Ever passed out before?
Not like a dramatic "I've lost too much blood" passed out, simply a "there is not enough oxygen here" passed out. That's bad enough. Now do it in public. At a pizza shop. In front of your coworkers.
"So I say 'Just hit the ball, Ricky', and he says 'I just don't think you're taking a very respectable tone when you call me that'. And I'm thinking 'What, you can't just holler at me and tell me to shut up'. Look, it's 'Ricky' or I'm going to beat your ass. Just hit the ball." My ex-boss, whom I will refer to as Paul (his name isn't really Paul, but I have to protect my other friend.
I bring up the counter-point, "But he can't lose his cool with you, he has to come off as controlled and respectable. As a black man coming up in corporate America, you can't really be seen as irresponsible, it only validates the 'good ol' boy approach."
My friend and coworker, we'll call him Jason (he's the one we need to protect here), always has to disagree with me (sometimes he is right though, but not now). "I don't agree," he disagrees.
Paul says "No, Ronny's right, Ricky does have to go the extra mile."
Not one to admit defeat, Jason emits the most regrettable statement possible, "Well, maybe in front of his people."
An eruption of laughter. And I, just off having put a few ounces of carbonated beverage to wash down a little bit of pizza am left helpless, attempting not to soak the colleague next to me with my backwash and pizza flavored soda. I'm laughing so hard, I'm turning purple. I can't breathe, I can't swallow, I didn't think to spit. I lean over a bit, and things slowly turn black. A disconnected dive... I slowly slide from my chair and see the floor rush towards me.
Silence. Peaceful Silence.
Then a ringing. And laughter. And the feeling of elation for a new day. Only, it wasn't a new day. And I'm not here. But I'm here. Where Am I? I'm on the floor. The floor is hard, and my knee hurts. And I still can't see... it's so blurry. I hear laughter... Where am I?
I'm at the pizza place. My vision slowly recedes from is blackened cloak. And I look up. And the only question I can muster. "Why am I on the floor?"
More laughter.
"Why does my knee hurt?" But Jason's joke is days ago. No longer funny. Only a muddled confusion. And a piece of tomato stuck to my shirt.
But I did learn one thing:
Jason is a bigger racist than we all had assumed.
11 July 2007
The Snowflake Theory
If you frequent Fark.com, as I do, you've run across a phrase occasionally referring to someone as a "snowflake". There isn't a clear cut definition, but if I had to try, it would go something like this:
Snow•flake [snoh-fleyk]:
-noun
1. Refers to a child, usually of a middle class to upper middle class family, who's parents belief is such that; regardless of the child's actual abilities and/or interests, that child should be allowed to participate in the most elite, or near elite echelons of an activity. The results of being denied these opportunities are usually a protest, or legal action, up to and including a lawsuit.
It's certainly been a subject of debate that enacting "No Child Left Behind" and other various and sporadic academic standards may have, in fact, academically crippled our most capable children. Because football is more important that music, we may have lost, or at least displaced, the next Mozart.
The Snowflake Theory runs as such: Every parent believes that their children are beautiful, capable and can be anything that they want to be.
Reality tells a different story: There are things you are good at, and things you are not good at. The things you are not good at, will not put food on your table.
So, the dilemma then is whether or not you can tell these kids that they may never amount to being more than a cashier at Walmart. Not that there is anything wrong with cashiering at Walmart. We still need people for that.
In all fairness, we cannot allow a public education system to nurture our children in the way they need to be in order to encourage the development of skills that they are most. And, well... home school produces inconsistent results at best (I've seen 16 year olds run to windows because they weren't acquainted with the concept of a train). Private schools don't really turn a better education for your child either. Classes are smaller, sure, but it's a business. And tutors are so expensive.
The solution is always more spending in education, but there will always be someone that suffers in the end.
