It’s a warm sunny afternoon in 1996. We are wasting time before heading home in our rolled-up Catholic school skirts. I am an awkward flagpole at 13, with my oversized glasses, braces, and messy black hair. My friend Erica is cute and petite, with her Jennifer Aniston haircut, dyed light brown, with dimples, and growing into her new body quite nicely.
“Watch,” she instructs, as she walks next to me on the sidewalk. She sways her budding hips with confidence, and stares at a thirty-something man who is about to walk by us in the other direction. She catches his eye, and then she smiles. It wasn’t just any smile. It was like she had a secret that she was sure he wanted to know. At first the guy looked uncomfortable, but to my surprise, he started smiling back. Then she giggled and looked away as he passed by us.
“Wow!” I said. “How’d you do that?”
“It’s easy!” she said. “You should try it sometime.”
There was no way I was going to embarrass myself by trying that stunt. I was pretty sure I’d get nothing but a weird look in return. But I was amazed at how simple she made it seem.
This was just one of many times she tried to teach me the art of flirting. She encouraged me to get close to a guy I liked and make conversation with him. Once I had him in my clutches, she told me to smile and laugh at his jokes, act impressed by whatever he had to say. I would read all the “10 Ways to Get His Attention!” articles in seventeen magazine (number 5: Wear dangly earrings!). But to this day, I don’t think I ever mastered it.
I never managed to catch a man’s eye from across the room and have him approach me because he just had to talk to me. I never felt the confidence that Erica already had at such a young age. However, almost every guy I ever dated, including my husband, was my friend first, and I managed to win him over with personality alone. Once I’m in my comfort zone, I can pull out my own bag of tricks (i.e. humor, intelligence), and they don’t include flipping my hair over my shoulder. That’s how introverts work: from the inside.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
The "Ground Zero Mosque"
A seemingly endless procession of Muslim men and women are walking out of what will soon be the new mosque only a couple of blocks from Ground Zero. People holding signs have been standing outside the doors all week – supporters of the mosque, not protestors as I’d originally thought. One sign reads: America Supports All Faiths.
News reporters and their cameramen record the event. One of them is interviewing a Muslim woman who has just stepped out of the building. What’s going on? I’m not exactly sure. I’m just one of the many passersby who stopped to see what was going on as I was on my way to work this afternoon.
Police cars line the street. There is a tension in the air, like everyone is waiting for something to happen. Besides the occasional driver shouting obscenities at the crowd, though, everything seems to be under control for the moment.
Suddenly, I am transported back in time, feeling like I’m an onlooker in one of those black and white clips you might have seen in history class of when the first African-Americans are escorted out of school during the time of desegregation. We stand there. We watch. We wait.
After a few minutes I leave, not wanting to be late. However, I am left with that tense feeling, and I think about the mosque and all those people who just walked out of the building. How must they be feeling?
I can understand why people are against the mosque being built so close to where the World Trade Center buildings were. The events of 9/11 are still fresh in our minds, like a wound that reopens whenever one really thinks about it, especially for the families of the victims, and especially now that the anniversary is rolling around again. However, even these families are not all crying out in one united force in opposition to the mosque. Even they are divided on this subject.
Some people are outraged. Some people are scared. They believe terrorists will use this mosque as a type of headquarters to plan their next attack. But are we talking about terrorists, or are we talking about Muslims? We must remember that not every Muslim is a terrorist. Some Muslims really do just want to go to a mosque in order to practice their faith.
That being said, it must also be noted that Feisal Abdul Rauf could have decided to build a mosque anywhere in the city. So why, of all places, is he deciding to place it there? He had to have known that there would be controversy due to the location.
Despite the fact that this can be considered a very distasteful business move, we mustn’t forget that America was built on the premise of freedom. We may not always like what people say or do, but it’s still their right to do it. I don’t know why this specific location was chosen, but arguing about whether it’s right or wrong is a moot point. He bought the property fair and square, and he has the right to do what he wants with it. We don’t have to like it, but we’re going to have to accept it because that is what tolerance is all about.
The emotional reaction to the building of this mosque is exactly that: emotional. I’m not denying those emotions. People have expressed their views, both negative and positive, as is their right. However, in this touchy situation, we need to think with our heads instead of our hearts to realize that by opposing this mosque we may end up looking hypocritical, as well as inviting even more animosity from the Muslim community.
