I must be dying approach.
A billion years and an elevated temper later, the doctor finally walks in and immediately tells me things aren't as bad as they seem. Thanks...couldn't you have told me that over the telephone when you called me to make a second appointment so quickly, my last copay check hadn't even cleared the bank yet? I'm still getting over the "quick, come in before you die" tone of voice from the appointments nurse, that I don't even hear the first paragraph of info that comes out of my doctor's mouth. When I come to, my mom has already catalogued the new vitamins I'll be swallowing, drawn up a diet and exercise program, and added a few questions regarding her own health.
Good thing I didn't decide to go alone. I would've come home with the idea that things aren't as bad as they seem and that the appointments nurse should watch her wording next time...or else. Instead, I can refer to my mother's document A, figure C-1, paragraph 9 to find out what actually happened.
At first it was weird to head to the doctor in a minivan stuffed full of family members, but now it seems essential. I don't know why someone would ever go alone. I mean, grab anyone...just have some backup...a hand to hold, a smile, a warm gesture, a secretary. Whatever it takes to make you feel like you're not dying when all they're asking is if your address on the form is still the same.
Our family motto: NOBODY goes to the doctor alone.
It's a proven fact in my family that if you're the one being the patient...you don't listen to the diagnosis. So with notebook and pen in hand, the rest of us take notes and ask questions with the same seriousness and intensity that Mr. Mafia man uses for grilling a suspect accused of stealing drugs from his men. I'm sure it's an intimidating site for the doctor...especially if he doesn't have an answer for our problem.
Earlier today, as my name was wedged in between bad elevator music and screaming kids, my mother and I rose to accompany the "how are you today?" sweeter than sweet voice of the waiting room pickup nurse. Armed to the teeth, my mother was foaming at the mouth, waiting to rack my doctor's brain as to why I have all these extra cells growing abnormally in my body.
My mom's attitude is quite contrary to my sweaty hands, nervous speech, self-centered, I must be dying approach.
A billion years and an elevated temper later, the doctor finally walks in and immediately tells me things aren't as bad as they seem. Thanks...couldn't you have told me that over the telephone when you called me to make a second appointment so quickly, my last copay check hadn't even cleared the bank yet? I'm still getting over the "quick, come in before you die" tone of voice from the appointments nurse, that I don't even hear the first paragraph of info that comes out of my doctor's mouth. When I come to, my mom has already catalogued the new vitamins I'll be swallowing, drawn up a diet and exercise program, and added a few questions regarding her own health.
Good thing I didn't decide to go alone. I would've come home with the idea that things aren't as bad as they seem and that the appointments nurse should watch her wording next time...or else. Instead, I can refer to my mother's document A, figure C-1, paragraph 9 to find out what actually happened.
At first it was weird to head to the doctor in a minivan stuffed full of family members, but now it seems essential. I don't know why someone would ever go alone. I mean, grab anyone...just have some backup...a hand to hold, a smile, a warm gesture, a secretary. Whatever it takes to make you feel like you're not dying when all they're asking is if your address on the form is still the same.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
call for music
Ok, so I just got a cd burner and software where I can dowload music for free on the internet! Yippee!
I'm looking for new music and I'm just wondering what cd's you guys are listening to. You know, the ones that you just can't seem to get out of your car stereo's.
Thanks!
I'm looking for new music and I'm just wondering what cd's you guys are listening to. You know, the ones that you just can't seem to get out of your car stereo's.
Thanks!
Sunday, February 13, 2005
questions, ugh
There are times when I'd rather eat raw fish that's been marinating in hot sun, than hear my mother ask me how my day was. Put anyone else in the room, and have them ask me the same questions...I'll splurge my innermost secrets and brew a cup of coffee just to linger on the details. I'm not sure why I harbor such an intense annoyance to my mother and her questions, but I think this past weekend might have brought me a little closer to the answer.
In a last minute parental pinch, I was a saving grace overnight babysitter for two brand new teenage boys. I started watching these guys when they were 3 and 5 and now they're 11 and 13. I've watched them potty-train when they would come out of the bathroom, pants around thier ankles, butt-cheeks blaring and a wad full of toilet paper slated for my wiping hands. I've helped them with homework, read them bed-time stories, played pokemon, ping pong and chess until I was tired of losing and I've most recently been shocked by the fact that they're almost taller than me! I guess I've turned into one of those aunt types that reminisces about poopy diapers and marvels at how high the ruler marks on the wall have gotten.
