Gift-getting really isn’t my thing. I like Christmas, I like presents, but they are not my favorite part of the holidays.
Be alarmed, a girl that totally admits to being into clothes-and-make-up-and-accessories is now admitting that she doesn’t really care about all that . . . crap.
I guess that it comes down to the fact that people spending money on me makes me feel more like a burden than a blessing. And the holidays are about blessings, giving them and remembering them.
Sitting on my couch watching old “Home Alone” movies, and the star on top of the Christmas tree blink on and off, sends me more into a mood of nostalgia than greedy present-grubbying-gift-peeking self-interest. This is the way I like it.
If you took an X-ray of my Christmas stocking I think the truth would be visible. Colorfully wrapped in red and silver would be some tweezers, a box of animal crackers, hairspray, probably an orange and maybe a five dollar gift card to Peet’s Coffee.
The gift-giving tradition I am used to means taking utmost pleasure in the quality of the time spent on each other and not the quantity (or cost) of gifts.
I might even be unhappy if a beautiful MacBook Air was wrapped up and placed under the tree. There is nothing like a computer to steal away the precious time spent with family and the simple joy that comes from not spending over our budget and appreciating each other, not each other’s credit card debt.
But that materialism and commercialism is an aspect of the holiday season. Even Thanksgiving is overshadowed by Black Friday, the annual shopping day where people can go and spend money they don’t have on things they don’t need or on presents that are still out of their budget.
There has got to be more to Christmas than the credit-card hangovers and the fatigue that comes in January.
My stocking, usually filled by my parents, consists of the treats that I love most, and the things I “borrow” on occasion from their room. Practical, maybe. Hilarious? Definitely.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I enjoy the gratitude that sweeps over me for that Target shirt or headband from Forever 21 I get from my sisters. This is what Christmas gifts should feel like.
In the spirit of the economy, I feel like this makes more than perfect sense.
Plus think of “Home Alone.” There are so many fun little things that you can try that are much more exciting than shopping. Like setting ropes on fire and building traps and dumping water on someone just for the heck of it.
Christmas should be fun, not hectic and not a burden.
And the nostalgia reminds me of the days of Christmas-past. I have no clue what I got for Christmas in those years. I don’t even remember what I received for Christmas last year and frankly, I don’t care.
Gosh, I’m different.
Think about your neighbor or your friend (so we don’t make this too personal) and how much money they spend on decorations, fancy food, expensive toys, holiday drinking and every other thing that the holidays are known for.
Believe me that “joy” lasts for approximately one day, maybe a week, and then the bill arrives.
But this isn’t really about money. It is about taking pleasure in the little things, in family, in friends, in fireplaces and hot chocolate.
So if you’re thinking about getting me a Christmas gift this year, don’t bother. Making me sugary, starchy cookies and watching “A White Christmas” with me is probably a better idea. I mean, obviously I am not good at receiving presents and I won’t spend a fortune on you.
But a fortune to one man is just bullcrap to another. The best gift you can give is truly the simplest: your love, your time, your energy, yourself.
Christmas is a time for sappy emotions and corny decorations. . .
And maybe some presents.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Simply, My Life
Let me tell you a story about decorations, menu-planning, slaving in the kitchen, carbs, too many potatoes, not enough potatoes, exhaustion, laughter and singing: Thanksgiving with the Ostermanns.
Life is family.
And it’s these simple things that mean the most, especially during the complicated holiday season, often overshadowed by merchandise and materialism.
So, Instead of a Christmas list, I made a what-I-love-about-my-life-list that goes something like this:
1. Jesus
2. Mummy and Dadders
3. My three sisters: Elise, Ariel and Kali
4. My three best friends: Kaley, Lauryn and Kate
5. Playing outside (mud pits, climbing trees and puddle-jumping)
6. My heater (just installed in my room, boo-yah)
7. Organic agave nectar
8. Frisbee
9. Singing at the top of my lungs
10. Dorky dancing
You have to hear the story to understand.
Once upon a time, two people married each other because they were ridiculously in love. When they felt they were ready for a new adventure, they had four daughters. Being good parents, they loved each other best and their daughters next best.