To this day, I still feel that I was capable of more than I was given to learn in school. I still learn a lot everyday, I make it my goal to, but the fact is, at 18, you're not equipped to make the decision on which education will lead to a career you'll want to tend for the rest of your life. You're going to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on an education. What if you don't like it? That's why I didn't go. I'd known too many people who'd placed themselves in crippling debt for careers that they didn't want.
Then again, how can you discern who should be getting the extended attention? I mean, it's obvious that if you're suing, you probably don't belong there. And who has deluded themselves in to thinking they deserve that attention?
Not me obviously.
I'm fucking awesome.
Snow•flake [snoh-fleyk]:
-noun
1. Refers to a child, usually of a middle class to upper middle class family, who's parents belief is such that; regardless of the child's actual abilities and/or interests, that child should be allowed to participate in the most elite, or near elite echelons of an activity. The results of being denied these opportunities are usually a protest, or legal action, up to and including a lawsuit.
It's certainly been a subject of debate that enacting "No Child Left Behind" and other various and sporadic academic standards may have, in fact, academically crippled our most capable children. Because football is more important that music, we may have lost, or at least displaced, the next Mozart.
The Snowflake Theory runs as such: Every parent believes that their children are beautiful, capable and can be anything that they want to be.
Reality tells a different story: There are things you are good at, and things you are not good at. The things you are not good at, will not put food on your table.
So, the dilemma then is whether or not you can tell these kids that they may never amount to being more than a cashier at Walmart. Not that there is anything wrong with cashiering at Walmart. We still need people for that.
In all fairness, we cannot allow a public education system to nurture our children in the way they need to be in order to encourage the development of skills that they are most. And, well... home school produces inconsistent results at best (I've seen 16 year olds run to windows because they weren't acquainted with the concept of a train). Private schools don't really turn a better education for your child either. Classes are smaller, sure, but it's a business. And tutors are so expensive.
The solution is always more spending in education, but there will always be someone that suffers in the end.
To this day, I still feel that I was capable of more than I was given to learn in school. I still learn a lot everyday, I make it my goal to, but the fact is, at 18, you're not equipped to make the decision on which education will lead to a career you'll want to tend for the rest of your life. You're going to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on an education. What if you don't like it? That's why I didn't go. I'd known too many people who'd placed themselves in crippling debt for careers that they didn't want.
Then again, how can you discern who should be getting the extended attention? I mean, it's obvious that if you're suing, you probably don't belong there. And who has deluded themselves in to thinking they deserve that attention?
Not me obviously.
I'm fucking awesome.
09 July 2007
A Trifecta of MultiMedia Entertainment
I would like to thank my wife. We've only been married for 2 and a half months, but she's wonderful in a way that you can't comprehend.
She allowed me the purchase of my newly coveted Playstation3. Immature? Absolutely. Neurotic? Right on the money.
It's a matter of obsession.
And for my wife, that latent understanding that this is what I like, and her support of it, means a great deal more to me than money or objects could ever bring to my life. I know if my pleasure were in any other hobby, she would be in full support, and in any relationship, that's a beautiful thing.
She allowed me the purchase of my newly coveted Playstation3. Immature? Absolutely. Neurotic? Right on the money.
It's a matter of obsession.
And for my wife, that latent understanding that this is what I like, and her support of it, means a great deal more to me than money or objects could ever bring to my life. I know if my pleasure were in any other hobby, she would be in full support, and in any relationship, that's a beautiful thing.
08 July 2007
Domestic musings
As my first post on my husband's blog, I thought I would explore an important facet of married life/home ownership: housekeeping.
My friend Jean sent me this great book for my birthday--"Home Comforts: The Art & Science of Keeping House" by Cheryl Mendelson. It's basically a 900-page textbook of how to keep your house in comfortable, functioning order, and it took her 10 years to write it. I really have only read the first 3 chapters, but it's interesting!
I would consider myself a fairly clean/neat person, although it doesn't come naturally. And since we've bought a house, it's been nice taking some ownership and cleaning the house the way I want it to look (my husband seems perfectly content to let this transpire).
