My little sister is blonde, beautiful, and has a big brain. Theresa has a degree in mathematics, and formerly worked on the Mathematica program for Wolfram Research, and as a result, often speaks light years over my head.
Years ago, I heard a report on NPR about parabolas, and the report went on to say that the world's best known parabola is our St. Louis Arch. Impressed with my little math fun fact, I ran it by Theresa. As usual, she was able to correct me by stating the Arch was not a parabola, but a catenary curve. She described this by saying to think of it as the chain of a necklace. If you were to take the chain, and form a dip with the gravity, this would be catenarious (ironically, the Latin word for chain). A hanging chain carrying only it's own weight is a catenary curve. However, if you were to hang a pendant on the chain, or use the curve to suspend something heavy, like a suspension bridge, it would then become parabolic. Even still, our Arch is not a true catenary, as it is thicker at the base, and thinner at the apex. So it's really more of an approximate of a catenary.
Sure enough, a couple of weeks after the broadcast that I heard, NPR had "The Math Guy" on to correct their original report. He stated everything my sister said, and then went on to state that even Galileo got this incorrect. The parabolic equation is y2=ax2a, whereas a catenary equation is much more complicated, and would require calculus; something that had not even been invented in Galileo's time, and a class I have yet to take. So, he and I were both sadly incorrect. But how totally cool is it that I have something in common with Galileo?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Stand and Deliver EC
Jaime Escalante is looking down at my recent 87% on my 3rd elementary algebra test, and laughing. He knows I can do better, and so do I. I have now seen “Stand and Deliver” for about the seventh time in my life, and I can appreciate the ever evolving, multi-faceted qualities of this movie, and this man. I remember my original draw to seeing it was because it had total mega-hottie, Lou Diamond Phillips (I was fourteen when the movie premiered in 1988). I left the movie being truly captivated at how much depth and story the movie had. Oh my, and seeing Lou Diamond Phillips strip down to his underwear to frolic in the ocean, was just gravy!
Now that I've added a few more years of life experience, and have completely grown out of my "Young Guns" phase, I like another side of the movie. Jaime Escalante truly excelled with math because he did not teach it as math. I feel he taught it as a philosophy, or a tool for life. Perhaps even the word “math” should be thought of completely different, and used more like a verb would be.
Jaime used math to "math" out of his native La Paz, Bolivia, and move to the United States. He arrived in the U.S. without speaking English, and no teaching credentials. He used math to "math" out an electronics degree to work for Burroughs Corporation. He then used math to "math" out a mathematics degree, and was able to teach at Garfield High School. It was here his use of math became infectious, as it caught on and influenced many young minds. His class size became boundless as the years went on, and the students he influenced to take Advanced Placement Tests, multiplied in droves every year. Every time he “mathed” his life, it made life better for him, and for many others.
I'm not sure if there were any documented patron saints of mathematics, (St. Pi-us, perhaps?), but I will certainly seek prayer and guidance on my fourth test with St. Jaime… with a sign of the cross from one hand, and co-sine from the other.
Now that I've added a few more years of life experience, and have completely grown out of my "Young Guns" phase, I like another side of the movie. Jaime Escalante truly excelled with math because he did not teach it as math. I feel he taught it as a philosophy, or a tool for life. Perhaps even the word “math” should be thought of completely different, and used more like a verb would be.
Jaime used math to "math" out of his native La Paz, Bolivia, and move to the United States. He arrived in the U.S. without speaking English, and no teaching credentials. He used math to "math" out an electronics degree to work for Burroughs Corporation. He then used math to "math" out a mathematics degree, and was able to teach at Garfield High School. It was here his use of math became infectious, as it caught on and influenced many young minds. His class size became boundless as the years went on, and the students he influenced to take Advanced Placement Tests, multiplied in droves every year. Every time he “mathed” his life, it made life better for him, and for many others.
I'm not sure if there were any documented patron saints of mathematics, (St. Pi-us, perhaps?), but I will certainly seek prayer and guidance on my fourth test with St. Jaime… with a sign of the cross from one hand, and co-sine from the other.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
It's Only a Movie, It's Only a Movie...
"Trilogy of Terror" is a movie that has permanently scarred me for life. I don't know why it was broadcast on a UHF station on a Sunday afternoon at my grandmother's house. This was, and still is, a very scary movie, and not just from the point of view of a six year old. My mother was screaming too. Why she didn't turn it off, or banish my sister and I from viewing it, remains one of the gravest heresies of her parental skills. I feel the next several months of my sister and I shrieking from night terrors over “The Voodoo Doll", was a just punishment for her, now that I look back. I'm thirty-five years old now, and this movie still unnerves me, even though I have only seen it the one time. I don't think I could sit through it, at any age, without it inducing the same level of panic and hysteria I originally experienced. The following is testimony of how a 30-minute slice of film can follow you around the rest of your life.