As a good father, my Dad taught all his daughters the essential skills of life: throwing a Frisbee and climbing trees. As a good mother, my Mom taught us how to make the best sweet potato casserole and how to eat healthy. As good sisters to each other, we were never without someone to hug, blame, borrow from, fight with, harmonize to or use for a dance partner.
Childhood was spent primarily outdoors, racing the neighborhood boys and singing in the rain. Winter was full of make-believe and dress-up and learning new dance moves from one of my mom’s Denise Richards exercise videos.
My teen days were spent actually learning how to sing, ruining expensive shoes by forgetting that muddy puddles were not created for jumping, and loving Jesus. College years began with learning how to wear make-up.
These years were shaped by my best girl friends and will end with them; I am going to live with one, I drove off the road when another one called me five minutes after her engagement and I still cry when I think about how Oklahoma is stealing another one away.
Life is full of change.
Now I give myself over to things like organic agave nectar. As a habitual treat-lover, sugar has always been something of a problem. After a life of high fiber cereal and an allotted hour a day where I “had” to play outside, I’ve lived a rather healthy life pattern. Now, as an adult, I stay in charge of making my own food and gym schedule. Shopping for low calorie and nutritious foods has become a hobby. My sisters and I are the first to swear by P90X and the last to admit that carob really is not as good as chocolate.
Life is full of adventure.
Although I am in the process of moving out, I enjoy the room my parents have willingly provided, and the heater they donated to me. Perhaps I have a poor constitution or perhaps a year in Los Angeles ruined me but I swear there is never such a thing as too many blankets. I have my methods for solving these problems, nothing like sneaking into my sister’s room at an unholy hour of the night and literally stealing the blankets off of her.
Life is funny.
The thing about this Thanksgiving is that I am older. I understand how many blessings are in my life. I understand exactly who I want to thank for them. Most importantly I do not want a single second to pass that I don’t treasure. Something about my family is simply amazing. And there is nothing like great food to remind us.
P.S. There will definitely be a dorky dance party to follow, complete with an air guitar contest and shooting a ridiculous home video in which we will all get drunk on sparkling cider.
I love life.
Life is family.
And it’s these simple things that mean the most, especially during the complicated holiday season, often overshadowed by merchandise and materialism.
So, Instead of a Christmas list, I made a what-I-love-about-my-life-list that goes something like this:
1. Jesus
2. Mummy and Dadders
3. My three sisters: Elise, Ariel and Kali
4. My three best friends: Kaley, Lauryn and Kate
5. Playing outside (mud pits, climbing trees and puddle-jumping)
6. My heater (just installed in my room, boo-yah)
7. Organic agave nectar
8. Frisbee
9. Singing at the top of my lungs
10. Dorky dancing
You have to hear the story to understand.
Once upon a time, two people married each other because they were ridiculously in love. When they felt they were ready for a new adventure, they had four daughters. Being good parents, they loved each other best and their daughters next best.
As a good father, my Dad taught all his daughters the essential skills of life: throwing a Frisbee and climbing trees. As a good mother, my Mom taught us how to make the best sweet potato casserole and how to eat healthy. As good sisters to each other, we were never without someone to hug, blame, borrow from, fight with, harmonize to or use for a dance partner.
Childhood was spent primarily outdoors, racing the neighborhood boys and singing in the rain. Winter was full of make-believe and dress-up and learning new dance moves from one of my mom’s Denise Richards exercise videos.
My teen days were spent actually learning how to sing, ruining expensive shoes by forgetting that muddy puddles were not created for jumping, and loving Jesus. College years began with learning how to wear make-up.
These years were shaped by my best girl friends and will end with them; I am going to live with one, I drove off the road when another one called me five minutes after her engagement and I still cry when I think about how Oklahoma is stealing another one away.
Life is full of change.
Now I give myself over to things like organic agave nectar. As a habitual treat-lover, sugar has always been something of a problem. After a life of high fiber cereal and an allotted hour a day where I “had” to play outside, I’ve lived a rather healthy life pattern. Now, as an adult, I stay in charge of making my own food and gym schedule. Shopping for low calorie and nutritious foods has become a hobby. My sisters and I are the first to swear by P90X and the last to admit that carob really is not as good as chocolate.
Life is full of adventure.