Chapter 2 is entitled "Easing into a routine", and it outlines the types of tasks and chores that are important to maintain a clean house. I started to get a little discouraged and overwhelmed as I read. She started out with a list of basic chores, and then elaborated for those who had more time and wanted to be more thorough, and then of course, there was an additional list of spring and fall cleaning chores. The author was kind to point out that all of these tasks aren't totally necessary, and everyone has to work out a routine that works with their specific needs. Here is her list of weekly chores:
-Change the bed linens (once or twice weekly) and bathroom towels (twice weekly or as necessary)
-Vacuum rugs, floors, upholstered furniture, and lampshades
-Wash all washable floors
-Dust all dustable surfaces and objects, including pictures, mirrors, light fixtures, and light bulbs
-Wipe all fingerprints or smears from doorknobs, woodwork, telephones, computer keyboards
-Wash down entire bathroom: toilet, sink, tub, wall tiles, toothbrush holders and all fixtures, cabinets (exterior), mirror, floor
-Wash all combs and brushes
-Clean entire kitchen: clean refrigerator; wipe down stove and other appliances inside and out; clean sinks, counters, and tabletops; extra-thoroughly wash backsplashes; scrub floors
-Clean air-conditioner filters and humidifiers according to manufacturers' recommendations
-Wash out and sanitize garbage cans
Who has time for all of this??? I don't think we even have a filter on our air conditioning unit?? I tried to rationalize--Ron and I are the only people living in the house, we don't have any pets, and we're both gone during the day, so we don't create as much mess as another family might. I have been trying to maintain a fairly regular cleaning schedule every week, but most of the tasks on the above list have been relegated to every other week. Cleaning a house with these guidelines is a very time-consuming task! I love lists, and I'm definitely a rule-follower, but I have to draw the line somewhere, if we want to have a social life at all. "Oh, Saturday night? No, I don't think that will work. I have to dust the lightbulbs and the lampshades!"
Although Ron (and most men) probably will not be able to concur, there is something to be said for coming home to a nicely-made bed and a clean kitchen.
My friend Jean sent me this great book for my birthday--"Home Comforts: The Art & Science of Keeping House" by Cheryl Mendelson. It's basically a 900-page textbook of how to keep your house in comfortable, functioning order, and it took her 10 years to write it. I really have only read the first 3 chapters, but it's interesting!
I would consider myself a fairly clean/neat person, although it doesn't come naturally. And since we've bought a house, it's been nice taking some ownership and cleaning the house the way I want it to look (my husband seems perfectly content to let this transpire).
Chapter 2 is entitled "Easing into a routine", and it outlines the types of tasks and chores that are important to maintain a clean house. I started to get a little discouraged and overwhelmed as I read. She started out with a list of basic chores, and then elaborated for those who had more time and wanted to be more thorough, and then of course, there was an additional list of spring and fall cleaning chores. The author was kind to point out that all of these tasks aren't totally necessary, and everyone has to work out a routine that works with their specific needs. Here is her list of weekly chores:
-Change the bed linens (once or twice weekly) and bathroom towels (twice weekly or as necessary)
-Vacuum rugs, floors, upholstered furniture, and lampshades
-Wash all washable floors
-Dust all dustable surfaces and objects, including pictures, mirrors, light fixtures, and light bulbs
-Wipe all fingerprints or smears from doorknobs, woodwork, telephones, computer keyboards
-Wash down entire bathroom: toilet, sink, tub, wall tiles, toothbrush holders and all fixtures, cabinets (exterior), mirror, floor
-Wash all combs and brushes
-Clean entire kitchen: clean refrigerator; wipe down stove and other appliances inside and out; clean sinks, counters, and tabletops; extra-thoroughly wash backsplashes; scrub floors
-Clean air-conditioner filters and humidifiers according to manufacturers' recommendations
-Wash out and sanitize garbage cans
Who has time for all of this??? I don't think we even have a filter on our air conditioning unit?? I tried to rationalize--Ron and I are the only people living in the house, we don't have any pets, and we're both gone during the day, so we don't create as much mess as another family might. I have been trying to maintain a fairly regular cleaning schedule every week, but most of the tasks on the above list have been relegated to every other week. Cleaning a house with these guidelines is a very time-consuming task! I love lists, and I'm definitely a rule-follower, but I have to draw the line somewhere, if we want to have a social life at all. "Oh, Saturday night? No, I don't think that will work. I have to dust the lightbulbs and the lampshades!"