First, allow me to introduce a bit of cinematic history on this film. According to my recollection, and what I could concur on www.imdb.com, "Trilogy of Terror" was a made for TV movie, filmed in 1975, starring scream queen movie star, Karen Black. The movie consists of three unrelated short horror stories directed by Dan Curtis, who was best known for his work on a vampire horror series, "Dark Shadows". Ms. Black plays four different roles of tormented women in the film, with the most chilling in the story of "Amelia". Amelia arrives home from shopping to find a package containing a Zuni hunting fetish doll. This doll has razor sharp teeth and a hunting spear, and the package also contains a scroll claiming the doll contains the spirit of a hunter, in which a gold chain on the doll traps the hunter's spirit within the fetish. Amelia then calls her mother to cancel their plans as she has a date, and we see a slightly unstable side of her, and how she suffers from her mother's overbearing behavior. As Amelia leaves the room, we see the gold chain fall off the doll. Amelia starts to prepare dinner with a carving knife. Later, she enters the room to see the doll is not on the table. As she returns to the kitchen, her carving knife is missing. The formula for your standard horror experience is then properly utilized. At this point, I will not ruin the film for you, for fear of causing you years of trauma, and honestly, I just don't want to relive the gory details. Needless to say, the doll chases her through her apartment, she is bitten, she destroys the doll in her oven, calls her mother to apologize, and invites her over to her apartment. The story ends with a feral looking Amelia, now with the same scary teeth of the doll, holding her carving knife, and waiting for her mother to arrive.
Aside from the several months of night terrors, my first conscious encounter of the impact this movie had on me, happened when I was nine years old. My sister and I were staying with friends of the family who had a house cat. We thought it would be fun to camp out inside their apartment, since it was a rainy day. So, the idea was to set up a tent for the kids, and we were to have hot dogs and s'mores for dinner that evening. However, while we were constructing the tent in the bedroom, their black cat, Tibby, crawled underneath the tent, and savagely pounced and clawed at my ankles; somewhat similar to "the bathroom scene" from "Amelia". To say I handled the situation rationally would be an understatement. We were not accustomed to inside pets, especially ones that would mindlessly attack for no warranted reason. Beyond any doubt, this episode of broken psychosis did not bode well for the remainder of the evening, as I just sat on the couch crying and sulking and watching MTV. That night, I had a nightmare. A long suppressed visit from our dear friend, the Voodoo-Zuni doll. This bothered our family friend so much, that she called my mother to pick me up the next morning.
My husband and I endured several grueling months of the name selection process, while I was pregnant. I recall him teasing me with naming the baby Amelia, even though we knew we were having a boy. I should have never confided in Jason about that movie being so terrifying to me. This teasing eventually led to yet more Voodoo-Zuni doll-based nightmares about the baby being born with the same razor sharp teeth, as well as a dream about baking the baby in the oven. When Max, and not Amelia, was finally born, I was relieved to see he was toothless, and am proud of the fact that I have always lacked the desire to bake him in a kiln.
As Max progressed with his development; I recall the moment when I witnessed his first steps. I was dozing on our couch, when a two and a half foot tall blurry something went rocketing across the living room. This momentarily conjured up the same fear I had experienced when I was six and nine. My first completely rational, split second of a thought was that the apartment was haunted by Tattoo from Fantasy Island, or we had a leprechaun, or that Voodoo-Zuni doll had come for me! Then, my delayed maternal instinct finally kicked in, and l realized Max had just run across the room... RUN ACROSS THE ROOM?!?! He went from crawling to running, with no walking in between. Again, I was not accustomed to him being independently mobile; especially in my half asleep state of mind, and it was truly a magical moment for all of us, including the Voodoo-Zuni doll, leprechaun, and Herve Villechaize.
Scary movies do indeed have a lasting effect on children; certainly in my own personal experience. In a research study, “Tales from the Screen: Enduring Fright Reactions to Scary Media, “ researcher Kristen Harrison and her colleague, Joanne Cantor found the younger the study's participants were when they viewed a scary movie and TV program, the longer-lasting the effects. This study led me to question why we even like scary movies, considering the anxieties they leave behind. I found the best reply for this question in the first statement of “Why We Crave Horror Movies”, an essay by Stephen King. “I think that we’re all mentally ill; those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better – and maybe not all that much better, after all.”
First, allow me to introduce a bit of cinematic history on this film. According to my recollection, and what I could concur on www.imdb.com, "Trilogy of Terror" was a made for TV movie, filmed in 1975, starring scream queen movie star, Karen Black. The movie consists of three unrelated short horror stories directed by Dan Curtis, who was best known for his work on a vampire horror series, "Dark Shadows". Ms. Black plays four different roles of tormented women in the film, with the most chilling in the story of "Amelia". Amelia arrives home from shopping to find a package containing a Zuni hunting fetish doll. This doll has razor sharp teeth and a hunting spear, and the package also contains a scroll claiming the doll contains the spirit of a hunter, in which a gold chain on the doll traps the hunter's spirit within the fetish. Amelia then calls her mother to cancel their plans as she has a date, and we see a slightly unstable side of her, and how she suffers from her mother's overbearing behavior. As Amelia leaves the room, we see the gold chain fall off the doll. Amelia starts to prepare dinner with a carving knife. Later, she enters the room to see the doll is not on the table. As she returns to the kitchen, her carving knife is missing. The formula for your standard horror experience is then properly utilized. At this point, I will not ruin the film for you, for fear of causing you years of trauma, and honestly, I just don't want to relive the gory details. Needless to say, the doll chases her through her apartment, she is bitten, she destroys the doll in her oven, calls her mother to apologize, and invites her over to her apartment. The story ends with a feral looking Amelia, now with the same scary teeth of the doll, holding her carving knife, and waiting for her mother to arrive.