Although I am in the process of moving out, I enjoy the room my parents have willingly provided, and the heater they donated to me. Perhaps I have a poor constitution or perhaps a year in Los Angeles ruined me but I swear there is never such a thing as too many blankets. I have my methods for solving these problems, nothing like sneaking into my sister’s room at an unholy hour of the night and literally stealing the blankets off of her.
Life is funny.
The thing about this Thanksgiving is that I am older. I understand how many blessings are in my life. I understand exactly who I want to thank for them. Most importantly I do not want a single second to pass that I don’t treasure. Something about my family is simply amazing. And there is nothing like great food to remind us.
P.S. There will definitely be a dorky dance party to follow, complete with an air guitar contest and shooting a ridiculous home video in which we will all get drunk on sparkling cider.
I love life.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Death On His Own Terms
There is something charming, chilling and absolutely fascinating about a brilliant bloodstain analyst that moonlights as a serial killer.
Dexter Morgan kills by the guidelines of Harry, his adoptive father, who trained Dexter to convincingly interact with normal human beings while remaining a closeted psychopath. Dexter’s fascination with killing has largely escaped suspicion as Dexter keeps up superficially close relationships with his sister, Deb, and girlfriend, Rita. However, Dexter is also alarmingly aware of his duplicitous lifestyle and how he is unable to feel the emotions of love, friendliness or sorrow, although he has completely mastered the art of pretending.
Serial killers are a familiar figure in action movies by this time, usually as the villain. Yet empathizing with a serial killer is not something I expected. Neither did I expect to have conversations with my friends about feeling fascinated by the methodical process of killing or feeling like we could relate to Dexter’s search for emotion.
Dexter’s signature killing method is shown in nearly every episode. In just the first episode of the first season we see that he straps his victim naked to a table and slices open their cheek with a knife for the blood he will later store on a slide as a sort of victory treasure. As the captive blubbers and their eyes go white with terror, he delivers the death blow which can be anything from a cleaver to a buzzing drill. Nauseating as it may sound; it becomes fascinating as you feel more involved in Dexter’s emotions than in those of the dying yet monstrous victim. Plus, you are spared the actual sawing or gutting, although you are shown the wrapped limbs that he dumps into the Florida Keys.
Something about this is both desensitizing and arousing. A violent look at the transition we have as a culture into less human forms of empathy.
But, of course, this is only in season one. Now on season four, Dexter has become much more graphic and the villain of the season kills with much more methodical ferociousness.
“This season just hits closer to home,” said Bryan Graf, “The way in which one of the serial killers thinks about the death and just by being friendly manages to find out so much about their victim. Its just so graphic but you can’t stop watching.”
The thing about this Showtime production is that you cannot help but become fascinated. It becomes a brilliant battle of wits with death as the punishment for failure. Watching Dexter manipulate his emotions and those around him, slyly figure out how to kill the devils that the Miami Metro Police Department he works for tracks down and still remain a serial killer that no one is on the hunt for sounds unbelievable until you watch the show. Suddenly, in a grotesque way, Dexter becomes believable.
This sadistic superhero does not kill just for the fun of it but according to the “Code of Harry” he must only kill those who deserve to die.
The self- narrated setting of this beautifully shot show is proactive and eluding and the actor who plays Dexter, Michael C. Hall, seems the perfect platform for his ambiguous persona. Hall won the Golden Globe award in 2010 for best actor in a television drama series after two other nominations from previous seasons.
The show is something of a mix between the depth of Lost and the superhero-gone-good feeling of Twilight. Throw away your vampires and your werewolves to delve into the dark and good-looking person of Dexter, the forensic researcher that you know could outsmart you.
He is too smart, even watching you begin to understand that Dexter truly believes that he is an incurable psychopath striving to exist and evolve on his own terms.
And also live by Harry’s Code’s first rule: Don’t get caught.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Conversation Tips
When I lay spread-eagle on the floor of the bathroom, the last thing that could possibly cross my mind was, “Man. I can’t wait to eat a hunky tri-tip sandwich.”
Honestly, it was more to the tune of, “Gosh I hate my life, I hate this semester, I hate my job, I hate throwing up, I hate, hate, hate…”
Luckily the viral disease, or whatever haunted my insides, only lasted one, two . . . er . . . eight days? Residual effects may or may not be eating at me still.
The funny part about eating is that it usually is the last thing you want to do when your stomach is churning.
