I was doing some research yesterday and came across Samantha Brick, a writer for the UK's Daily Mail. It seems that Ms. Brick wrote an article on Tuesday entitled "Why Women Hate Me for Being Beautiful" that became an internet sensation which generated more than a million tweets and caused several of the newspapers I looked at to close down their comment section.
According to Ms. Brick, her physical attractiveness has cost her jobs, friends and created considerable tension in social situations--that is, if her employers, friends and social contacts were women. The men, it would seem, adore Ms. Brick and their open admiration has garnered her drinks, great service and the animosity of, it would appear, every woman she has ever had contact with. Even her friends have a problem with her attractiveness: "And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be bridesmaid."
Predictably, most of the comments I saw had to do with the readers' opinions of Ms. Brick's beauty, or for the most part, the lack thereof. Anyone who wrote this article would be marked as arrogant but she might have achieved grudging agreement for her comments if she had the looks to back them up. Instead, she comes across as a delusional, ordinary-looking woman with an over-achieving ego.
I personally don't dispute the idea that gorgeous people may get treated in ways they find unacceptable or uncomfortable so my biggest beef with her article is her failure to back up her claims with anything other than her own personal experiences--experiences that are weak and naturally biased. For example, she describes a time she was out walking and waved at a neighbor who was driving by. The neighbor deliberately snubbed her Brick says and the conclusion Brick came to? She was jealous of Brick's looks.
I can't even count the number of times I failed to see someone I knew out walking while I drove by and didn't notice till they called it to my attention later on. Sometimes I am deep in thought as I drive, sometimes I am singing, and sometimes, I am actually paying attention to my driving while I'm in my vehicle.
But I can't possibly understand what Brick has gone through; though she is only 5 years younger than me, I am exactly the kind of woman she describes as being hostile to her: older, heavier, and "with the bloom beginning to fade." I just don't have the experience she has had to feel sympathy or compassion. And that so does not bother me. I've been a bridesmaid four times.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Shapewear is Evil
I probably shouldn't have eaten dinner before I went shopping for shapewear the other day. For the uninitiated, shapewear is specialized underwear whose main purpose in life is to mold a person's body into a more attractive shape using strategically placed control panels of lycra and spandex. Used appropriately (meaning, if you get the right size and type for your figure), shapewear smooths out unflattering bulges, accentuates curves (in the right places) and provides a nice line beneath your clothing.
Did I mention: If you get the right size?
Now, I support a thin woman's right to purchase shapewear; after all, they deserve a smoother line, too, but what I can't understand is why every store I have gone to in the last two weeks (5 of them) has tons of smaller sizes and very, very few of the larger. Sears at Ala Moana had RACKS of the stuff in preparation for prom season and though there were dozens of 34B in different styles and colors, there were maybe a total of five in sizes that an ample woman could wear. One would think that the larger woman is the target audience here. One would think.
I need a beige colored piece to wear under my chorus costume. We are going to competition next month and any other color would be very visible under the thin purple material of our tops. Naturally, I have black, but not beige. I thought I'd lucked out when I saw the display at Sears and though I was disappointed at the lack of selection in my size, I did find two that I thought would work.
Did I mention that shapewear also comes in different "controls?" Light control is when you need a bit of a tuck, medium is for slightly stubborn bulges and firm is for those who have come to realize that gravity is not a friend. My first choice was just all wrong--it was too sheer on top and wasn't long enough for me. The second choice was, unbeknownst to me, firm control.
If I had been thinking more clearly, I would have pulled it up from the bottom (as it should be), rather than attempt to make an over-the-head entry. If you can imagine about 783 thick, heavy-duty rubber bands stretched around your head, holding your arms against your face, you have begun to understand the evil that is shapewear.
I was fortunate that my right arm was extended at a slightly higher angle than my left; by bending my wrist as far downward as I could go, I managed to grasp the material and gave it a good yank. I'm glad I wasn't wearing earrings that night.