Aside from the several months of night terrors, my first conscious encounter of the impact this movie had on me, happened when I was nine years old. My sister and I were staying with friends of the family who had a house cat. We thought it would be fun to camp out inside their apartment, since it was a rainy day. So, the idea was to set up a tent for the kids, and we were to have hot dogs and s'mores for dinner that evening. However, while we were constructing the tent in the bedroom, their black cat, Tibby, crawled underneath the tent, and savagely pounced and clawed at my ankles; somewhat similar to "the bathroom scene" from "Amelia". To say I handled the situation rationally would be an understatement. We were not accustomed to inside pets, especially ones that would mindlessly attack for no warranted reason. Beyond any doubt, this episode of broken psychosis did not bode well for the remainder of the evening, as I just sat on the couch crying and sulking and watching MTV. That night, I had a nightmare. A long suppressed visit from our dear friend, the Voodoo-Zuni doll. This bothered our family friend so much, that she called my mother to pick me up the next morning.
My husband and I endured several grueling months of the name selection process, while I was pregnant. I recall him teasing me with naming the baby Amelia, even though we knew we were having a boy. I should have never confided in Jason about that movie being so terrifying to me. This teasing eventually led to yet more Voodoo-Zuni doll-based nightmares about the baby being born with the same razor sharp teeth, as well as a dream about baking the baby in the oven. When Max, and not Amelia, was finally born, I was relieved to see he was toothless, and am proud of the fact that I have always lacked the desire to bake him in a kiln.
As Max progressed with his development; I recall the moment when I witnessed his first steps. I was dozing on our couch, when a two and a half foot tall blurry something went rocketing across the living room. This momentarily conjured up the same fear I had experienced when I was six and nine. My first completely rational, split second of a thought was that the apartment was haunted by Tattoo from Fantasy Island, or we had a leprechaun, or that Voodoo-Zuni doll had come for me! Then, my delayed maternal instinct finally kicked in, and l realized Max had just run across the room... RUN ACROSS THE ROOM?!?! He went from crawling to running, with no walking in between. Again, I was not accustomed to him being independently mobile; especially in my half asleep state of mind, and it was truly a magical moment for all of us, including the Voodoo-Zuni doll, leprechaun, and Herve Villechaize.
Scary movies do indeed have a lasting effect on children; certainly in my own personal experience. In a research study, “Tales from the Screen: Enduring Fright Reactions to Scary Media, “ researcher Kristen Harrison and her colleague, Joanne Cantor found the younger the study's participants were when they viewed a scary movie and TV program, the longer-lasting the effects. This study led me to question why we even like scary movies, considering the anxieties they leave behind. I found the best reply for this question in the first statement of “Why We Crave Horror Movies”, an essay by Stephen King. “I think that we’re all mentally ill; those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better – and maybe not all that much better, after all.”
Self concept paper
It isn’t what they call you; it's what you answer to. - W.C. Fields
I have undergone a catastrophic trauma, and am in a complete teardown and rebuild phase of life. Some giant jackass of a god basically hit the reset button within me, and I now have to start all over. So I am developing a brand new self-concept. I am adapting to a new role in my family by being both father and mother, with the passing of my husband. As of now, I am completely at a loss of what I want to do career-wise, just something safe, which travel careers are not. I will travel to Germany with my son to see our friends at the end of this semester, and one of my goals is to visit my birthplace. I am probably the only person in the world excited about seeing an Army hospital. I also plan to visit Hanover, where I have been able to trace some lineage on my grandmother's side back to 1812. As for my gender, I've never felt stronger. I am a badass when it comes to being female. I was a surrogate mother and carried twins to full term while Jason fought off his cancer. It was as terrifying, as it was empowering to accomplish that stage of my life. Now that I've achieved a great deal of life experience, and have no job to go to, I primarily go to community college, and several bars, in hopes of finding some new career path. Right now, this is the best thing for me, as I want to actually be in school, whereas if I had gone when I was 17, I would have been there just to be there. I can see it in some of my younger classmates that they are just going through the motions and it makes me kind of crazy. I got such a crash course in life last year, and view the world so very different from how I used to. Perhaps they will too someday. Physically, I'm not much to view at first glance. I'm not pretty by conventional standards, and I'm not sure that I really want to be. It's too much to live up too, at least for me. However, my personality makes up for that, as that is my primary tool or weapon for how I attract people. To know me is to love me… or love to fear me!
I feel I have a pretty good sense of self, in the majority of these categories. My biggest challenge right now is my son, Max. Not only does he get to burst into puberty, and load up on pre-teenage angst; he also gets to mourn for his father. This is a pretty tall order for an 11 year old, or anyone really to handle. Emotionally, neither of us can predict how we are going to be from one day to the next, but we are learning and adjusting. I feel that Max and I have gotten consistently closer now. I think my college courses have really been a big help to both us, as I'm not so authoritative, and am trying to help him apply more critical thinking. It's funny how this tool of critical thinking is so rarely used in the real world. Yet, it makes such a huge impact when applied. I'm talking with more people in the past six months than I'm used too, and am feeling more confident because of it. I don't have a problem telling people where to go and how to get there now, (except for my mother-in-law, because I'm not fluent in "She-Bear"), whereas before last year, I would just keep quiet. I guess I'm in transition, and I hope it's for the better. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can walk through fire.