Is it bad to say that my favorite part about this restaurant was that it did not make me throw up?
Jack’s Urban Eats. Best place for a sandwich, a salad, stable food and a patio.
To add a bit of context to my story, the last sandwich I had eaten was from a large chain market, 24 hours earlier. The friendly sandwich-making-lady gave me too much free will over the direction of my sandwich. In the end it was two slabs of overly soft bread incasing two cups of cream cheese and avocado, a piece of warm-ish turkey and three strips of fatty bacon. Try putting that into an unhappy stomach.
All roads led to the toilet.
I was much more careful at Jack’s. I realized that I might not be able to hold my food down, that I wanted nothing to do with how the sandwich was made and seeing as I had nothing to prove to my date, I wanted the messiest thing on that menu.
Say hello to BBQ Tri-Tip, complete with a fried onion ring and a lot of sticky sauce.
“I’ll take that and a lemonade, thanks.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. My friend has fries.”
“Oh ok. Your name?”
“Leia.”
“Leah?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“Ten bucks and some change, please.”
“Oh. Um. Can I write an IOU?”
When charming the cashier did not work out so well for me (I blame it on my sickness), I went and sat on the delightful patio of the Jack’s in Loehmann’s plaza, located on the corner of Fair Oaks Blvd. and Munroe Ave.
Once assembling my stack of napkins, waiting the seven minutes for my sandwich to arrive, with a smile, from the guy that made it and letting my back warm in the sun, my happiness began to return.
I cannot begin to explain the delight it felt to chomp down on such a messy and delicious pile of goodness. Suffice it to say, I highly recommend it.
It did take five napkins, two fry stealing attempts and a whole cup of lemonade, but I am pretty sure that those elements helped to cure part of my ailments for the rest of the school day. Although the very powerful pain medication might have something to do with that too.
Jack’s Urban Eats is a place friendly to all types of food lovers; those that choose the salad lifestyle, those ready for slabs of meat and even little, picky children that just want a side of mac-and-cheese.
If you like cleanliness and order, you can watch over every step in the creation of your meal. From the light oiling and heating of the bread, to the guy with the chunk of meat and the sharp knife, to the lady that kindly fills your cup from the soda fountain machine behind the counter.
On a side note, this may help the obesity problem in America if everyone has to walk back to the counter to get a refill on their soda.
But the best part of any restaurant experience is the company. I’m afraid that my habits from the weekend lent me more towards a “Gosh, when is this over,” feeling. Or maybe it was that my date was a little sick himself and not very skilled at basic conversation.
Then again, maybe next time I shouldn’t start the conversation with the spread-eagle on the floor of the bathroom story.
Honestly, it was more to the tune of, “Gosh I hate my life, I hate this semester, I hate my job, I hate throwing up, I hate, hate, hate…”
Luckily the viral disease, or whatever haunted my insides, only lasted one, two . . . er . . . eight days? Residual effects may or may not be eating at me still.
The funny part about eating is that it usually is the last thing you want to do when your stomach is churning.
Is it bad to say that my favorite part about this restaurant was that it did not make me throw up?
Jack’s Urban Eats. Best place for a sandwich, a salad, stable food and a patio.
To add a bit of context to my story, the last sandwich I had eaten was from a large chain market, 24 hours earlier. The friendly sandwich-making-lady gave me too much free will over the direction of my sandwich. In the end it was two slabs of overly soft bread incasing two cups of cream cheese and avocado, a piece of warm-ish turkey and three strips of fatty bacon. Try putting that into an unhappy stomach.
All roads led to the toilet.
I was much more careful at Jack’s. I realized that I might not be able to hold my food down, that I wanted nothing to do with how the sandwich was made and seeing as I had nothing to prove to my date, I wanted the messiest thing on that menu.
Say hello to BBQ Tri-Tip, complete with a fried onion ring and a lot of sticky sauce.
“I’ll take that and a lemonade, thanks.”
“Would you like fries with that?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. My friend has fries.”
“Oh ok. Your name?”
“Leia.”
“Leah?”
“Uh. Sure.”
“Ten bucks and some change, please.”
“Oh. Um. Can I write an IOU?”