Although Ron (and most men) probably will not be able to concur, there is something to be said for coming home to a nicely-made bed and a clean kitchen.
Summertimes Spent Slipping and Sliding
Do you recall the Slip 'n Slide? Let me jog your memory; it was one of those ultimately dangerous children's outdoor toys, the kind that when your mother sees it on TV, she says, "Well, that doesn't look very safe," and you argue, "If it wasn't safe, they wouldn't be able to sell it."
And as it turns out, Mom is always right.
Lets analyze this for a second. The Slip 'n Slide with the pool attachment had four instructions:
Step 1) You run
Step 2) You slide
Step 3) You hit the jump
Step 4) and take a dive
Only two of these instructions seem to apply to the Slip 'n Slide's standard model, the 20 foot wet path with the vinyl "Receiving Area", as my wife had lovingly termed it. The idea was that you would throw yourself down this plastic pathway with little plastic sprinklers mounted down the rows on each side, and, if you were capable of basic physics calculations when you were 10, you could avoid being thrown off of the Slip 'n Slide for using a less than head on angle of approach. It usually ended that way. Run... Slide... off of the path where your foot catches the ground and you are thrown from the slide.
This could be avoided if you were willing to languidly glide to the end. My wife admits that as far as she was concerned, languidly gliding was the height of her interest in the Slip 'n Slide experience. I, like her sister, and like my friends could not be content with such an abominable use of my childhood. I preferred the adrenaline rush that came from sprinting like I was going to beat Michael Johnson to 5 feet from the beginning of the treacherous avenue then flinging my body and all caution to it's mercy, generally, headfirst, as it was easier to maintain momentum this way.
This was the stuff safety recalls and class action lawsuits were made of. With luck, about 95% of all the children who used the Slip 'n Slide would survive to play another day. And that's only because the other 5%, the poor bastards, were injured before our very eyes. Careening in to one of the sprinkler units was usually the end result of not properly aligning yourself with the Slip 'n Slide apparatus. And if you were lucky, a 6 inch scar down the outside of either your right or left leg was all you had to show for it. Our martyr, poor little Joey from next door, will have a scar down the left side of his torso. It was less an act of pure Darwinism, and closer to Russian Roulette.
We had 3 good summers with Slip 'n Slide action, and the fun didn't end until after Joey and Andrew from next door got the version of the Slip 'n Slide with the attached pool. Their yard, sloped, and littered with German Shepard remnants, did not present a suitable location for the usage of said implements, so in exchange for permission to use our yard, we were enabled the ability to use this new, dangerous invention.
It would have been enough to use the 10 feet of Slide that came with the pool, but, like most people who had already owned a Slip 'n Slide, there was a need for more excitement. In a feat worthy of MacGuyver, we ingeniously attached the original Slip 'n Slide to the pool unit for a combined runway of 30 feet.
Obviously, not of sound mind, our belief was the longer you ran for, the better the Slide experience, which may have been true, considering the distances we brought ourselves to were just ridiculous. We'd back up to the fence and run longer than the distance of the Slip 'n Slide to the Slip 'n Slide and dive for the 30 feet until launch. This almost guaranteed Joey's future incident, of course, you don't consider that as a child.