News reporters and their cameramen record the event. One of them is interviewing a Muslim woman who has just stepped out of the building. What’s going on? I’m not exactly sure. I’m just one of the many passersby who stopped to see what was going on as I was on my way to work this afternoon.
Police cars line the street. There is a tension in the air, like everyone is waiting for something to happen. Besides the occasional driver shouting obscenities at the crowd, though, everything seems to be under control for the moment.
Suddenly, I am transported back in time, feeling like I’m an onlooker in one of those black and white clips you might have seen in history class of when the first African-Americans are escorted out of school during the time of desegregation. We stand there. We watch. We wait.
After a few minutes I leave, not wanting to be late. However, I am left with that tense feeling, and I think about the mosque and all those people who just walked out of the building. How must they be feeling?
I can understand why people are against the mosque being built so close to where the World Trade Center buildings were. The events of 9/11 are still fresh in our minds, like a wound that reopens whenever one really thinks about it, especially for the families of the victims, and especially now that the anniversary is rolling around again. However, even these families are not all crying out in one united force in opposition to the mosque. Even they are divided on this subject.
Some people are outraged. Some people are scared. They believe terrorists will use this mosque as a type of headquarters to plan their next attack. But are we talking about terrorists, or are we talking about Muslims? We must remember that not every Muslim is a terrorist. Some Muslims really do just want to go to a mosque in order to practice their faith.
That being said, it must also be noted that Feisal Abdul Rauf could have decided to build a mosque anywhere in the city. So why, of all places, is he deciding to place it there? He had to have known that there would be controversy due to the location.
Despite the fact that this can be considered a very distasteful business move, we mustn’t forget that America was built on the premise of freedom. We may not always like what people say or do, but it’s still their right to do it. I don’t know why this specific location was chosen, but arguing about whether it’s right or wrong is a moot point. He bought the property fair and square, and he has the right to do what he wants with it. We don’t have to like it, but we’re going to have to accept it because that is what tolerance is all about.
The emotional reaction to the building of this mosque is exactly that: emotional. I’m not denying those emotions. People have expressed their views, both negative and positive, as is their right. However, in this touchy situation, we need to think with our heads instead of our hearts to realize that by opposing this mosque we may end up looking hypocritical, as well as inviting even more animosity from the Muslim community.
Drink Play F@#k: A short book review
I did a double take as I passed by this book at the bookstore. No, it wasn’t the immensely popular “Eat, Pray, Love”, but it sure looked a lot like it. If I hadn’t taken a closer look, it would’ve fooled me!
I immediately took a picture and sent it to my friend. I figured she wouldn’t be the only one to appreciate the irony, so I’ve decided to share it with you all as well.
I couldn’t help it. I bought the book “Drink Play F@#k” by Andrew Gottlieb. I had to know what this guy’s story was. Unfortunately, unlike “Eat Pray Love”, this tale is purely a fabrication. However, that doesn’t mean the book isn’t entertaining. Written by a comedian, it was overall an enjoyable read. Think ‘David Sedaris meets Elizabeth Gilbert’, and this book would be the end result.
The story begins with the protagonist’s wife divorcing him and promptly moving in with another man. Heartbroken, he sets off on a year long adventure where he decides to drink, play, and f@#k in Ireland, Las Vegas, and Thailand, respectively. Let’s just say he is trying to find himself as only a guy can.
With this type of scenario, I was expecting stories teeming with vulgar descriptions of one-night stands and ridiculous shows of masculinity, but I was pleasantly surprised. This Bob Sullivan character, as fictitious as he may be, is not such a bad guy after all. His story is amusing, and there are even a couple of lessons to be learned along the way. Anyone else care to give him a chance?
I immediately took a picture and sent it to my friend. I figured she wouldn’t be the only one to appreciate the irony, so I’ve decided to share it with you all as well.
I couldn’t help it. I bought the book “Drink Play F@#k” by Andrew Gottlieb. I had to know what this guy’s story was. Unfortunately, unlike “Eat Pray Love”, this tale is purely a fabrication. However, that doesn’t mean the book isn’t entertaining. Written by a comedian, it was overall an enjoyable read. Think ‘David Sedaris meets Elizabeth Gilbert’, and this book would be the end result.