So here I am, driving the mini van back from the movie store where, I later found out, we chose a completely inappropriate movie for creative and moldable teenage minds. And then, right out of nowhere, the questions started flowing..."how's school?" "how are your friends?" "what's your favorite subject?" "What do you want for dinner?" Once I realized that my mother had taken over my vocal cords, I wanted to throw myself out of the mini van and spare these poor kids from the hell that is question land. What's happening to me? Can I not communicate with someone who I once was? I was just trying to break the unbearable silence that had taken over the airspace in our mommy rocket. I just wanted a glimpse into their lives...a synopsis of crushes and peer pressures...a feeling of inclusion in the land of britney spears, eminem, ipods and video games...a godforsaken conversation that I was ready to pull from the backs of their throats to the forefronts of this war where if you answer the question with more than "yeah" or "good" I'll sit there and cry with a joy similar to watching them wipe their own bare behinds for the first time! Oh my God..this is all my mother wants.
I can't believe this is what it feels like to my mom. All she wants is to understand me, be involved in what she raised, share my winnings and losings or atleast get a full sentence about my day rather than "ugh, uh huh." Why am I holding myself hostage from my mother? She, over anyone else, should be privy to what happens in my life. Am I still rebelling like a 13 year old? I can't possibly be writhing with uncontrollable hormones and urges to run away with anyone who'll take me...can I? Do I enjoy making her miserable? I mean, I did cry until I was 3 years old, whined until I was, well...I still whine, turned my nose up at everything but Kraft mac & cheese, and the list of how I torment my mother could go on and on.
I guess I just realized that, yes, I'm an adult. I should be able to converse in an appropriate, civil manner and answer questions just like anyone else. Maybe I'll even divulge information without even being prompted...I'll walk in the house shouting current events...I'll brew coffee and share it with my ma...I'll give her a break, because for shit's sake...she deserves one.
In a last minute parental pinch, I was a saving grace overnight babysitter for two brand new teenage boys. I started watching these guys when they were 3 and 5 and now they're 11 and 13. I've watched them potty-train when they would come out of the bathroom, pants around thier ankles, butt-cheeks blaring and a wad full of toilet paper slated for my wiping hands. I've helped them with homework, read them bed-time stories, played pokemon, ping pong and chess until I was tired of losing and I've most recently been shocked by the fact that they're almost taller than me! I guess I've turned into one of those aunt types that reminisces about poopy diapers and marvels at how high the ruler marks on the wall have gotten.
So here I am, driving the mini van back from the movie store where, I later found out, we chose a completely inappropriate movie for creative and moldable teenage minds. And then, right out of nowhere, the questions started flowing..."how's school?" "how are your friends?" "what's your favorite subject?" "What do you want for dinner?" Once I realized that my mother had taken over my vocal cords, I wanted to throw myself out of the mini van and spare these poor kids from the hell that is question land. What's happening to me? Can I not communicate with someone who I once was? I was just trying to break the unbearable silence that had taken over the airspace in our mommy rocket. I just wanted a glimpse into their lives...a synopsis of crushes and peer pressures...a feeling of inclusion in the land of britney spears, eminem, ipods and video games...a godforsaken conversation that I was ready to pull from the backs of their throats to the forefronts of this war where if you answer the question with more than "yeah" or "good" I'll sit there and cry with a joy similar to watching them wipe their own bare behinds for the first time! Oh my God..this is all my mother wants.
I can't believe this is what it feels like to my mom. All she wants is to understand me, be involved in what she raised, share my winnings and losings or atleast get a full sentence about my day rather than "ugh, uh huh." Why am I holding myself hostage from my mother? She, over anyone else, should be privy to what happens in my life. Am I still rebelling like a 13 year old? I can't possibly be writhing with uncontrollable hormones and urges to run away with anyone who'll take me...can I? Do I enjoy making her miserable? I mean, I did cry until I was 3 years old, whined until I was, well...I still whine, turned my nose up at everything but Kraft mac & cheese, and the list of how I torment my mother could go on and on.