Shapewear 2. Judy 0.
Did I mention: If you get the right size?
Now, I support a thin woman's right to purchase shapewear; after all, they deserve a smoother line, too, but what I can't understand is why every store I have gone to in the last two weeks (5 of them) has tons of smaller sizes and very, very few of the larger. Sears at Ala Moana had RACKS of the stuff in preparation for prom season and though there were dozens of 34B in different styles and colors, there were maybe a total of five in sizes that an ample woman could wear. One would think that the larger woman is the target audience here. One would think.
I need a beige colored piece to wear under my chorus costume. We are going to competition next month and any other color would be very visible under the thin purple material of our tops. Naturally, I have black, but not beige. I thought I'd lucked out when I saw the display at Sears and though I was disappointed at the lack of selection in my size, I did find two that I thought would work.
Did I mention that shapewear also comes in different "controls?" Light control is when you need a bit of a tuck, medium is for slightly stubborn bulges and firm is for those who have come to realize that gravity is not a friend. My first choice was just all wrong--it was too sheer on top and wasn't long enough for me. The second choice was, unbeknownst to me, firm control.
If I had been thinking more clearly, I would have pulled it up from the bottom (as it should be), rather than attempt to make an over-the-head entry. If you can imagine about 783 thick, heavy-duty rubber bands stretched around your head, holding your arms against your face, you have begun to understand the evil that is shapewear.
I was fortunate that my right arm was extended at a slightly higher angle than my left; by bending my wrist as far downward as I could go, I managed to grasp the material and gave it a good yank. I'm glad I wasn't wearing earrings that night.
Shapewear 2. Judy 0.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Li Hing Who?
Whenever we have a few minutes to spare, I like to play a 20-question type game with my students. I'll give them a category (animal, person, place, etc.) and they try to figure it out by asking me questions that I can answer with a "yes" or "no". They can ask as many questions as they want but I do time them to see which class can come up with the answer in the shortest amount of time.
My current students are seniors and the majority of them had me when they were sophomores so the game is very familiar to them. Some of them have gotten significantly better at it, too; when they were sophs, the questions tended to repeat because they weren't listening closely to each other and some of the questions were not answerable by a yes or no. They've learned to tighten up the questions and that's vastly improved their guessing times.
Yesterday our three words were: tadpole, flash drive and li hing mui (the sweet-salty, dried plum treat of Chinese extraction). I thought tadpole would be the hardest but the fastest time was an incredible 33 seconds. Flash drive took something like 22 seconds. Li hing mui took anywhere from 2 minutes to 4 minutes and 5 seconds--even though they quickly narrowed it down to a Chinese snack made of some kind of fruit. Why the big time discrepancy?
It seems that this generation of students just aren't big fans of the snacks my sibs and friends scarfed up on a regular basis. For them, "li hing" is the red powder that flavors everything from cake to chocolate covered gummy bears. There is a total disconnect between the spice mixture and the dried plums they traditionally coat in oh, so many mouth-watering ways.
My children are no different. None of them want to gnaw the dried plum flesh from the seeds while their mouths salivate uncontrollably and their eyes just can't help but wink rapidly in response to the burst of salty goodness on their tongues. Even the moist and succulent wiles of a juicy-type li hing mui doesn't tempt them. The wretches.
A and T don't eat arare, AKA mochi crunch, AKA the rice cracker. C will eat it occasionally because he is a fan of crunchy snacks, but I can't think of any snack that any of them eat because it tastes good AND because there is a nostalgic appeal. For instance, I love arare but I'm not always sure if it's because it tastes so good or because I remember buying little waxed packets of them for 10 cents from a tiny store on the corner, just a block away from the garage where I took hula lessons on Tuesday afternoons. The proprietor made his own li hing mui, too; they came 3 to a packet for 15 cents and they were some of the tenderest and tastiest seeds I can remember eating. On the way home from our lesson, the other neighborhood girls and I always stopped off for a packet or two. It was just one more reason to look forward to Tuesday afternoons.