I have undergone a catastrophic trauma, and am in a complete teardown and rebuild phase of life. Some giant jackass of a god basically hit the reset button within me, and I now have to start all over. So I am developing a brand new self-concept. I am adapting to a new role in my family by being both father and mother, with the passing of my husband. As of now, I am completely at a loss of what I want to do career-wise, just something safe, which travel careers are not. I will travel to Germany with my son to see our friends at the end of this semester, and one of my goals is to visit my birthplace. I am probably the only person in the world excited about seeing an Army hospital. I also plan to visit Hanover, where I have been able to trace some lineage on my grandmother's side back to 1812. As for my gender, I've never felt stronger. I am a badass when it comes to being female. I was a surrogate mother and carried twins to full term while Jason fought off his cancer. It was as terrifying, as it was empowering to accomplish that stage of my life. Now that I've achieved a great deal of life experience, and have no job to go to, I primarily go to community college, and several bars, in hopes of finding some new career path. Right now, this is the best thing for me, as I want to actually be in school, whereas if I had gone when I was 17, I would have been there just to be there. I can see it in some of my younger classmates that they are just going through the motions and it makes me kind of crazy. I got such a crash course in life last year, and view the world so very different from how I used to. Perhaps they will too someday. Physically, I'm not much to view at first glance. I'm not pretty by conventional standards, and I'm not sure that I really want to be. It's too much to live up too, at least for me. However, my personality makes up for that, as that is my primary tool or weapon for how I attract people. To know me is to love me… or love to fear me!
I feel I have a pretty good sense of self, in the majority of these categories. My biggest challenge right now is my son, Max. Not only does he get to burst into puberty, and load up on pre-teenage angst; he also gets to mourn for his father. This is a pretty tall order for an 11 year old, or anyone really to handle. Emotionally, neither of us can predict how we are going to be from one day to the next, but we are learning and adjusting. I feel that Max and I have gotten consistently closer now. I think my college courses have really been a big help to both us, as I'm not so authoritative, and am trying to help him apply more critical thinking. It's funny how this tool of critical thinking is so rarely used in the real world. Yet, it makes such a huge impact when applied. I'm talking with more people in the past six months than I'm used too, and am feeling more confident because of it. I don't have a problem telling people where to go and how to get there now, (except for my mother-in-law, because I'm not fluent in "She-Bear"), whereas before last year, I would just keep quiet. I guess I'm in transition, and I hope it's for the better. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can walk through fire.
Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder - Comparison Paper
I love drinking, and I drink every chance that I get. I'm drinking right now while writing this paper. You see, I absolutely must for my research purposes. My topic for comparison is on the enchanting and hauntingly beautiful spirit known, and dearly loved, as absinthe. There is much to love about absinthe, and I hope for much success in explaining my unquenchable lust of this beverage nicknamed, "The Green Fairy." Absinthe harbors such mystery and variety, and I am currently pursuing several versions. I feel for research purposes, it would be best to compare two types of absinthe that were the first to enter the U.S. market, since the recent enactment of its 95 year ban. Absinthe was criminally banned for almost 100 years in this country; however, March 5th, 2007 was a day of requiem for such shameful persecution. Lucid is a French made verte, or green absinthe, and the first legal absinthe to gain approval for distribution in the U.S. since 1912. Mata Hari is a Czech-Bohemian brand, that arrived stateside18 months after the introduction of Lucid. Both are just so genuinely lovely in their own unique way.
The French method of preparation is alluringly ritualistic. A sugar cube is placed upon a small slotted spoon over a glass containing one ounce of absinthe. Ice water is slowly and methodically dripped onto the sugar into the glass. The bright green color of the absinthe starts to evolve into a pale and creamy jade tone. This elegant union and process is called louching. Louching releases the herbal aromas and allows them to bloom and meld into a very strong bouquet. After the sugar is completely dissolved, the consumption can begin. The Czech-Bohemian method is similar to the French, with the tantalizing addition of fire. A sugar cube is presoaked with absinthe, and placed upon a spoon over one ounce of liqueur. The cube is set ablaze and then dropped into the glass igniting the absinthe. Cooking the absinthe will sadly remove some of the alcohol. However dear friends the average alcohol content measures 145 proof so no need to worry of this small sacrifice for the greater greener good. Our "Flaming Green Fairy" is then doused with one small shot of ice water. This method produces a much stronger, but smaller in volume drink.
Now as I guzzle, or sip, (lady-like style, of course) my Lucid from my left hand, I take a moment to admire the haunting green eyes on the bottle that stare through me and view my inner most conceptions of the flavor. Anise, very similar to black licorice, completely fills the room with a pheromone-like essence. Although the flavor of this “verte” is more of a bold wallop of herbs that immediately burns me to my innermost core, as this particular brand is 122 proof. The payoff is in the finish, surprisingly creamy and candied, and soothing to my first encounter. I'm completely in such love with this one drink. So much, I'll try my fairy in my right hand now... and hold onto the table with my left. Mata Hari is charmingly serving me two glasses from the picture on her bottle. I'm not sure I can trust her offer, being that I'm so relaxed and lightheaded from my visit with the French. As I participate in the Czech-Bohemian baptism by fire, a toasted marshmallow aroma whiffs up from the sugar, and lingers only a moment longer after being extinguished. Mata's introduction is so velvety and floral on the palette. The strong, anise tang is subdued and not as prevalent as it was in Lucid. I find it to be very honey flavored in the finish as I complete my research... now lying upon the floor.
I've had a positively delightful time crafting this paper. My comparison topic for how dearly loved, and enchanted and how hauntingly beautiful I find absinthe to be, has sadly drawn to the end. I find great beauty in both sampled versions of this libation. I will continue extensive research projects on my own, as my quest is far from over. Much more is to be investigated with many, many more absinthes. From the color, the aroma, and the flavors of the many varieties, this inquisition will last as long as my liver can hold up. Good night, and I love you, and all the pretty green fairies, so many much.