I guess I just realized that, yes, I'm an adult. I should be able to converse in an appropriate, civil manner and answer questions just like anyone else. Maybe I'll even divulge information without even being prompted...I'll walk in the house shouting current events...I'll brew coffee and share it with my ma...I'll give her a break, because for shit's sake...she deserves one.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
potty training victory!
In the wake of my severely emotional self, I have been trying that small piece of age-old wisdom to "take it one moment at a time." Since I moved home, I've created a war zone within my house. Unintensionally, of course. But none the less, there's shattered peices of egos, remnants of screaming in the air and feelings that were hurt so badly, it's giving me nightmares. My body gives me no warning of my outbursts or flames of annoyance towards my kin, but I have a feeling they're ready to disown me. I"M READY TO DISOWN ME! But that's a whole other story.
In order to calm the rage, I rode passenger side in the car with a 40 oz. below window view. A couple of towns later, a mountain in the background and a buzz the size of Texas, I took a deep breath and exhaled with ease for the first time in days. The fog lifted and I actually saw the sunset...the twinkle in my man's eyes...the way the horizon just floats there if you recline the seat far enough so you can't see the road...I actually laughed (and meant it!)...and for a split second I thought I could see the light at the end of my dank dark tunnel of emotional hell.
The reason I was able to take reprieve from my home town was because our country has an obsession with football and cheese dip and cocktail weenies and nitrates and preservatives and ingredients I'll never be able to pronounce. So I threw my nutrional knowledge to the wind and dove head first into that buttery, mayonaissy, cream cheesy cheese ball. Yum Yum Yum and a bottle of Tums.
So on one of my many trips back to the table of incredible junk food indulgence, I struck up conversation with a five year old. I asked him how he liked spending the holiday's with his grandparents a few weeks back. "Oooh, it was so much fun!" he replied. He was telling me about playing games, riding bikes and other normal tid bits of conversation you might expect regarding a family trip. And then, right out of nowhere, he says, "I only had one wet pull-up on the whole trip!" Then he went right back to chewing on his baby carrots like what he just told me was appropriate conversation at the dinner table. It was said with such nonchalance that he might as well have been telling me the score of the game. "Congratulations," I said to him as I realized that this is one of those moments. One of those times in life that makes the whole damn struggle worth it. One of those situations where you realize that life is about eating, sleeping, playing and pooping. Period.
In order to calm the rage, I rode passenger side in the car with a 40 oz. below window view. A couple of towns later, a mountain in the background and a buzz the size of Texas, I took a deep breath and exhaled with ease for the first time in days. The fog lifted and I actually saw the sunset...the twinkle in my man's eyes...the way the horizon just floats there if you recline the seat far enough so you can't see the road...I actually laughed (and meant it!)...and for a split second I thought I could see the light at the end of my dank dark tunnel of emotional hell.
The reason I was able to take reprieve from my home town was because our country has an obsession with football and cheese dip and cocktail weenies and nitrates and preservatives and ingredients I'll never be able to pronounce. So I threw my nutrional knowledge to the wind and dove head first into that buttery, mayonaissy, cream cheesy cheese ball. Yum Yum Yum and a bottle of Tums.
So on one of my many trips back to the table of incredible junk food indulgence, I struck up conversation with a five year old. I asked him how he liked spending the holiday's with his grandparents a few weeks back. "Oooh, it was so much fun!" he replied. He was telling me about playing games, riding bikes and other normal tid bits of conversation you might expect regarding a family trip. And then, right out of nowhere, he says, "I only had one wet pull-up on the whole trip!" Then he went right back to chewing on his baby carrots like what he just told me was appropriate conversation at the dinner table. It was said with such nonchalance that he might as well have been telling me the score of the game. "Congratulations," I said to him as I realized that this is one of those moments. One of those times in life that makes the whole damn struggle worth it. One of those situations where you realize that life is about eating, sleeping, playing and pooping. Period.
Friday, January 28, 2005
picture perfect pride
Why is it that in order to celebrate a bank holiday, the Rotary Club of my small little town finds it necessary to put up the American Flag?