Well, arare and li hing mui may cost way more than 10 cents today and my hula days are long behind me; but the memories of my old neighborhood, a few prized treats and the friends who shared them with me are still fresh and sharp; they are the burst of juice from a lemon stuck full of li hing treasure. Try that for a sore throat!
My current students are seniors and the majority of them had me when they were sophomores so the game is very familiar to them. Some of them have gotten significantly better at it, too; when they were sophs, the questions tended to repeat because they weren't listening closely to each other and some of the questions were not answerable by a yes or no. They've learned to tighten up the questions and that's vastly improved their guessing times.
Yesterday our three words were: tadpole, flash drive and li hing mui (the sweet-salty, dried plum treat of Chinese extraction). I thought tadpole would be the hardest but the fastest time was an incredible 33 seconds. Flash drive took something like 22 seconds. Li hing mui took anywhere from 2 minutes to 4 minutes and 5 seconds--even though they quickly narrowed it down to a Chinese snack made of some kind of fruit. Why the big time discrepancy?
It seems that this generation of students just aren't big fans of the snacks my sibs and friends scarfed up on a regular basis. For them, "li hing" is the red powder that flavors everything from cake to chocolate covered gummy bears. There is a total disconnect between the spice mixture and the dried plums they traditionally coat in oh, so many mouth-watering ways.
My children are no different. None of them want to gnaw the dried plum flesh from the seeds while their mouths salivate uncontrollably and their eyes just can't help but wink rapidly in response to the burst of salty goodness on their tongues. Even the moist and succulent wiles of a juicy-type li hing mui doesn't tempt them. The wretches.
A and T don't eat arare, AKA mochi crunch, AKA the rice cracker. C will eat it occasionally because he is a fan of crunchy snacks, but I can't think of any snack that any of them eat because it tastes good AND because there is a nostalgic appeal. For instance, I love arare but I'm not always sure if it's because it tastes so good or because I remember buying little waxed packets of them for 10 cents from a tiny store on the corner, just a block away from the garage where I took hula lessons on Tuesday afternoons. The proprietor made his own li hing mui, too; they came 3 to a packet for 15 cents and they were some of the tenderest and tastiest seeds I can remember eating. On the way home from our lesson, the other neighborhood girls and I always stopped off for a packet or two. It was just one more reason to look forward to Tuesday afternoons.
Well, arare and li hing mui may cost way more than 10 cents today and my hula days are long behind me; but the memories of my old neighborhood, a few prized treats and the friends who shared them with me are still fresh and sharp; they are the burst of juice from a lemon stuck full of li hing treasure. Try that for a sore throat!
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A Cat's Tale
My neighbor has an orange and white tabby cat and every time I see it, I think of Tiger, the first cat my family ever "owned." Tiger actually started off with one of our neighbors; back then, spaying and neutering cats were just not commonly done so it was no surprise that this particular family had an overabundance of felines patrolling their property. The mother belonged to them but the kittens, well, they just seemed to belong to everybody.
Tiger wandered over to our yard a time or two and after several surreptitious feedings on our part, he decided to hang around. Mom wasn't thrilled with the prospect; she was not particularly big on animals back then and I think she was also uncomfortable about whether or not keeping Tiger violated our rental agreement--it specified "no dogs" but the atmosphere didn't exactly feel welcoming toward "non-dog" creatures either.
Anyway, Tiger grew from a scrawny, affectionate kitten into a muscular, affection cat with the typical big-headed physique of the average unneutered tom. And like all sexually mature males, it was not long till he was off looking for action. He would disappear for a day or two and return with gouges on the top of his head and teeth marks in his ears. That's about when one of the feral cats in the neighborhood went into heat.