The French method of preparation is alluringly ritualistic. A sugar cube is placed upon a small slotted spoon over a glass containing one ounce of absinthe. Ice water is slowly and methodically dripped onto the sugar into the glass. The bright green color of the absinthe starts to evolve into a pale and creamy jade tone. This elegant union and process is called louching. Louching releases the herbal aromas and allows them to bloom and meld into a very strong bouquet. After the sugar is completely dissolved, the consumption can begin. The Czech-Bohemian method is similar to the French, with the tantalizing addition of fire. A sugar cube is presoaked with absinthe, and placed upon a spoon over one ounce of liqueur. The cube is set ablaze and then dropped into the glass igniting the absinthe. Cooking the absinthe will sadly remove some of the alcohol. However dear friends the average alcohol content measures 145 proof so no need to worry of this small sacrifice for the greater greener good. Our "Flaming Green Fairy" is then doused with one small shot of ice water. This method produces a much stronger, but smaller in volume drink.
Now as I guzzle, or sip, (lady-like style, of course) my Lucid from my left hand, I take a moment to admire the haunting green eyes on the bottle that stare through me and view my inner most conceptions of the flavor. Anise, very similar to black licorice, completely fills the room with a pheromone-like essence. Although the flavor of this “verte” is more of a bold wallop of herbs that immediately burns me to my innermost core, as this particular brand is 122 proof. The payoff is in the finish, surprisingly creamy and candied, and soothing to my first encounter. I'm completely in such love with this one drink. So much, I'll try my fairy in my right hand now... and hold onto the table with my left. Mata Hari is charmingly serving me two glasses from the picture on her bottle. I'm not sure I can trust her offer, being that I'm so relaxed and lightheaded from my visit with the French. As I participate in the Czech-Bohemian baptism by fire, a toasted marshmallow aroma whiffs up from the sugar, and lingers only a moment longer after being extinguished. Mata's introduction is so velvety and floral on the palette. The strong, anise tang is subdued and not as prevalent as it was in Lucid. I find it to be very honey flavored in the finish as I complete my research... now lying upon the floor.
I've had a positively delightful time crafting this paper. My comparison topic for how dearly loved, and enchanted and how hauntingly beautiful I find absinthe to be, has sadly drawn to the end. I find great beauty in both sampled versions of this libation. I will continue extensive research projects on my own, as my quest is far from over. Much more is to be investigated with many, many more absinthes. From the color, the aroma, and the flavors of the many varieties, this inquisition will last as long as my liver can hold up. Good night, and I love you, and all the pretty green fairies, so many much.
Gender Paper
Why do women wear make-up and perfume?
Because they are ugly and they smell bad.
I'm not sure why, but that has always been one of my favorites jokes. It's so stupid, but I laugh every time. The punch line is such a great mix of the unexpected, misogyny, and even a little empowerment. As a woman, you’re almost always offended when you first hear it. Those feelings of, “Well, I wouldn’t spend so much time primping, if I didn’t have to be attractive to men, in an man’s world”. However, if you really give the punch line a moment, it really has it’s own hidden beauty. Now, this may be open to interpretation, but I find it to say, that there is no need for improvement. You are all ready beautiful. There is nothing wrong with highlighting or accentuating your best features. However, if you find that you really need to trowel on, or airbrush a completely different face other than your own, than that really is ugly. Less is more, as the old make-up adage goes. This little zinger is very much like the essence of woman; in it’s own poetic sense. You never know what to expect when you encounter a woman, and that may be our own greatest mystery and/or artillery. We all know true beauty is never the product of ambergris, age-defying moisturizers, or anything of Olay. It comes from within, and all that do-gooder stuff that Disney princesses preach.
I could just be making the previous statements as an excuse for my own lack of usage in the make-up and perfume department. I rarely wear either, and when I do, I just about need to be strapped down to apply it, especially eyeliner. Very frustrating. Also, I’m usually nervous, and a little less like myself when I wear make-up, even though I’ve been experimenting with it now for decades. All of those self-doubts come bubbling right to the surface, when I’m painted. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” “Did I just smudge my eye, and am now taking on the appearance of a raccoon or a panda?” My sister Theresa, on the other hand, has always been a girlie-girl. Her collection of make-up would put most drag queens to shame. Her product knowledge is PhD worthy, and a portion of her will forever be lost to a research and development phase over the perfect shade of pistol packin’ pink. The genetics for cosmetics went solely to her, and she is very beautiful, inside and out, because of it.
Theresa and I have always been treated differently due to our appearance. I was a travel agent for nine years, and never once did I receive a free upgrade to first class on any of my flights, and would usually receive a Kia Rio at the rental counter. That may have something to do with me being a practical traveler. I know how to travel for comfort, and foundation and eyeliner is not a qualifier. However, my sister gets upgraded 95% of the time, on any airline, and will almost always receive the nicest car on the lot when she rents. She may forget her passport, but she does not forget her Bobbi Brown make-up collection. However, she is horribly criticized when she is not “made up”. Her co-workers will ask what is wrong with her, and comment on how tired she looks. Recently, she has begun modeling, and has had her face airbrushed to giver her a “perfect” complexion. Her stylist noticed a couple of missed spots, and graciously “fixed” them for her. So according to her, with make-up, she is a model, without, she is a tired old hag with something wrong.