The story begins with the protagonist’s wife divorcing him and promptly moving in with another man. Heartbroken, he sets off on a year long adventure where he decides to drink, play, and f@#k in Ireland, Las Vegas, and Thailand, respectively. Let’s just say he is trying to find himself as only a guy can.
With this type of scenario, I was expecting stories teeming with vulgar descriptions of one-night stands and ridiculous shows of masculinity, but I was pleasantly surprised. This Bob Sullivan character, as fictitious as he may be, is not such a bad guy after all. His story is amusing, and there are even a couple of lessons to be learned along the way. Anyone else care to give him a chance?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Case of the Endangered Angry White Man
Thousands of people have hailed Steve Slater as a hero. He’s the guy who did what so many of us wish we could do: curse out our customers, our bosses, basically anyone at work that treats us badly or disrespects us. When I first heard this story I admit that I felt a momentary surge of inspiration. He had me completely on his side until I saw his face as he walked out of jail.
“Wipe that smirk off your face!” I scolded him, as I watched him on television. After hearing how he had been treated by the passengers, how his mom was dying of cancer, how he was a recovering alcoholic, and how he momentarily lost his cool, as any one of us could, I expected to see some humility. Maybe even a smidgen of regret, but not this arrogant cockiness.
I suppose I imagined that, like any one of us, his euphoria would start to wear off as soon as he realized he was out of a job in these unfortunate economic times. Like any one of us, he might look back, analyze what he had done, and come to the conclusion that perhaps he did overreact, even if these passengers did deserve it. His own mother admits that he had a “small meltdown”. However, unlike any one of us, he now has a countrywide fan base that continues to grow. All this attention has clearly gone to his head.
However, the circumstances for his overnight fame were in his favor. I now pose this question to you: Would so many people be hailing this man and his impulsive actions if he were any race other than white? I highly doubt that thousands of people across America would be buying and wearing t-shirts that say “Free Pedro” or “Free Tyrone”. Not to mention the fact that we should all be praising Allah that this man was not an Arab, or else we would all be crying “Terrorist!”.
Most of us find this type of thinking difficult to admit as the truth. We all like to think of ourselves as perfect people who see each other as equals in every way, but unfortunately stereotypes do exist and we need to recognize them. If Steve were a black or Latino man, he probably would not be portrayed as a hero in all the newspapers. He might not be receiving as much publicity because “as we all know” minority men have a bad temper. Didn’t you know? That’s not news! But a white person losing his cool in such an extravagant way? That’s unheard of! Quick, make sure he makes the front page!
I can understand why he has quickly become the next American idol. He has appealed to the masses, the working class. Many of us know what it’s like to have to swallow your pride and smile in the face of a self-righteous customer in a country where the customer is always right. On August 10th, as America watched, read, or listened to the news, we all lived vicariously through his tirade. But let’s face it. If Steve were a woman, most of us would be blaming it on PMS.
“Wipe that smirk off your face!” I scolded him, as I watched him on television. After hearing how he had been treated by the passengers, how his mom was dying of cancer, how he was a recovering alcoholic, and how he momentarily lost his cool, as any one of us could, I expected to see some humility. Maybe even a smidgen of regret, but not this arrogant cockiness.
I suppose I imagined that, like any one of us, his euphoria would start to wear off as soon as he realized he was out of a job in these unfortunate economic times. Like any one of us, he might look back, analyze what he had done, and come to the conclusion that perhaps he did overreact, even if these passengers did deserve it. His own mother admits that he had a “small meltdown”. However, unlike any one of us, he now has a countrywide fan base that continues to grow. All this attention has clearly gone to his head.
However, the circumstances for his overnight fame were in his favor. I now pose this question to you: Would so many people be hailing this man and his impulsive actions if he were any race other than white? I highly doubt that thousands of people across America would be buying and wearing t-shirts that say “Free Pedro” or “Free Tyrone”. Not to mention the fact that we should all be praising Allah that this man was not an Arab, or else we would all be crying “Terrorist!”.