There used to be a big empty lot behind our house and for the next week or so, it was a common sight to see Tiger and every other tom cat in the vicinity fighting for the opportunity to win the favor of the lady in question, an ordinary black cat with yellow eyes and a wild, frightened expression. Their warning wails and battle cries, their ferocious attacks and determined chases stirred up the field and peace throughout the days and nights. Then it was over. Tiger was triumphant and his displays of, uh, affection, were highly public and highly vocal.
This is where it gets interesting. At mealtimes, Tiger was suddenly disinterested; rather than scarfing his food as usual, he would sniff it and sit back. As soon as we were out of sight, he'd meow and the little black female would scurry out from under the house and hastily gulp down his meal. It happened repeatedly over the next few weeks as the female grew significantly heavier and rounder.
She disappeared and we assumed she was hiding out somewhere to have the kittens. Tiger went back to eating his meals and we thought things were back to normal. We thought. A few weeks later, we saw Tiger sitting in the middle of the field. He said, "mrow, mrow, mrow," and out of the bushes came 5 kittens--all were black with orange and white splotches. I will never forget my mother's tone when he started leading them to our house; all she said was, "Oh, no," but the dread, disbelief, horror, resignation she put into those two words!
When we weren't around, the kittens would sleep in his bed and eat his food. Two of the kittens disappeared not long afterwards but three stuck around; one became very tame, one was moderately so and the other was nearly as wild as his mother. Mom had to put her foot down on this one; a single cat was doable but not four. The kittens were caged and dropped off at the Humane Society.
It was clear to me that Tiger was looking for them. He left some of his food at mealtimes, followed us around and meowed incessantly. And, as if things could not get more unbelievable, he returned one day with a young cat--it was one of the two who had not stuck around with its siblings before! This cat had been wild and untouchable previously but became affectionate and people-friendly, seemingly overnight, upon her return. A few days after it became obvious that we were going to let her stay, Tiger left. We never saw him again.
I named his daughter Squeaky because of her strangely high-pitched vocalizations. She was with us for about a year; she mated once during that time period and had two stillborn offspring. Not long after, she left and we never saw her again either.
Since all of our cats lived outdoors, it is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility that they were, unbeknownst to us, killed by a car or something, but the timing of their departures always made me wonder; Tiger brought home his offspring to us twice and left immediately after Squeaky was accepted. Squeaky left as soon as she had her babies. It's as though they knew their time with us was coming to an end and they wanted to leave us with a replacement. A fanciful thought perhaps, but anyone who has ever had a cat knows that they are the uncanniest of creatures; what they do and think goes beyond our ability to understand.
Tiger wandered over to our yard a time or two and after several surreptitious feedings on our part, he decided to hang around. Mom wasn't thrilled with the prospect; she was not particularly big on animals back then and I think she was also uncomfortable about whether or not keeping Tiger violated our rental agreement--it specified "no dogs" but the atmosphere didn't exactly feel welcoming toward "non-dog" creatures either.
Anyway, Tiger grew from a scrawny, affectionate kitten into a muscular, affection cat with the typical big-headed physique of the average unneutered tom. And like all sexually mature males, it was not long till he was off looking for action. He would disappear for a day or two and return with gouges on the top of his head and teeth marks in his ears. That's about when one of the feral cats in the neighborhood went into heat.
There used to be a big empty lot behind our house and for the next week or so, it was a common sight to see Tiger and every other tom cat in the vicinity fighting for the opportunity to win the favor of the lady in question, an ordinary black cat with yellow eyes and a wild, frightened expression. Their warning wails and battle cries, their ferocious attacks and determined chases stirred up the field and peace throughout the days and nights. Then it was over. Tiger was triumphant and his displays of, uh, affection, were highly public and highly vocal.
This is where it gets interesting. At mealtimes, Tiger was suddenly disinterested; rather than scarfing his food as usual, he would sniff it and sit back. As soon as we were out of sight, he'd meow and the little black female would scurry out from under the house and hastily gulp down his meal. It happened repeatedly over the next few weeks as the female grew significantly heavier and rounder.