Let's take Martin Luther King Day for example. The flags were lining Main Street like a Norman Rockwell print bursting at the seems with picture perfect pride. This incredible man fought for his freedoms...political and individual...as a black man of America. In the height of his career, he was battling hatred against minorities, violence to his kindred and standing up against issues that affected the communities his friends and family lived in. He did all these things as a citizen of America. The same America where a majority of the people oppressed him to begin with. The same America where tons of folks rose up against his principles and his stand for freedom, saying that he wasn't worthy of the same rights as his white neighbors.
Granted, there was another half of America that wasn't busy hating black people so much they had to hurt them. And for those folks, I'd hang an American flag in honor of MLK day. But why hang something that means as much negative as it does positive? These days when I see the American flag, it conjures up images of dear President Bush blatanly lying on National public televsion, a government hand picked by that dear man who, over the next four years, is on a campaign to destroy everthing that doesn't make money for rich folks or uphold outdated Christian morals, 18 year old men and women defending America for the sake of a firstly fabricated war that's turned into a stockpile of unneccessary deaths, and a country where more than half of its citizens voted (AGAIN!) for a President that would put its country through this. How am I supposed to look at an American flag and feel pride about the aforementioned things?
I love my country. But do not expect me to love my government. If there was a seperate flag that represented Mr. Bush and his government, then those who supported our current political situation could mark themselves as such. I will hang an American flag in support of my beautiful and diverse country, for my pride in the peaceful history and democratic systems of this enormous continent, for free speech, for privacy and for my ability to write this blog without being shot for publishing propoganda against my country. As for right now, though, with all its negative meaning, I cannot conjure up a positive, sentimental feeling towards the red, white and blue.
Consequently, if we're going to celebrate a holiday...let's celebrate the actual reason for the holiday, rather than finding another excuse to hang the American flag that right now represents support for the government rather than its people. We're celebrating MLK day, not support America's government day. MLK is the one who gained the freedoms...not the government. He's the one who had the ideas...not the government. Our great leaders always take the credit for other people's actions. I say we give Mr. King all the credit by finding a symbol that represents only him...only his achievements...only his contribution to this country. How about a flag with a picture of him on it? If MLK had the right to pick a symbol to celebrate his life and ideas, do you really think he'd pick the American flag to represent them? C'mon America...let's celebrate the individuals who made our country whole, not the country that is making our individuals disappear!
Let's take Martin Luther King Day for example. The flags were lining Main Street like a Norman Rockwell print bursting at the seems with picture perfect pride. This incredible man fought for his freedoms...political and individual...as a black man of America. In the height of his career, he was battling hatred against minorities, violence to his kindred and standing up against issues that affected the communities his friends and family lived in. He did all these things as a citizen of America. The same America where a majority of the people oppressed him to begin with. The same America where tons of folks rose up against his principles and his stand for freedom, saying that he wasn't worthy of the same rights as his white neighbors.
Granted, there was another half of America that wasn't busy hating black people so much they had to hurt them. And for those folks, I'd hang an American flag in honor of MLK day. But why hang something that means as much negative as it does positive? These days when I see the American flag, it conjures up images of dear President Bush blatanly lying on National public televsion, a government hand picked by that dear man who, over the next four years, is on a campaign to destroy everthing that doesn't make money for rich folks or uphold outdated Christian morals, 18 year old men and women defending America for the sake of a firstly fabricated war that's turned into a stockpile of unneccessary deaths, and a country where more than half of its citizens voted (AGAIN!) for a President that would put its country through this. How am I supposed to look at an American flag and feel pride about the aforementioned things?
I love my country. But do not expect me to love my government. If there was a seperate flag that represented Mr. Bush and his government, then those who supported our current political situation could mark themselves as such. I will hang an American flag in support of my beautiful and diverse country, for my pride in the peaceful history and democratic systems of this enormous continent, for free speech, for privacy and for my ability to write this blog without being shot for publishing propoganda against my country. As for right now, though, with all its negative meaning, I cannot conjure up a positive, sentimental feeling towards the red, white and blue.
Consequently, if we're going to celebrate a holiday...let's celebrate the actual reason for the holiday, rather than finding another excuse to hang the American flag that right now represents support for the government rather than its people. We're celebrating MLK day, not support America's government day. MLK is the one who gained the freedoms...not the government. He's the one who had the ideas...not the government. Our great leaders always take the credit for other people's actions. I say we give Mr. King all the credit by finding a symbol that represents only him...only his achievements...only his contribution to this country. How about a flag with a picture of him on it? If MLK had the right to pick a symbol to celebrate his life and ideas, do you really think he'd pick the American flag to represent them? C'mon America...let's celebrate the individuals who made our country whole, not the country that is making our individuals disappear!
