A preview

I'm not complaining quite as fiercely...
--radicalflower

Fancy feast

I'm pretty sure not everyone appreciates my refreshing honesty (otherwise known as a unique ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time). Don't get me wrong...I have been known to be evasive and fib just like the next person, but I have acquired a certain bluntness over the years that I attribute largely to my current flatmate. Anyway, I think the Executive V.P. at my office is one of those nonappreciating souls. Most every day for lunch she has this concoction of some kind of multigrain crackers or bread and omega-3 wild salmon. It's the salmon that sparked this post. The pink slices are cut pretty small, practically ground, and shoved in a can. Much like the cranberry sauce at my house during Thanksgiving, this salmon goes directly from can to plate while retaining its original mold. Its shape, combined with the smell, led me to comment the other day that her lunch always reminds me of cat food. This is when I was informed of the content of the can (the wild salmon). Anyway, after today I'll be sequestered with many omega-3 toting folks, a minor celebrity and others at a series of cabins in Maine. Pray I have a wireless connection and the temerity to dance the dance.

****Breaking News Bulletin: Miracles never cease. Tom DeLay is indicted.****

Waiting

I wonder how much of our lives we spend waiting for things. Right now
I'm waiting for the bus (welcome to life without a working vehicle).

I'm waiting for enough time to finish all of my creative projects. When
will I allow my schedule enough time to open up to devote more of myself
to those things that make me happy?

I'm waiting for the right moment to look for that next job opportunity,
fill out that grad school application.

I'm waiting for the right man to come along. Don't play coy...many of
you are, too. Hell, some of you are waiting for the right man to make
the right decision.

I spent 45 minutes of my life waiting to get into a restaurant on Friday
night and an hour that day waiting for my car to be towed.

How much of days do we spend waiting? I have to wonder if all of that
waiting is necessary or if some of things we wait on are just an excuse
to avoid living life. For me, I would have to say yes on both
accounts. Some things are so worth waiting for, while others simply
stand as an excuse for fear.
--radicalflower

Antiquated dress codes

Antiquated dress codes irk me. At this moment in time I am specifically referring to pantyhose. I was participating in a conversation the earlier in the week at the Barn about dress codes, and one of the managers (female) mentioned that the store manager asked why she wasn't wearing pantyhose. Said manager had a reply ready since she had researched the employee handbook and had seen that they weren't required. She won. This, however, raised a much larger issue with me. Namely, why the hell do some places of employment still require their female employees to wear pantyhose? If a woman chooses to wear pantyhose, that is her perogative. I can, however, think of no reasons for requiring them that aren't sexist. Help me out here...why should pantyhose be required as part of a dress code?

Stigma of being poor

Sunday's Washington Post Outlook section featured an opinion piece by friend and local writer, K.E. Semmel. Hey, Chairman Dean, Don't Write Me Off is one man's plea to the Democratic Party to a take to the retro and return to its working class roots. It is one of the many sirens being sounded across this country calling for a focus on poverty. As many of you who have been reading this blog for awhile know, there is a piece of my soul that will always belong to the poor. Like Semmel, I come from a strictly working class family. Raised by my mom and both grandparents in rural Texas, I was educated on the poor side town at one of those schools that got "left behind" and was the first in my family to graduate from college. My father left us when we were young, and my mother struggled to support her family by working at the local publishing plant. Each year I appreciate my roots more and more, and as the months and years roll by, I continue to ask myself if I'm doing the right thing with my life. I believe I'm giving back to the community, but am I giving back in the most meaningful way? I want to help people, those in need. Semmel's article is one in a series of things that keep pushing this to the forefront of my thought life. I am reminded of what I'm not doing by the homeless I see (Stench of the city, Where do you find God?, The unsinkable human spirit?) daily in the streets. Groups like Sojourners keep testing my faith and calling me to fight for what is right. I sit in church on Sunday and listen to a sermon on the poor and the stigma surrounding them. I hear/read/see all of these things and ask myself whether I am doing enough. I ask myself if this is the sign I have been waiting for.

Nosy heifer or information junkie

I like to know things about people. This isn't because I'm a gossip
hound. I just like to have all available information in front of me.
Evaluating a piece of evidence with only half of the story isn't
necessarily going to paint an accurate picture. When it comes to
friends and family, I want to know because I want that closeness, that
bond. I want to know because I care.

That said, it doesn't rule out the occasional snoopy behavior toward
random individuals I don't even know. I love to listen to other
people's conversations on the train or the bus, for example. Right now,
I am on the metro checking out an email a girl is typing on her
blackberry. I can see the reflection in the window. As you all know, I
like to fancy myself a spy at times, but really I just like to watch
life. This you could call nosy.
--radicalflower

Shake that ass

Last night I had a dance floor epiphany (yeah...epiphany. I said it.
There's no word that sounds as good.) It became all too clear how
neatly most people fell into dance categories. First, you've got your
dance queens. These men and women can tear up the floor and love to
show off. Most of the time they have the moves to justify the space
they take up. Next you have the many perpetrators of the white girl
shuffle. I worry about falling into this category but know I sometimes
do (inner dance diva, please show yourself). Anyway, you know the white
girl shuffle...it's the minimum of movement with little to no rhythm,
all while trying to appear sexy. No abandon or joy...that stuff that is
what dance is all about to me. Finally, there is the male version of
the shuffle. I like to call it the "I can't believe she got me on the
dance floor but thank god I had that extra beer" dance. Very stiff.
Very funny.

If you haven't figured it out by now, I went dancing Friday night and
had a smashing good time. I don't care if I can't dance because I sure
love to do it. I also had one of the best cosmos I've ever had.
--radicalflower

Reader's Advantage...the invite

Actually, this is just a mere fraction of the badass invite I put together. Anyway, come on down and join us next Wednesday for our world premiere.

Fuck Bush!

Bush urged Americans to curb .... He also warned Gulf Coast residents, including those searching for water and food, not to break into businesses or commit other crimes during the crisis.

"There ought to be zero tolerance of people breaking the law during an emergency such as this," Bush said in an interview on ABC's "Good Morning America."

"If people need water and food, we're going to do everything we can to get them water and food," Bush added. "It's very important for the citizens in all affected areas to take personal responsibility and assume a kind of a civic sense of responsibility so that the situation doesn't get out of hand, so people don't exploit the vulnerable."

--"A City of Despair and Lawlessness", Washington Post

If my family or the family of someone I love doesn't have food or water and have been waiting days for assistance, you can bet your ass I'm going to do my best to get it for them. I wouldn't exploit the vulnerable, but I sure as hell would make my way to that abandoned corner store and grab some effing food for my family. If the federal government can't (or won't) react swiftly enough in times of crisis, it is my personal responsibility to do what I can to ensure their health and survival.

Where does compassion go?

Where does compassion go when it's obviously not present? I got really frustrated with someone last night because of the hardass view they were taking on the hurricane devastation along the Gulf Coast. She chose to buy into all the media hype and focus on the looters. What I want to know is why isn't anyone covering the people having to loot for food or more clothing (shoes because theirs are ruined)? Why is she and quite a few others choosing to focus her hatred for the human race on the few individuals who are going to do their best to fuck things up for themselves and those around them, even in the worst situations? I don't get it. Sure people piss me the eff off, but I just can't ditch the compassion and empathy I'm filled with. I can't let myself get that hard. When people are in need, you grieve for them then get up off your ass and do something about it.