She disappeared and we assumed she was hiding out somewhere to have the kittens. Tiger went back to eating his meals and we thought things were back to normal. We thought. A few weeks later, we saw Tiger sitting in the middle of the field. He said, "mrow, mrow, mrow," and out of the bushes came 5 kittens--all were black with orange and white splotches. I will never forget my mother's tone when he started leading them to our house; all she said was, "Oh, no," but the dread, disbelief, horror, resignation she put into those two words!
When we weren't around, the kittens would sleep in his bed and eat his food. Two of the kittens disappeared not long afterwards but three stuck around; one became very tame, one was moderately so and the other was nearly as wild as his mother. Mom had to put her foot down on this one; a single cat was doable but not four. The kittens were caged and dropped off at the Humane Society.
It was clear to me that Tiger was looking for them. He left some of his food at mealtimes, followed us around and meowed incessantly. And, as if things could not get more unbelievable, he returned one day with a young cat--it was one of the two who had not stuck around with its siblings before! This cat had been wild and untouchable previously but became affectionate and people-friendly, seemingly overnight, upon her return. A few days after it became obvious that we were going to let her stay, Tiger left. We never saw him again.
I named his daughter Squeaky because of her strangely high-pitched vocalizations. She was with us for about a year; she mated once during that time period and had two stillborn offspring. Not long after, she left and we never saw her again either.
Since all of our cats lived outdoors, it is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility that they were, unbeknownst to us, killed by a car or something, but the timing of their departures always made me wonder; Tiger brought home his offspring to us twice and left immediately after Squeaky was accepted. Squeaky left as soon as she had her babies. It's as though they knew their time with us was coming to an end and they wanted to leave us with a replacement. A fanciful thought perhaps, but anyone who has ever had a cat knows that they are the uncanniest of creatures; what they do and think goes beyond our ability to understand.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
February Doldrums
No, I haven't forgotten you. Nor have I fallen off the face of the earth. It seems I have been temporarily (I hope!) abandoned by my Muse. Inspiration has been eluding me despite a few experiences that had definite blog-worthy potential: a couple of good meals at neighborhood restaurants, encounters with stupid people, humorous conversations around the dinner table, and so forth. I blame the windy and cold (for Hawaii) weather; as I grow increasingly more in tune with my turtles, I find that the cooler, shorter days make concentration downright difficult. The desire to burrow under the covers and wait for spring is pretty darn tempting right now. Or maybe it's just the month of February. I seem to remember having this same problem last year. So give me a couple of weeks and hopefully, I'll be back. :-)
Friday, January 6, 2012
Our Warrior Rests
I got really busy after my last post but I figured I'd have lots of things to write about in the upcoming months; the holiday season is always good for a blog or two and this past Thanksgiving, T was a member of the All-State Marching Band that was invited to march in the Macy's Day Parade. The DC/NYC trip with my family and 700+ band members and their families in all its chaotic glory would have garnered blog-worthy fodder that would easily have taken me into the new year and, possibly, beyond.
Then in early December, my SIL, Jean, passed away and everything seemed to stop. Perhaps her passing should not have been a shock; she had triple negative breast cancer that had metastasized to her liver and bones. But Jean's strength, her tenacity and determination to beat this damn disease had me convinced that if anyone could get through this, it would be her. She fought hard and with dignity for just over a year and for those of us who are so far away, the news that her treatment was no longer working seemed to come from nowhere.
I will always be grateful that I got to see her one more time. Her strength was evident even then; she was sitting upright in bed, her eyes alert and aware; there was no anger there, no bitterness, no worry. Just a strong sense of peace and acceptance and what got to me the most, genuine concern for MY health and well-being. I told her I loved her but I hope she also sensed how much I appreciated her; she was my friend, the mother of my much-loved nieces and the perfect person for my brother. She was his partner in every way and I know he is more complete because she was in his life.