Sunday, January 23, 2005
stall wisdom
Let's just say I'm thankful for my man having a fatter wallet than mine. By no means does it bulge outrageously from his rear, but it contains a few more spendable items than my "empty, tumbleweed blowin' across the road if you take a look down in it" wallet.
In the wake of my low funds, I've been staying home, hoarding my gas and pretending I have important things to do. Yes! I'll check my email for the hundredth time! And, have I shaved in the last couple of days? How about drinking another cup of coffee? The fire needs more tending, so I guess I'll sit here and make sure the flame doesn't go out. I keep telling myself that important famous people shave their legs and check their email too. The only difference between them and me is that they do those things in 20 minutes and I have the leisure of lathering up, checking my email, shaving my right leg, checking my email, lathering the left leg...and so on. When you get right down to it, it's a tough, jobless life I lead.
So just about the time I think my life has turned into a sock drawer color-coding hell, my man walks in the door and offers to buy dinner...out. It's been days since I've left the house for anything other than an interview and the occasional "I'll buy if you fly" errand for my folks. I was at the point of annoying myself so badly, that I was ready to start sleeping for a living just to get away from my attitude.
I accepted my man's invitation to dinner so readily and dressed so glamourously, you'd think I was one of those important famous people that could shave in 20 minutes flat. We set off to indulge in our new food fetish: hot and sour soup with a side of rice. I crave the stuff so badly now because it not only burns the roof of your mouth off, but we can both walk away with full bellies for a grand total of under $5!
We left the restaurant with our sights set on a big, sweating pint glass full of whatever's on special, of course. Promptly getting a buzz (I'm 5'1", 105 lbs. and my tolerance mimicks one of a two year old) from half of that pint glass, I excused myself to the bathroom. Aaaahhh, the ever beautiful bar bathroom that plagues the land of drinkers and daters and druggies and people who can't figure out how to flush. As I'm zipping up and flushing the toilet with the tip of my cowboy boot, I glance around at my stall full of Johnny loves Suzie's, Bush sucks slogans of one beautiful form or another and the ever expected new age lofty stuff I can never understand. There was, however, one sharpie owner that had taken some time to come up with worthwhile stall literature. She had quoted an honorable man of our history, obviously taking into account that half-drunk chicks like myself were going to take it to heart.
By the time I got back to my seat, I forgot the quote and which famous ex-president it came from, but for the half second I stood there contemplating it, my whole attitude changed. I rummaged through my purse (disappointed by my lack of a permanent writing utensil) in hopes that I could spontaneously come up with a quote that would change people's lives forever. This wasn't my first brush with loo wisdom, but it sure as hell put my mundane and somewhat annoying past couple of days into perspective. It was just what I needed.
I spent so long in the bathroom, floored by this quote, that when I returned to get trashed on the last half of my one beer, my man asked if everything was ok down there. "Yeah," I answered, instead of standing on the bar shouting... OF COURSE I'M OK! I WAS JUST LIBERATED BY THE BATHROOM STALL!
In the wake of my low funds, I've been staying home, hoarding my gas and pretending I have important things to do. Yes! I'll check my email for the hundredth time! And, have I shaved in the last couple of days? How about drinking another cup of coffee? The fire needs more tending, so I guess I'll sit here and make sure the flame doesn't go out. I keep telling myself that important famous people shave their legs and check their email too. The only difference between them and me is that they do those things in 20 minutes and I have the leisure of lathering up, checking my email, shaving my right leg, checking my email, lathering the left leg...and so on. When you get right down to it, it's a tough, jobless life I lead.
So just about the time I think my life has turned into a sock drawer color-coding hell, my man walks in the door and offers to buy dinner...out. It's been days since I've left the house for anything other than an interview and the occasional "I'll buy if you fly" errand for my folks. I was at the point of annoying myself so badly, that I was ready to start sleeping for a living just to get away from my attitude.