When charming the cashier did not work out so well for me (I blame it on my sickness), I went and sat on the delightful patio of the Jack’s in Loehmann’s plaza, located on the corner of Fair Oaks Blvd. and Munroe Ave.
Once assembling my stack of napkins, waiting the seven minutes for my sandwich to arrive, with a smile, from the guy that made it and letting my back warm in the sun, my happiness began to return.
I cannot begin to explain the delight it felt to chomp down on such a messy and delicious pile of goodness. Suffice it to say, I highly recommend it.
It did take five napkins, two fry stealing attempts and a whole cup of lemonade, but I am pretty sure that those elements helped to cure part of my ailments for the rest of the school day. Although the very powerful pain medication might have something to do with that too.
Jack’s Urban Eats is a place friendly to all types of food lovers; those that choose the salad lifestyle, those ready for slabs of meat and even little, picky children that just want a side of mac-and-cheese.
If you like cleanliness and order, you can watch over every step in the creation of your meal. From the light oiling and heating of the bread, to the guy with the chunk of meat and the sharp knife, to the lady that kindly fills your cup from the soda fountain machine behind the counter.
On a side note, this may help the obesity problem in America if everyone has to walk back to the counter to get a refill on their soda.
But the best part of any restaurant experience is the company. I’m afraid that my habits from the weekend lent me more towards a “Gosh, when is this over,” feeling. Or maybe it was that my date was a little sick himself and not very skilled at basic conversation.
Then again, maybe next time I shouldn’t start the conversation with the spread-eagle on the floor of the bathroom story.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Just Dance
Halloween: the satisfaction jackpot of my childhood. Who could fail to find joy in the troves of free candy, the extended bed time and scaring your little sister without getting in trouble?
As teens turn into college students, Halloween is often shrouded by the fear of the DUI checkpoint, the worry that your costume is just not slutty enough or how the heck you will ever wake up for class the next morning.
I decided to skip the hangover and opt to face a better challenge: a sober party. Oh, and did I mention that this sober party mostly involved dancing?
Welcome to my Halloween night: the sober dance party.
Something I have never understood about alcohol is the tendency to use it as the relaxing happy medicine. Can you not have fun without alcohol? Can a group of over a hundred college students with a DJ and a bunch of sparkly lights dance like crazy people without the booze?
Are you allowed to dance like a crazy person if you do not have the “I’m just drunk” excuse?
How many times have you heard the classic evasion, “I can’t dance yet, I need a few more drinks before I can have fun.”
I am all about fun. And fun does not necessarily mean being wasted. Hard to relate to, but unbelievably I am not the only one to experience this phenomenon.
On Halloween night, over 150 college aged students, in full costume, gathered together in a rented warehouse with a million lights, a fog machine, a DJ and a dance floor.
Is it hard to believe they were all dancing?
Maybe it is a security and shyness issue for most people that hold them back from the freedom of sober dancing. Of course, you would have thought that timidity would have worn off after exposure to freshman prom.
Or perhaps the booze is another hipster trend, mostly to gain cool points and sadly one that only works as long as you avoid that looming nine-to-five job.
The thing about sober dance parties is that they tend to venture more towards goofy dancing rather than dirty dancing. Surprisingly, this did not take the fun away for anyone as far as I could tell.
And dancing is about having fun, right?
And Halloween is about having fun, right?
Sober dance parties on Halloween can be the most interesting show in the world if you appreciate that pitch-black warehouse, the sneakers squeaking on cement, the amplifiers and the shoddy dance floor that will never be forgotten by the lucid dancers.
Well, lucid might not be the best term to describe this colorful group of dancers. Some were excellent dancers and outclassed in the dance-offs. Others couldn’t stop laughing. Some were just plain nuts. Including back flips. And breaking down.
It literally was just plain- old innocent, childlike, honest-to-goodness, down-to-earth, genuine, remember-fondly-in-the-morning, fun. Not playing video games. Not watching television. I am talking about all those things you feel fine doing while drunk. Like, playing games, cuddling, yelling, singing obnoxiously loud, going on random adventures or even dancing like no one is watching.
Sober dancing is not awkward, folks. I hate to break it to you but it is just as sexy, just as fun and quite possibly more fulfilling.
It is a child-like and retro beauty and freedom from the restrictions of judgments and assumptions. As American poet, William Stafford said “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.”