I’ve never had that happen to me, because people are used to my natural face. I’ve received compliments on how nice my lips look when I am wearing Dr. Pepper flavored lip gloss, when I do put forth that much effort. Critical feedback that I consistently receive is how shocked people are when I’m at ease enough to let loose and be myself, with my filthy, vulgar mouth. I guess they hear my little voice paired with a stream of obscenities, and are always shocked by that sight. I’ll admit, a trucker mouth with watermelon lip shimmer and a weird, Kathy Ireland voice, looks and sounds strange. But there it is hanging off my face. Oh well, maybe I am just one of the guys… in a skirt. I don’t feel any less feminine because I don’t spend the duration of a movie on my appearance. I’d simply just rather watch the movie, whether it’s “Legally Blonde” or “The French Connection”.
“The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says, "It's a girl,” - Shirley Chisholm.
Man, or woman rather, where is Shirley when you need her? When I found out that I was pregnant, I just knew I would have a boy. At least, I'd better have. I felt I would be at a complete loss with a daughter. I remember walking through the toy aisles at Target and encountering the trashy Bratz dolls, and thinking it would be the absolute death of me if someone ever gave one of those devices to my child. Why have the toy companies not evolved? Even today, it’s still split with pink on one side, and blue on the other, and nary the two shall meet.
Years ago, I was at a bookstore flipping through a photography book titled, "Girl Culture" by Lauren Greenfield. Her photography was a brutally honest collection of the many facets of the developing woman. Four-year-old "Jon-Benets", 11-year-old girls in an eating disorder clinic, girls performing martial arts, girls performing in strip clubs, breast augmentations, etc. One of the photos that really stuck with me, was of the little girls too busy dressing like Barbie rather than playing with the Barbie’s in front of them. You can't BE Barbie, no one can, not even Barbie! There are too many scientific studies showing that if Barbie were an actual human, she would not have the strength in her waistline to support her upper body, and she would be so thin, there would only be room for half of her liver, and a few inches of intestines. Yet, when we visit the toy store, they are packed floor to ceiling with Barbie’s, and not one Shirley Chisholm doll in sight.
As a mother, I’m trying to help create an equal balance for my son, Max. I’m happy for him that he is into his “boy stuff” like Star Wars, comics, and Legos, and yet, has no qualms about watching “PowerPuff Girls” and “Ella Enchanted”. I’m relieved that he is finally at an age where he is interested in lawn care, and is open to learning how to cook (with his Star Wars Cook Book), sew (his “Son of Rambow” costume), and help, albeit begrudgingly, with laundry. I am most proud of him right now as he is going through a huge 5th grade crush on a classmate, and says what he likes most about Morgan is how smart she is, because she won the classroom science fair. I certainly hope he continues to maintain that thought process about women. I certainly hope I do too. Just as soon as I get back from the store from buying the complete MAC “Beauty Tabloid” collection and Brittany Spear’s “Circus Fantasy” perfume!
Because they are ugly and they smell bad.
I'm not sure why, but that has always been one of my favorites jokes. It's so stupid, but I laugh every time. The punch line is such a great mix of the unexpected, misogyny, and even a little empowerment. As a woman, you’re almost always offended when you first hear it. Those feelings of, “Well, I wouldn’t spend so much time primping, if I didn’t have to be attractive to men, in an man’s world”. However, if you really give the punch line a moment, it really has it’s own hidden beauty. Now, this may be open to interpretation, but I find it to say, that there is no need for improvement. You are all ready beautiful. There is nothing wrong with highlighting or accentuating your best features. However, if you find that you really need to trowel on, or airbrush a completely different face other than your own, than that really is ugly. Less is more, as the old make-up adage goes. This little zinger is very much like the essence of woman; in it’s own poetic sense. You never know what to expect when you encounter a woman, and that may be our own greatest mystery and/or artillery. We all know true beauty is never the product of ambergris, age-defying moisturizers, or anything of Olay. It comes from within, and all that do-gooder stuff that Disney princesses preach.
I could just be making the previous statements as an excuse for my own lack of usage in the make-up and perfume department. I rarely wear either, and when I do, I just about need to be strapped down to apply it, especially eyeliner. Very frustrating. Also, I’m usually nervous, and a little less like myself when I wear make-up, even though I’ve been experimenting with it now for decades. All of those self-doubts come bubbling right to the surface, when I’m painted. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” “Did I just smudge my eye, and am now taking on the appearance of a raccoon or a panda?” My sister Theresa, on the other hand, has always been a girlie-girl. Her collection of make-up would put most drag queens to shame. Her product knowledge is PhD worthy, and a portion of her will forever be lost to a research and development phase over the perfect shade of pistol packin’ pink. The genetics for cosmetics went solely to her, and she is very beautiful, inside and out, because of it.
Theresa and I have always been treated differently due to our appearance. I was a travel agent for nine years, and never once did I receive a free upgrade to first class on any of my flights, and would usually receive a Kia Rio at the rental counter. That may have something to do with me being a practical traveler. I know how to travel for comfort, and foundation and eyeliner is not a qualifier. However, my sister gets upgraded 95% of the time, on any airline, and will almost always receive the nicest car on the lot when she rents. She may forget her passport, but she does not forget her Bobbi Brown make-up collection. However, she is horribly criticized when she is not “made up”. Her co-workers will ask what is wrong with her, and comment on how tired she looks. Recently, she has begun modeling, and has had her face airbrushed to giver her a “perfect” complexion. Her stylist noticed a couple of missed spots, and graciously “fixed” them for her. So according to her, with make-up, she is a model, without, she is a tired old hag with something wrong.