I accepted my man's invitation to dinner so readily and dressed so glamourously, you'd think I was one of those important famous people that could shave in 20 minutes flat. We set off to indulge in our new food fetish: hot and sour soup with a side of rice. I crave the stuff so badly now because it not only burns the roof of your mouth off, but we can both walk away with full bellies for a grand total of under $5!
We left the restaurant with our sights set on a big, sweating pint glass full of whatever's on special, of course. Promptly getting a buzz (I'm 5'1", 105 lbs. and my tolerance mimicks one of a two year old) from half of that pint glass, I excused myself to the bathroom. Aaaahhh, the ever beautiful bar bathroom that plagues the land of drinkers and daters and druggies and people who can't figure out how to flush. As I'm zipping up and flushing the toilet with the tip of my cowboy boot, I glance around at my stall full of Johnny loves Suzie's, Bush sucks slogans of one beautiful form or another and the ever expected new age lofty stuff I can never understand. There was, however, one sharpie owner that had taken some time to come up with worthwhile stall literature. She had quoted an honorable man of our history, obviously taking into account that half-drunk chicks like myself were going to take it to heart.
By the time I got back to my seat, I forgot the quote and which famous ex-president it came from, but for the half second I stood there contemplating it, my whole attitude changed. I rummaged through my purse (disappointed by my lack of a permanent writing utensil) in hopes that I could spontaneously come up with a quote that would change people's lives forever. This wasn't my first brush with loo wisdom, but it sure as hell put my mundane and somewhat annoying past couple of days into perspective. It was just what I needed.
I spent so long in the bathroom, floored by this quote, that when I returned to get trashed on the last half of my one beer, my man asked if everything was ok down there. "Yeah," I answered, instead of standing on the bar shouting... OF COURSE I'M OK! I WAS JUST LIBERATED BY THE BATHROOM STALL!
Friday, January 21, 2005
what inspiration?
As of late, I've been waking up with absolutely no idea what my day holds. I'm jobless, I'm broke...$37 in the bank broke...and living with my parents until I can so cliche-like "get on my feet again." I am job hunting fairly successfully...each resume I've submitted has granted me an interview full of corporate lingo and dress codes. "What are your career goals for the next five years?" they ask. Gee, to win the lottery so I don't have to work for your company. Or maybe own a houseboat and travel down the mississippi like a rich Huck Finn. Or how about live in Spain, walk around in white linen, and have an affair with the extremely tan and attractive, accent laden gardener? Gimme a break. I'm 24...madly in love with my lifestyle of playing more than I work and unable to tell you what I'll eat for lunch, much less what I'll be doing career wise in 5 stinkin' years.
At one place, I was handed about 72 sheets of rules, some of which I'll mention here, because they're just too ridiculous to keep to myself:
*Hair should not be styled with outrageous clips, pigtails, messy ponytails or buns.
*No necklaces or bracelets, one ring per hand, worn on ring finger. (As if!!!! "Yes, client of mine, I am a respectable married woman...because all respectable people are married.")
*Underwear must be white. (I was in there yesterday and NO ONE was wearing pants you could see through. Must be a fetish of the bosses.)
*Breath must be fresh (carry mints).
*Men: no facial hair or sideburns.
*About 15 or so rules dedicated to a clean/pressed uniform and shoes.
These rules might not seem ridiculous to the average person, but to me, I feel like I just got stabbed with a blunt knife 48 times and it never really broke the skin. I'll be walking around bearing the bruises of the corporate world and if I ever undressed the person next to me, I'll find the same 48 bruises all over their body. Please, don't EVER show the client that you could be a real person. Just admit to them that you're a Stepford Wife and if they'd like to change your attitude, there's a control panel on your back, just above the waistline.
Where, may I ask, is the inspiration in a life like this. Everyone looks the same, acts the same, moves and smiles in exactly the same manner as the one next to him. No one ever thinks of dressing to impress, being just a bit different to stand out amongst the competition, living for someone to complement the necklace their dead grandmother left them in her will, sauntering down the hallway in their new fabulous heels, trimming thier moustache to impress the ladies, feeling attractive in their own punkish, hip, abnormal way, or just plain having lifelong aspirations to never apply for robotdom.
Now, if they want to hire me, I'm sure I'll take the job because right now, having money to pay bills is more important than wearing my black thong panties to work. I just hope that the big wig bosses of these corporate rule-making complexes go home and have the ability to get inspired from the same mundane outfits and attitudes they see every day. Because I'll be damned if I can get an ounce worth of positive, how to live my life like I want to inspiration from a place like that.