Girls make music videos with a hairbrush as a microphone. Boys play air guitar to their favorite metal song. There is a sort of insanity in dancing but also a sort of innocence.
Like free candy.
It is just a thought, of course, but being that little dancing maverick might be fun.
Face your fears and just dance. Lady Gaga recommends it, too.
As teens turn into college students, Halloween is often shrouded by the fear of the DUI checkpoint, the worry that your costume is just not slutty enough or how the heck you will ever wake up for class the next morning.
I decided to skip the hangover and opt to face a better challenge: a sober party. Oh, and did I mention that this sober party mostly involved dancing?
Welcome to my Halloween night: the sober dance party.
Something I have never understood about alcohol is the tendency to use it as the relaxing happy medicine. Can you not have fun without alcohol? Can a group of over a hundred college students with a DJ and a bunch of sparkly lights dance like crazy people without the booze?
Are you allowed to dance like a crazy person if you do not have the “I’m just drunk” excuse?
How many times have you heard the classic evasion, “I can’t dance yet, I need a few more drinks before I can have fun.”
I am all about fun. And fun does not necessarily mean being wasted. Hard to relate to, but unbelievably I am not the only one to experience this phenomenon.
On Halloween night, over 150 college aged students, in full costume, gathered together in a rented warehouse with a million lights, a fog machine, a DJ and a dance floor.
Is it hard to believe they were all dancing?
Maybe it is a security and shyness issue for most people that hold them back from the freedom of sober dancing. Of course, you would have thought that timidity would have worn off after exposure to freshman prom.
Or perhaps the booze is another hipster trend, mostly to gain cool points and sadly one that only works as long as you avoid that looming nine-to-five job.
The thing about sober dance parties is that they tend to venture more towards goofy dancing rather than dirty dancing. Surprisingly, this did not take the fun away for anyone as far as I could tell.
And dancing is about having fun, right?
And Halloween is about having fun, right?
Sober dance parties on Halloween can be the most interesting show in the world if you appreciate that pitch-black warehouse, the sneakers squeaking on cement, the amplifiers and the shoddy dance floor that will never be forgotten by the lucid dancers.
Well, lucid might not be the best term to describe this colorful group of dancers. Some were excellent dancers and outclassed in the dance-offs. Others couldn’t stop laughing. Some were just plain nuts. Including back flips. And breaking down.
It literally was just plain- old innocent, childlike, honest-to-goodness, down-to-earth, genuine, remember-fondly-in-the-morning, fun. Not playing video games. Not watching television. I am talking about all those things you feel fine doing while drunk. Like, playing games, cuddling, yelling, singing obnoxiously loud, going on random adventures or even dancing like no one is watching.
Sober dancing is not awkward, folks. I hate to break it to you but it is just as sexy, just as fun and quite possibly more fulfilling.
It is a child-like and retro beauty and freedom from the restrictions of judgments and assumptions. As American poet, William Stafford said “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.”
Girls make music videos with a hairbrush as a microphone. Boys play air guitar to their favorite metal song. There is a sort of insanity in dancing but also a sort of innocence.
Like free candy.
It is just a thought, of course, but being that little dancing maverick might be fun.
Face your fears and just dance. Lady Gaga recommends it, too.
Monday, October 25, 2010
About My Parking Ticket
There-ain’t-no-such-thing-as-a-free-lunch.
This adage from the 1930s encompasses the idea that you can never get something for nothing, the foundation of our government, our economy and our personal life.
Everything costs money.
Yet we have something of a skewed notion about the role of finances in our personal life, feeding into a society full of fat debt.
It all begins with childhood. Every week you give your child that five to fifty dollar allowance, sometimes in exchange for basic household chores. The habit often leads children to believe that something necessary, like cleaning a bathtub when you get it dirty, will earn you valuable credit. Such a lovely fantasy.
That child soon becomes a teen, asking for that weekly allowance to cover things like a movie or fast food and then begging for more money when something drastic, and costly, occurs. Think about a car crash. Or braces. Or a parking ticket.
Maybe the teen gets their first credit card, introducing them to the dangerous realm of fake money, the kind you can spend long before you can ever earn.