Most of us find this type of thinking difficult to admit as the truth. We all like to think of ourselves as perfect people who see each other as equals in every way, but unfortunately stereotypes do exist and we need to recognize them. If Steve were a black or Latino man, he probably would not be portrayed as a hero in all the newspapers. He might not be receiving as much publicity because “as we all know” minority men have a bad temper. Didn’t you know? That’s not news! But a white person losing his cool in such an extravagant way? That’s unheard of! Quick, make sure he makes the front page!
I can understand why he has quickly become the next American idol. He has appealed to the masses, the working class. Many of us know what it’s like to have to swallow your pride and smile in the face of a self-righteous customer in a country where the customer is always right. On August 10th, as America watched, read, or listened to the news, we all lived vicariously through his tirade. But let’s face it. If Steve were a woman, most of us would be blaming it on PMS.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Dealing with the Homeless
I always feel uncomfortable whenever a homeless person approaches. My first inclination is to give them money, but it’s hard to do so when I don’t know if I will be feeding their vice or feeding their stomach. Some people give them food, and then they get mad because they want money. This upsets me because I feel like if they were really hungry and homeless, they would appreciate any food they could get. I always wanted to try giving food, but never had any on me when they approached. Until…
Incident #1: A few months ago, I saw a homeless man panhandling at the light rail station. I was coming back from my bridal shower at work, lugging tons of leftover food. I heard him say to someone “Do you have any money so I can eat tonight?” When he passed by me, I said “Excuse me, I have food. Do you want some?” He asked me what it was.
“Fish,” I told him. “Do you like fish? It’s pretty good.”
“Yes, that would be great.” He took the fish, which was wrapped in aluminum foil, and put it in his pocket. “Thank you so much. I’ll eat this tonight.” And he walked away.
That filled me with a sudden sense of peace, feeling happy that I had helped someone survive through one more day in this cruel world.
I always wonder what happened to people for them to end up homeless and on the street. Did they go bankrupt and lose everything? Are they drug addicts or alcoholics who refuse to get help? Horrible as it sounds, sometimes it’s hard to remember that they are still people with real lives and families…
Incident #2: My husband was driving us home one night after dinner. He was about to switch lanes near a traffic light, when we almost ran over a homeless woman who had been standing on one of the white lines separating the lanes, asking for money. We didn’t see her because she had been blocked from view by a truck. I gasped as we swerved around her. She yelled as we passed her, angry, but then I got angry too.
“What is she getting mad at us for? She shouldn’t even be standing there!”
My husband shrugged as we stopped at the light. I looked in the rearview mirror.
“Oh man, I think she’s coming. Why is she coming? If she says something, I’m gonna tell her she shouldn’t even be standing in the middle of the road like that if she doesn’t want to get run over.”
I was looking at my husband in anger and disbelief, when just then he looked out my window and said “Sorry!” I spun around to look, but the woman had already walked away.
“Why did you say sorry? It wasn’t our fault we didn’t see her. And she’s not even supposed to be there!”
My husband said “Oh, but that’s not right. Where else is she supposed to go?”
And then I felt pretty bad.
It’s interesting how one person can have so many different faces, some of them kind, and some of them quite ugly. Which face do YOU usually wear?
Incident #1: A few months ago, I saw a homeless man panhandling at the light rail station. I was coming back from my bridal shower at work, lugging tons of leftover food. I heard him say to someone “Do you have any money so I can eat tonight?” When he passed by me, I said “Excuse me, I have food. Do you want some?” He asked me what it was.
“Fish,” I told him. “Do you like fish? It’s pretty good.”
“Yes, that would be great.” He took the fish, which was wrapped in aluminum foil, and put it in his pocket. “Thank you so much. I’ll eat this tonight.” And he walked away.
That filled me with a sudden sense of peace, feeling happy that I had helped someone survive through one more day in this cruel world.
I always wonder what happened to people for them to end up homeless and on the street. Did they go bankrupt and lose everything? Are they drug addicts or alcoholics who refuse to get help? Horrible as it sounds, sometimes it’s hard to remember that they are still people with real lives and families…
Incident #2: My husband was driving us home one night after dinner. He was about to switch lanes near a traffic light, when we almost ran over a homeless woman who had been standing on one of the white lines separating the lanes, asking for money. We didn’t see her because she had been blocked from view by a truck. I gasped as we swerved around her. She yelled as we passed her, angry, but then I got angry too.