It took me a long time to decide to write this entry--not because I did not want to honor Jean, but because I couldn't imagine being able to adequately combine our sense of sadness for losing her with our sense of joy for having had her in our lives. We will always miss you, Jean, but in so many ways you are still with us; in the holiday you loved so much, the food you made, and in the character you instilled in your children.
Then in early December, my SIL, Jean, passed away and everything seemed to stop. Perhaps her passing should not have been a shock; she had triple negative breast cancer that had metastasized to her liver and bones. But Jean's strength, her tenacity and determination to beat this damn disease had me convinced that if anyone could get through this, it would be her. She fought hard and with dignity for just over a year and for those of us who are so far away, the news that her treatment was no longer working seemed to come from nowhere.
I will always be grateful that I got to see her one more time. Her strength was evident even then; she was sitting upright in bed, her eyes alert and aware; there was no anger there, no bitterness, no worry. Just a strong sense of peace and acceptance and what got to me the most, genuine concern for MY health and well-being. I told her I loved her but I hope she also sensed how much I appreciated her; she was my friend, the mother of my much-loved nieces and the perfect person for my brother. She was his partner in every way and I know he is more complete because she was in his life.
It took me a long time to decide to write this entry--not because I did not want to honor Jean, but because I couldn't imagine being able to adequately combine our sense of sadness for losing her with our sense of joy for having had her in our lives. We will always miss you, Jean, but in so many ways you are still with us; in the holiday you loved so much, the food you made, and in the character you instilled in your children.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Wearing o' the Pink
 | |
| Mitchell Boyd, OL, #76 |
My mastectomy was just over a year ago and though I know that my body has been changed significantly, for the most part the surgery and its lingering aftereffects are no longer foremost on my mind. Since it's not exactly a going concern for me, I am always awkwardly surprised and amused to find it is for those who know me.
For example, my colleague JY and I don't cross paths as often as I would like, but when we do, she always asks how I am feeling, while very carefully avoiding any downward glance at my chest. I know what her intention is and I appreciate it but the so very pointed way she keeps her eyes fixed on my face actually makes me squirm more than if she just moved her eyes normally. It doesn't help that she is very petite and is normally at my chest level anyway.
The flip side of that are the people who think they are being subtle when they steal quick downward glances. Today I saw one of the ladies who subbed for me during my absence last year; she said hello to my face, stared at my chest for a second then said, "How ARE you?" I wish I could have thrown my voice to make my chest respond...
I never kept my health a secret so many of the current seniors were aware of the situation even though, at the time, they were not actually in my class. Some, however, were not. One of the oblivious ones asked if I intended to give blood at an upcoming blood drive:
"I can't right now."
"How come?"
"Because I had surgery within the past 12 months."
"What surgery?" From the other seniors present, "Shut up, stupid! You know which surgery; the one..." (accompanied by a wave of the hand in the general breast area)
"Ohhhh, THAT surgery..."
The juniors were sophomores at the time and since I was actually their teacher, they are the ones who were most affected by my procedure and subsequent 6-week absence. Whether it's because they were all in the know from the very start or simply because they are just a different breed (when compared to the seniors!), their concern and their many ways of expressing it has always felt natural and easy. JP would screech, "Boobies!" when she saw me and slap me a high five. She was the first to hug me as soon as she knew that it was not painful to do so. DM would say, "How are the girls, Miss?" They'd offer to carry things for me, pass things out, lift things. Even after I assured them I could do these things for myself.
I don't have the juniors for class this year but I still feel the same warm concern in the little things they do; popping their heads in during recess or passing time to yell hello, bringing me flowers on my birthday, writing little cards and leaving them on my desk for me to find. Yesterday, I received one of the sweetest tributes I have ever had. MB, an offensive lineman on our school's football team, showed me a brand-new pair of bright pink football cleats that he bought to wear for Breast Cancer Awareness month in October. Then he asked me to sign them.
A 200+ pound lineman wearing hot pink cleats for me. No other honor will ever replace this one.
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