I’ve never had that happen to me, because people are used to my natural face. I’ve received compliments on how nice my lips look when I am wearing Dr. Pepper flavored lip gloss, when I do put forth that much effort. Critical feedback that I consistently receive is how shocked people are when I’m at ease enough to let loose and be myself, with my filthy, vulgar mouth. I guess they hear my little voice paired with a stream of obscenities, and are always shocked by that sight. I’ll admit, a trucker mouth with watermelon lip shimmer and a weird, Kathy Ireland voice, looks and sounds strange. But there it is hanging off my face. Oh well, maybe I am just one of the guys… in a skirt. I don’t feel any less feminine because I don’t spend the duration of a movie on my appearance. I’d simply just rather watch the movie, whether it’s “Legally Blonde” or “The French Connection”.
“The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says, "It's a girl,” - Shirley Chisholm.
Man, or woman rather, where is Shirley when you need her? When I found out that I was pregnant, I just knew I would have a boy. At least, I'd better have. I felt I would be at a complete loss with a daughter. I remember walking through the toy aisles at Target and encountering the trashy Bratz dolls, and thinking it would be the absolute death of me if someone ever gave one of those devices to my child. Why have the toy companies not evolved? Even today, it’s still split with pink on one side, and blue on the other, and nary the two shall meet.
Years ago, I was at a bookstore flipping through a photography book titled, "Girl Culture" by Lauren Greenfield. Her photography was a brutally honest collection of the many facets of the developing woman. Four-year-old "Jon-Benets", 11-year-old girls in an eating disorder clinic, girls performing martial arts, girls performing in strip clubs, breast augmentations, etc. One of the photos that really stuck with me, was of the little girls too busy dressing like Barbie rather than playing with the Barbie’s in front of them. You can't BE Barbie, no one can, not even Barbie! There are too many scientific studies showing that if Barbie were an actual human, she would not have the strength in her waistline to support her upper body, and she would be so thin, there would only be room for half of her liver, and a few inches of intestines. Yet, when we visit the toy store, they are packed floor to ceiling with Barbie’s, and not one Shirley Chisholm doll in sight.
As a mother, I’m trying to help create an equal balance for my son, Max. I’m happy for him that he is into his “boy stuff” like Star Wars, comics, and Legos, and yet, has no qualms about watching “PowerPuff Girls” and “Ella Enchanted”. I’m relieved that he is finally at an age where he is interested in lawn care, and is open to learning how to cook (with his Star Wars Cook Book), sew (his “Son of Rambow” costume), and help, albeit begrudgingly, with laundry. I am most proud of him right now as he is going through a huge 5th grade crush on a classmate, and says what he likes most about Morgan is how smart she is, because she won the classroom science fair. I certainly hope he continues to maintain that thought process about women. I certainly hope I do too. Just as soon as I get back from the store from buying the complete MAC “Beauty Tabloid” collection and Brittany Spear’s “Circus Fantasy” perfume!
Descriptive Narrative Essay - 24 little hours
"I can't believe I have to plan my son's funeral!" cried my mother-in-law, Paula. This was the worst thing said on the worst day possible, and, of course, she spoke it. She at least tried to state this in the hallway, and not in the hospital room in front of her son, but I heard it. Most of North America can hear her, when she is in the throws of any number of her dramas. My husband, Jason, was undergoing the first twenty-four hours of a catastrophic illness diagnosis.
August 15th, 2008 was the beginning, and end, of nothing ever being the same for him again.
That Friday morning was standard issue for us, aside from Jason's uncontrollable left arm. I was making a lunch for our son, Max, when Jason came running into the kitchen.
"I can't control my arm!" Jason said with his entire left arm behaving like a seal flipper.
"What did you do now?" I rolled my eyes and smirked at him.
"I don't know, I reached in the closet for Max's gi, and it started going crazy."
"Jesus, does it hurt?" I asked more seriously.
"I don't know, I can't feel it,” he said, looking very surprised.
The shaking stopped of course, when we pulled into St Alexius's parking lot. He was able to walk into the E.R. on his own okay, and I dropped Max off at his summer karate camp. When I returned, Jason was sitting in the waiting room, rubbing his left arm. He had regained most of the feeling back, and thought about leaving, since he has always been the impatient patient.
"Well, we may as well stay, they're going to bill us anyway, so make the most of it. Steal some tongue depressors, and cotton balls!" I said leaning against the stiff back of the plastic chair.
I remember how completely silent it felt before he was called back by Tammy, the nurse. The giant E.R. doors swung open like hell gates from a bad horror movie. After several hours of evaluations, blood testing, and a CT scan, Tammy, and our E.R. trauma doc, Dr. Bussman, came back to us, both with tears in their eyes.
“It's not good,” the doctor said.
Our little clock stopped forever with those three little words. Two brain lesions, suspect of signs of malignancy were found, and Jason would immediately be transferred by ambulance to Saint Louis University Hospital, for further evaluations. The doctor gave us a few, very stunned, blurry moments with each other, and then put his own cell phone, and a $20 bill in my hand, and told me to call everyone I needed to. It was official; we were in a full-throttle crisis mode. I called both of our bosses, and said I wasn't sure when either of us would return to work, and then sent out a distress call to our friends and families. The two of us then left on our first ambulance ride together.