“What is she getting mad at us for? She shouldn’t even be standing there!”
My husband shrugged as we stopped at the light. I looked in the rearview mirror.
“Oh man, I think she’s coming. Why is she coming? If she says something, I’m gonna tell her she shouldn’t even be standing in the middle of the road like that if she doesn’t want to get run over.”
I was looking at my husband in anger and disbelief, when just then he looked out my window and said “Sorry!” I spun around to look, but the woman had already walked away.
“Why did you say sorry? It wasn’t our fault we didn’t see her. And she’s not even supposed to be there!”
My husband said “Oh, but that’s not right. Where else is she supposed to go?”
And then I felt pretty bad.
It’s interesting how one person can have so many different faces, some of them kind, and some of them quite ugly. Which face do YOU usually wear?
Monday, June 21, 2010
Facing Death
At what point in your life do you stop saving for your future and start saving for your funeral?
I recently went to a friend’s grandmother’s wake. Sitting next to my grieving friend, I looked around, trying to find something to comment on, for I never have any idea what to say to people in these situations. My eyes rested on the various flower arrangements that decorated the spaces next to the coffin.
“Those flower arrangements are beautiful,” I said. “Do you know who sent them all?”
“No, nobody sent them,” my friend sniffed, and shook her head slowly. “My grandmother preordered them.”
“She preordered them?” At first, I was dumbfounded, but then I remembered that she had died of cancer, so she must have known approximately how much longer she had to live.
“Yes,” my friend answered. “She ordered them when Richy was 3. She said she didn’t want anything cheap, so she ordered everything herself.”
Hmm. If Richy was 14 now, that was about 11 years ago, and I don’t think she was diagnosed with cancer that long ago. She must have been around 83 years old when she ordered the flowers. I didn’t even know you could do that. Would you pay for the flowers and then just leave the delivery date open?
I imagine that when you reach a certain age, you have to face your mortality right in the eye and just start making plans. Some people make these kinds of plans even earlier, because they have children and want to settle things before it’s too late or in case something ever happens to them. The plans I’m used to hearing about usually concern writing up a last will and testament, but I suppose that funeral arrangements are made as well, if the person has reached a certain age and is realistic about his or her life expectancy.
So when do you say “Okay, I’ve lived my life and I have everything I’ll ever need until I die, so I’m going to start saving for my funeral.” I don’t know if many people have the courage to do this. I think it takes some courage to entertain the notion that your days on this earth are almost up, and then to take it into your own hands to save for and plan your own funeral.
As for myself, I kind of like this idea of having it all paid for and prearranged – not so much because I’m interested in having it done “my way”, but because I do know one thing for sure: funerals can be expensive. I wouldn’t want my death to be a burden on my family. It’s smart, and economical.
It’s also tough. I don’t know if I could do it. However, if I do decide to do it, I wouldn’t begin anytime soon. I think it would be a bit morbid to start saving for that right now. Especially when there’s still so much I want to save for, like buying a house.
If I do this, I’m going to do it right. My plan will be to start when I turn 50 years old, when I’m still working. That gives me more than ten years to save up. A little at a time, of course. There’s no hurry!
I recently went to a friend’s grandmother’s wake. Sitting next to my grieving friend, I looked around, trying to find something to comment on, for I never have any idea what to say to people in these situations. My eyes rested on the various flower arrangements that decorated the spaces next to the coffin.
“Those flower arrangements are beautiful,” I said. “Do you know who sent them all?”
“No, nobody sent them,” my friend sniffed, and shook her head slowly. “My grandmother preordered them.”
“She preordered them?” At first, I was dumbfounded, but then I remembered that she had died of cancer, so she must have known approximately how much longer she had to live.
“Yes,” my friend answered. “She ordered them when Richy was 3. She said she didn’t want anything cheap, so she ordered everything herself.”
Hmm. If Richy was 14 now, that was about 11 years ago, and I don’t think she was diagnosed with cancer that long ago. She must have been around 83 years old when she ordered the flowers. I didn’t even know you could do that. Would you pay for the flowers and then just leave the delivery date open?