By the time college comes around, the habit of spending and debt and free money is so engrained into your mind that it seems unfair that you cannot attend an Ivy League private school without a ridiculous amount of debt or that the state will not cover all of your living, driving and scholastic expenses. They also give you parking tickets.
Graduation means transition, not only out of college but into a realm where you are financially responsible for all your shopping and spending habits. The overhead of the car payment, apartment, school loans, food and utilities and taxes comes crashing down. There is no one to step in and help you out when you decide to go to six flags and spend all of your money on entertainment instead of paying the electric bill.
The responsibility part is where our vision gets a little hazy. Should the state step in? Or our parents? Or our friends? Or should we merely learn the definition of living within a budget?
The curse of Generation X is to think that money really does grow on trees. Unluckily it runs out. Quite fast. Heck, you are even punished in some respect when you do not pay off loans, or parking tickets or taxes. And these punishments are a little longer lasting than a time-out from your parents.
Rule number one, you cannot get anything for free. You must work hard to make money and maintain a budget system.
There-ain’t-no-such-thing-as-a-free-lunch, friends.
Instead of spending like a child with that parental-wallet-back-up plan, it is now important to make a more long term plan in the form of a budget, something realistic that we can stick to.
For me this means a little bit of math.
What I make per month minus all my necessary expenses, setting aside money for food and gas and such, then taking the rest of the money and splitting it into my “rainy-day” pile and my “go-blow-this-in-a-weekend” pile.
The spending pile quickly gets turned into cash. I use this as a method of forced budgeting. You can only spend what you have in your pocket.
Most of all, beware the plastic cards. They easily become a dangerous pattern. In reality, if you do not have money you should probably not be spending money.
Rule number two, you cannot buy anything unless you have the money for it. And you do not have the money for everything.
A little common sense when it comes to personal finance would help slim down a bunch of fatty debt.
For my parents this meant prioritizing paying off the house. This meant working hard and habitually saving money so that when the economy crashed we could keep our house.
Rule number three, you have to save money for the rainy day. Cause otherwise a random parking ticket will kill your finances for the next month.
I definitely just got a parking ticket.
This adage from the 1930s encompasses the idea that you can never get something for nothing, the foundation of our government, our economy and our personal life.
Everything costs money.
Yet we have something of a skewed notion about the role of finances in our personal life, feeding into a society full of fat debt.
It all begins with childhood. Every week you give your child that five to fifty dollar allowance, sometimes in exchange for basic household chores. The habit often leads children to believe that something necessary, like cleaning a bathtub when you get it dirty, will earn you valuable credit. Such a lovely fantasy.
That child soon becomes a teen, asking for that weekly allowance to cover things like a movie or fast food and then begging for more money when something drastic, and costly, occurs. Think about a car crash. Or braces. Or a parking ticket.
Maybe the teen gets their first credit card, introducing them to the dangerous realm of fake money, the kind you can spend long before you can ever earn.
By the time college comes around, the habit of spending and debt and free money is so engrained into your mind that it seems unfair that you cannot attend an Ivy League private school without a ridiculous amount of debt or that the state will not cover all of your living, driving and scholastic expenses. They also give you parking tickets.
Graduation means transition, not only out of college but into a realm where you are financially responsible for all your shopping and spending habits. The overhead of the car payment, apartment, school loans, food and utilities and taxes comes crashing down. There is no one to step in and help you out when you decide to go to six flags and spend all of your money on entertainment instead of paying the electric bill.
The responsibility part is where our vision gets a little hazy. Should the state step in? Or our parents? Or our friends? Or should we merely learn the definition of living within a budget?
The curse of Generation X is to think that money really does grow on trees. Unluckily it runs out. Quite fast. Heck, you are even punished in some respect when you do not pay off loans, or parking tickets or taxes. And these punishments are a little longer lasting than a time-out from your parents.
Rule number one, you cannot get anything for free. You must work hard to make money and maintain a budget system.
There-ain’t-no-such-thing-as-a-free-lunch, friends.
Instead of spending like a child with that parental-wallet-back-up plan, it is now important to make a more long term plan in the form of a budget, something realistic that we can stick to.
For me this means a little bit of math.
What I make per month minus all my necessary expenses, setting aside money for food and gas and such, then taking the rest of the money and splitting it into my “rainy-day” pile and my “go-blow-this-in-a-weekend” pile.