At one place, I was handed about 72 sheets of rules, some of which I'll mention here, because they're just too ridiculous to keep to myself:
*Hair should not be styled with outrageous clips, pigtails, messy ponytails or buns.
*No necklaces or bracelets, one ring per hand, worn on ring finger. (As if!!!! "Yes, client of mine, I am a respectable married woman...because all respectable people are married.")
*Underwear must be white. (I was in there yesterday and NO ONE was wearing pants you could see through. Must be a fetish of the bosses.)
*Breath must be fresh (carry mints).
*Men: no facial hair or sideburns.
*About 15 or so rules dedicated to a clean/pressed uniform and shoes.
These rules might not seem ridiculous to the average person, but to me, I feel like I just got stabbed with a blunt knife 48 times and it never really broke the skin. I'll be walking around bearing the bruises of the corporate world and if I ever undressed the person next to me, I'll find the same 48 bruises all over their body. Please, don't EVER show the client that you could be a real person. Just admit to them that you're a Stepford Wife and if they'd like to change your attitude, there's a control panel on your back, just above the waistline.
Where, may I ask, is the inspiration in a life like this. Everyone looks the same, acts the same, moves and smiles in exactly the same manner as the one next to him. No one ever thinks of dressing to impress, being just a bit different to stand out amongst the competition, living for someone to complement the necklace their dead grandmother left them in her will, sauntering down the hallway in their new fabulous heels, trimming thier moustache to impress the ladies, feeling attractive in their own punkish, hip, abnormal way, or just plain having lifelong aspirations to never apply for robotdom.
Now, if they want to hire me, I'm sure I'll take the job because right now, having money to pay bills is more important than wearing my black thong panties to work. I just hope that the big wig bosses of these corporate rule-making complexes go home and have the ability to get inspired from the same mundane outfits and attitudes they see every day. Because I'll be damned if I can get an ounce worth of positive, how to live my life like I want to inspiration from a place like that.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Identitiy Choice
I know...it sounds etherial and full of bong induced hippie metaphors, but after I finish describing my blog name "plane angel," you too will find it less annoying.
This September I found myself on a plane to europe. I was shaking, my eyes were puffy from crying and I wanted off the plane so badly that I was ready to saw through the double panneled window with the little plastic knife they gave me in my unpalatable vegetarian lump of junk. Ready to address one of my biggest fears, I boarded the plane...alone...and ventured into what I had conjured up to be a month long abyss of roman barbarians and rude parisians with oogling eyes and wandering hands. I looked awful. My palms and pits were sweaty and I had a look of fear on my face like I knew the plane was ending up in the Atlantic. I kept telling myself that I had planned this trip for a good time, memories, pictures to show the grandkids, and maybe a chance to ride a moped like Amelie. I'm supposed to be excited, right?
So there's me by the window, an empty seat in the middle, and the most normal looking 9-5, blue-suit-wearing, comb over business man I've ever seen. We exchanged pleasantries, he assured me the pilot would try his best to keep us out of the ocean and I assured him that, yes, I would be careful traveling through europe alone. Then, in walks the middle seat taker...smelling like he was fresh out of the airport dumpster. I conjured up this image of him waiting at baggage claim for his stolen grocery cart full of the things he needed to succeed as a homeless man in Paris. How did he afford the flight, I wonder? He smiled that polite "I'm sitting beside you for the next eight hours" smile, and closed his eyes for the following three.
I felt movement next to me, so I pulled my nose out of the Paris guidebook I was reading for the hundredth time (trying to make sure I knew how to use the metro!) to smile quickly at my dumpster diving neighbor. He smiled back, with a face full of folding wrinkles and a mouth that boasted the cutest gap between his two front teeth. Next thing I know, he grabs the guidebook out of my hand and points directly to the 14th arrondisement saying, "That is my family, there!" His English was not so good and spoken in an accent that pulled from his French, Italian and Hebrew background. Come to find out, he was no homeless man, but a world traveler who spoke eight languages, had homes in three countries and was on his way to Paris to visit grandchildren for the Jewish High Holy Days. "You come eat with my family. I give you directions to 14th arrondisement. We eat, sing, dance. My nephew show you tour around Paris." We were instant friends.