I imagine that when you reach a certain age, you have to face your mortality right in the eye and just start making plans. Some people make these kinds of plans even earlier, because they have children and want to settle things before it’s too late or in case something ever happens to them. The plans I’m used to hearing about usually concern writing up a last will and testament, but I suppose that funeral arrangements are made as well, if the person has reached a certain age and is realistic about his or her life expectancy.
So when do you say “Okay, I’ve lived my life and I have everything I’ll ever need until I die, so I’m going to start saving for my funeral.” I don’t know if many people have the courage to do this. I think it takes some courage to entertain the notion that your days on this earth are almost up, and then to take it into your own hands to save for and plan your own funeral.
As for myself, I kind of like this idea of having it all paid for and prearranged – not so much because I’m interested in having it done “my way”, but because I do know one thing for sure: funerals can be expensive. I wouldn’t want my death to be a burden on my family. It’s smart, and economical.
It’s also tough. I don’t know if I could do it. However, if I do decide to do it, I wouldn’t begin anytime soon. I think it would be a bit morbid to start saving for that right now. Especially when there’s still so much I want to save for, like buying a house.
If I do this, I’m going to do it right. My plan will be to start when I turn 50 years old, when I’m still working. That gives me more than ten years to save up. A little at a time, of course. There’s no hurry!
Monday, June 14, 2010
Having To Prove Myself
My husband wants us to move to England. He has wanted this for a while, and it looks like it may become a reality. I have mixed feelings about this. On one hand, the small part of me that likes adventure and a change of scenery is embracing the opportunity. On the other hand, the larger part of me that fears whatever is new and unknown is running the other way, screaming.
If I were 21 again, fresh out of college, this decision would be much easier. I would travel to another country to live and work there, no problem! In fact, it’s something I regret not having done. However, at 28, I’ve invested time and hard work into my life and career. I don’t want to start at the bottom again.
Also, there is one other thing. Over the years, I have had to prove myself to people on three counts: because of my young age, because I am a minority, and because I am a woman. I’ve had to do this in everyday life, but mostly in the workplace. Moving to another country means that I would have to prove myself all over again not only on these three aspects of myself, but also as an American.
I don’t know what people in England think about Americans, whether they love us or hate us, but either way, the minute I open my mouth, people will see that I am American and judge me for it. They will see it all: my youth, my skin, my sex, and my birth country, all rolled into one neat little package, ready to be ripped to shreds.
Ok, maybe I’m overreacting a little. Perhaps I am making this into a bigger deal than it has to be. I’m putting too much pressure on myself. This is probably just that part of myself that is running scared and is putting all these crazy ideas into my head. But my nerves have to materialize in some shape or form, right?
What am I so scared of? I have faced many people who have passed judgment on me, and I have succeeded, regardless of what they thought of me. And who cares what they think anyway? I just need to stay focused, and face the challenges this move may bring my way one at a time.
If I were 21 again, fresh out of college, this decision would be much easier. I would travel to another country to live and work there, no problem! In fact, it’s something I regret not having done. However, at 28, I’ve invested time and hard work into my life and career. I don’t want to start at the bottom again.
Also, there is one other thing. Over the years, I have had to prove myself to people on three counts: because of my young age, because I am a minority, and because I am a woman. I’ve had to do this in everyday life, but mostly in the workplace. Moving to another country means that I would have to prove myself all over again not only on these three aspects of myself, but also as an American.
I don’t know what people in England think about Americans, whether they love us or hate us, but either way, the minute I open my mouth, people will see that I am American and judge me for it. They will see it all: my youth, my skin, my sex, and my birth country, all rolled into one neat little package, ready to be ripped to shreds.
Ok, maybe I’m overreacting a little. Perhaps I am making this into a bigger deal than it has to be. I’m putting too much pressure on myself. This is probably just that part of myself that is running scared and is putting all these crazy ideas into my head. But my nerves have to materialize in some shape or form, right?
What am I so scared of? I have faced many people who have passed judgment on me, and I have succeeded, regardless of what they thought of me. And who cares what they think anyway? I just need to stay focused, and face the challenges this move may bring my way one at a time.
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