My Dad and step mom, Dianne, met me in the E.R. at Saint Louis University Hospital, with a new cell phone.
"Here, you'll need this." she said, as she handed me a box from AT&T.
My God, we were going to need a cell phone now? We had gotten this far in life without one, and now what we always viewed as evil, was going to become a necessary evil.
At this point, Paula arrived, followed shortly by Jason's father and stepmother, Larry and Esther. My parents and I took this moment to step out and collect Max, and my car at the other hospital. When we returned, Jason was moved from the E.R., into a room on the 5th floor of the hospital. The results of the testing done that evening in the SLUH E.R. were even worse. Jason told us they found lesions on his left kidney, left hip, and right adrenal gland. A young, resident doctor came in to explain the testing and treatments that would perform over the next several days. Dianne started taking down notes, and my father asked a few questions. I shushed Esther, who was busy discussing a recipe, while the doctor was trying to speak.
"Jesus, what's wrong with her?" I thought. Jason should be the priority, not chicken and dumplings. It's like you hear in the movies, ”How can you think of food at a time like this?”
The doctor left, and most of the visitors departed soon after. I stood out in the hallway for a few moments with Jason's father.
"I feel like I haven't gotten to know Jason,” he said to me. This was such an eye-opening statement to make, almost like he was writing him off already, when we truly did not know what was wrong with him. Max was going to stay with his grandparents up in Springfield, Illinois over the weekend, allowing me to spend the night with Jason in his room.
"God, I feel like I haven't talked to you all day." I said to Jason around midnight, while I was making up my flip-out chair bed.
"I don't know what to say. There aren't words for this, Sarah." he replied.
"I'm so sorry for everything." I sobbed as I hugged him.
"Me too. I love you." he said hugging back.
That was the end of the first day of a new life for us.
August 15th, 2008 was the beginning, and end, of nothing ever being the same for him again.
That Friday morning was standard issue for us, aside from Jason's uncontrollable left arm. I was making a lunch for our son, Max, when Jason came running into the kitchen.
"I can't control my arm!" Jason said with his entire left arm behaving like a seal flipper.
"What did you do now?" I rolled my eyes and smirked at him.
"I don't know, I reached in the closet for Max's gi, and it started going crazy."
"Jesus, does it hurt?" I asked more seriously.
"I don't know, I can't feel it,” he said, looking very surprised.
The shaking stopped of course, when we pulled into St Alexius's parking lot. He was able to walk into the E.R. on his own okay, and I dropped Max off at his summer karate camp. When I returned, Jason was sitting in the waiting room, rubbing his left arm. He had regained most of the feeling back, and thought about leaving, since he has always been the impatient patient.
"Well, we may as well stay, they're going to bill us anyway, so make the most of it. Steal some tongue depressors, and cotton balls!" I said leaning against the stiff back of the plastic chair.
I remember how completely silent it felt before he was called back by Tammy, the nurse. The giant E.R. doors swung open like hell gates from a bad horror movie. After several hours of evaluations, blood testing, and a CT scan, Tammy, and our E.R. trauma doc, Dr. Bussman, came back to us, both with tears in their eyes.
“It's not good,” the doctor said.
Our little clock stopped forever with those three little words. Two brain lesions, suspect of signs of malignancy were found, and Jason would immediately be transferred by ambulance to Saint Louis University Hospital, for further evaluations. The doctor gave us a few, very stunned, blurry moments with each other, and then put his own cell phone, and a $20 bill in my hand, and told me to call everyone I needed to. It was official; we were in a full-throttle crisis mode. I called both of our bosses, and said I wasn't sure when either of us would return to work, and then sent out a distress call to our friends and families. The two of us then left on our first ambulance ride together.
My Dad and step mom, Dianne, met me in the E.R. at Saint Louis University Hospital, with a new cell phone.
"Here, you'll need this." she said, as she handed me a box from AT&T.
My God, we were going to need a cell phone now? We had gotten this far in life without one, and now what we always viewed as evil, was going to become a necessary evil.
At this point, Paula arrived, followed shortly by Jason's father and stepmother, Larry and Esther. My parents and I took this moment to step out and collect Max, and my car at the other hospital. When we returned, Jason was moved from the E.R., into a room on the 5th floor of the hospital. The results of the testing done that evening in the SLUH E.R. were even worse. Jason told us they found lesions on his left kidney, left hip, and right adrenal gland. A young, resident doctor came in to explain the testing and treatments that would perform over the next several days. Dianne started taking down notes, and my father asked a few questions. I shushed Esther, who was busy discussing a recipe, while the doctor was trying to speak.
"Jesus, what's wrong with her?" I thought. Jason should be the priority, not chicken and dumplings. It's like you hear in the movies, ”How can you think of food at a time like this?”
The doctor left, and most of the visitors departed soon after. I stood out in the hallway for a few moments with Jason's father.
"I feel like I haven't gotten to know Jason,” he said to me. This was such an eye-opening statement to make, almost like he was writing him off already, when we truly did not know what was wrong with him. Max was going to stay with his grandparents up in Springfield, Illinois over the weekend, allowing me to spend the night with Jason in his room.
"God, I feel like I haven't talked to you all day." I said to Jason around midnight, while I was making up my flip-out chair bed.
"I don't know what to say. There aren't words for this, Sarah." he replied.
"I'm so sorry for everything." I sobbed as I hugged him.
"Me too. I love you." he said hugging back.
That was the end of the first day of a new life for us.
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