An unfortunate side effect of this new 30 foot runway was that when you had actually hit the pool, it was possible to gain momentum from the length of the boulevard and the moisture. By the time you had hit the ramp, you'd have been going just as fast as you were when you were running, causing you to fly over the pool, and to bounce off of the outer edge.
I have many other memories of the Slip 'n Slide, most of them fond, but the ultimate results of all Slip 'n Slide usage, unless you were like my wife... languidly gliding down the river, you were guaranteed some form of injury. The next time you reminisce about the glory days of the Slip 'n Slide, remember to pour some on the curb for our fallen brethren.
It was them or you.
And as it turns out, Mom is always right.
Lets analyze this for a second. The Slip 'n Slide with the pool attachment had four instructions:
Step 1) You run
Step 2) You slide
Step 3) You hit the jump
Step 4) and take a dive
Only two of these instructions seem to apply to the Slip 'n Slide's standard model, the 20 foot wet path with the vinyl "Receiving Area", as my wife had lovingly termed it. The idea was that you would throw yourself down this plastic pathway with little plastic sprinklers mounted down the rows on each side, and, if you were capable of basic physics calculations when you were 10, you could avoid being thrown off of the Slip 'n Slide for using a less than head on angle of approach. It usually ended that way. Run... Slide... off of the path where your foot catches the ground and you are thrown from the slide.
This could be avoided if you were willing to languidly glide to the end. My wife admits that as far as she was concerned, languidly gliding was the height of her interest in the Slip 'n Slide experience. I, like her sister, and like my friends could not be content with such an abominable use of my childhood. I preferred the adrenaline rush that came from sprinting like I was going to beat Michael Johnson to 5 feet from the beginning of the treacherous avenue then flinging my body and all caution to it's mercy, generally, headfirst, as it was easier to maintain momentum this way.
This was the stuff safety recalls and class action lawsuits were made of. With luck, about 95% of all the children who used the Slip 'n Slide would survive to play another day. And that's only because the other 5%, the poor bastards, were injured before our very eyes. Careening in to one of the sprinkler units was usually the end result of not properly aligning yourself with the Slip 'n Slide apparatus. And if you were lucky, a 6 inch scar down the outside of either your right or left leg was all you had to show for it. Our martyr, poor little Joey from next door, will have a scar down the left side of his torso. It was less an act of pure Darwinism, and closer to Russian Roulette.
We had 3 good summers with Slip 'n Slide action, and the fun didn't end until after Joey and Andrew from next door got the version of the Slip 'n Slide with the attached pool. Their yard, sloped, and littered with German Shepard remnants, did not present a suitable location for the usage of said implements, so in exchange for permission to use our yard, we were enabled the ability to use this new, dangerous invention.
It would have been enough to use the 10 feet of Slide that came with the pool, but, like most people who had already owned a Slip 'n Slide, there was a need for more excitement. In a feat worthy of MacGuyver, we ingeniously attached the original Slip 'n Slide to the pool unit for a combined runway of 30 feet.
Obviously, not of sound mind, our belief was the longer you ran for, the better the Slide experience, which may have been true, considering the distances we brought ourselves to were just ridiculous. We'd back up to the fence and run longer than the distance of the Slip 'n Slide to the Slip 'n Slide and dive for the 30 feet until launch. This almost guaranteed Joey's future incident, of course, you don't consider that as a child.
An unfortunate side effect of this new 30 foot runway was that when you had actually hit the pool, it was possible to gain momentum from the length of the boulevard and the moisture. By the time you had hit the ramp, you'd have been going just as fast as you were when you were running, causing you to fly over the pool, and to bounce off of the outer edge.
I have many other memories of the Slip 'n Slide, most of them fond, but the ultimate results of all Slip 'n Slide usage, unless you were like my wife... languidly gliding down the river, you were guaranteed some form of injury. The next time you reminisce about the glory days of the Slip 'n Slide, remember to pour some on the curb for our fallen brethren.
It was them or you.
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