After some small talk, he leaned so far over me to look out the window, I thought I would have to share my seat with him (this was my very first introduction into the lack of personal space I'd recieve all over Europe). He started pointing wildly at the sunset and its different colors saying "There! See! Above the colors are angels!" Over the next twenty minutes, he explained to me that once you reach a certain elevation in the sky, you can see all the angels. To get me to understand this, he was drawing on paper, moving his hands, trying words in English that didn't quite get his point across. He was so passionate about telling me this, that he must have been mimicking Albert Einstein on the brink of discovery. His breath quickened, his eyes widened. And at that time, I needed comfort in something, so I let him tell me about the beautiful angels that were flying just above our plane, guiding our way.
I don't know what it was about that man, but he gave me exactly the story I needed, delivered in the sweet poetic prose of his broken English. I carried him and his angles with me throughout my trip and on into my daily life. If he could believe that intensely in the angels above our plane, then I could believe in the strength of my own desires to make it through my trip. I called him my plane angel and think about him quite often. May his angels still guide him on all his journeys.
This September I found myself on a plane to europe. I was shaking, my eyes were puffy from crying and I wanted off the plane so badly that I was ready to saw through the double panneled window with the little plastic knife they gave me in my unpalatable vegetarian lump of junk. Ready to address one of my biggest fears, I boarded the plane...alone...and ventured into what I had conjured up to be a month long abyss of roman barbarians and rude parisians with oogling eyes and wandering hands. I looked awful. My palms and pits were sweaty and I had a look of fear on my face like I knew the plane was ending up in the Atlantic. I kept telling myself that I had planned this trip for a good time, memories, pictures to show the grandkids, and maybe a chance to ride a moped like Amelie. I'm supposed to be excited, right?
So there's me by the window, an empty seat in the middle, and the most normal looking 9-5, blue-suit-wearing, comb over business man I've ever seen. We exchanged pleasantries, he assured me the pilot would try his best to keep us out of the ocean and I assured him that, yes, I would be careful traveling through europe alone. Then, in walks the middle seat taker...smelling like he was fresh out of the airport dumpster. I conjured up this image of him waiting at baggage claim for his stolen grocery cart full of the things he needed to succeed as a homeless man in Paris. How did he afford the flight, I wonder? He smiled that polite "I'm sitting beside you for the next eight hours" smile, and closed his eyes for the following three.
I felt movement next to me, so I pulled my nose out of the Paris guidebook I was reading for the hundredth time (trying to make sure I knew how to use the metro!) to smile quickly at my dumpster diving neighbor. He smiled back, with a face full of folding wrinkles and a mouth that boasted the cutest gap between his two front teeth. Next thing I know, he grabs the guidebook out of my hand and points directly to the 14th arrondisement saying, "That is my family, there!" His English was not so good and spoken in an accent that pulled from his French, Italian and Hebrew background. Come to find out, he was no homeless man, but a world traveler who spoke eight languages, had homes in three countries and was on his way to Paris to visit grandchildren for the Jewish High Holy Days. "You come eat with my family. I give you directions to 14th arrondisement. We eat, sing, dance. My nephew show you tour around Paris." We were instant friends.
After some small talk, he leaned so far over me to look out the window, I thought I would have to share my seat with him (this was my very first introduction into the lack of personal space I'd recieve all over Europe). He started pointing wildly at the sunset and its different colors saying "There! See! Above the colors are angels!" Over the next twenty minutes, he explained to me that once you reach a certain elevation in the sky, you can see all the angels. To get me to understand this, he was drawing on paper, moving his hands, trying words in English that didn't quite get his point across. He was so passionate about telling me this, that he must have been mimicking Albert Einstein on the brink of discovery. His breath quickened, his eyes widened. And at that time, I needed comfort in something, so I let him tell me about the beautiful angels that were flying just above our plane, guiding our way.
I don't know what it was about that man, but he gave me exactly the story I needed, delivered in the sweet poetic prose of his broken English. I carried him and his angles with me throughout my trip and on into my daily life. If he could believe that intensely in the angels above our plane, then I could believe in the strength of my own desires to make it through my trip. I called him my plane angel and think about him quite often. May his angels still guide him on all his journeys.
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