The spending pile quickly gets turned into cash. I use this as a method of forced budgeting. You can only spend what you have in your pocket.
Most of all, beware the plastic cards. They easily become a dangerous pattern. In reality, if you do not have money you should probably not be spending money.
Rule number two, you cannot buy anything unless you have the money for it. And you do not have the money for everything.
A little common sense when it comes to personal finance would help slim down a bunch of fatty debt.
For my parents this meant prioritizing paying off the house. This meant working hard and habitually saving money so that when the economy crashed we could keep our house.
Rule number three, you have to save money for the rainy day. Cause otherwise a random parking ticket will kill your finances for the next month.
I definitely just got a parking ticket.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Dooce. Rhymes with Moose and Juice.
I guess it really is not ok to say anything you want on the internet. Seeing as it could get you fired.
But sometimes it makes sense to be honest about your devil-child. Or poke fun at the little Asian database administrator. Maybe publicly torment Mormons. Oh, and probably the people that care about whether their chicken broth is made from free range chicken or not.
Being called a “well rested self-entitled ho bag” might actually feel great.
This title was affectionately given to Heather B. Armstrong, professional blogger, the 35-year-old stay-at-home-mom allowed to wear pajamas to work.
Armstrong started her blog, Dooce, in 2001 with a poem about Carnation milk, rants against organized religion and an honesty springing from a life of feeling repressed under long skirts and frizzy hair.
After growing up in Mormon-ville, Tennessee, learning about porn (and English) at BYU and teaching herself HTML, Armstrong was hired by a web designing firm in L.A.
“I worked as a web designer for drug-addicted executives and discovered what life was like as a recovering Mormon. Meaning life was filled with PowerPoint templates and lethal amounts of tequila,” Armstrong said.
Dooce, pronounced like deuce and a subtle tribute to her inability to type “dude” over IM, was Armstrong’s hobby until an anonymous co-worker complained about her sarcasm. She was fired in 2002, sparking a fierce debate about privacy issues on the web. After the apologies to the Asian database administrator that Armstrong mercilessly ridiculed, Dooce gained the loyalty of readers, now averaging about 300,000 a day.
She told BBC News: "Blogging is an easy and powerful form of personal expression. It's a way of communicating with friends and with becoming part of a community."
The emotional meltdowns, her husband, two children and two dogs are all source material for this web blog. The advertising revenue allowed her the free time to publish two books, including, It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown and a Much Needed Margarita.
Armstrong lives in Salt Lake City, Utah with the “charming geek” in her life, Jon, writing, photographing and blogging daily about her life. Armstrong was voted by Forbes number 26 on their list of Most Influential Women in Media.
According to the blog, “Dooce chronicles my life from a time when I was single and making a lot of money as a web designer in Los Angeles, to when I was dating the man who would become my husband, to when I lost my job and lived life as an unemployed drunk, to when I married my husband and moved to my mother's basement in Utah, to when I became pregnant, to when I threw up and became unbearably swollen during the pregnancy, to the birth, to the aftermath, to the postpartum depression that landed me in a psyche ward. I'm better now,” Armstrong said.
The irreverent, liberal, caustic and insightful style of Dooce boosted it into the top American blog of 2009, according to The Weblog Awards (Bloggies) http://2008.bloggi.es/
The result is a lot of hate mail, said Armstrong. Her response is to give the critics exactly what they are looking for: more exaggerated sarcasm.
“When you call the Department of Children and Family Services, please get the story straight. Not only do I leave her [daughter, Marlo] alone with paper towels, I set her in the middle of a flea-infested floor and surround her with sharp objects and porn. Then I turn on a wood-burning stove in the corner of the room and seal all the windows. Before I leave the room and lock the door, I stick a bottle full of vodka in her mouth to muffle the screaming,” Armstrong wrote.
Armstrong eventually took down some of her religious-bashing scorn in preference of a decent relationship with her parents. Although the honesty in her blog is refreshing and surprising, the monotony of evil children and religion-hate can sometimes seem extreme. Then again, as Armstrong points out, motherhood is a hell some of us have yet to experience.
The hodgepodge of child crises, butts, feeling guilty, believing that her daughter might actually be a little boy in disguise and the guy that talks like Elmo during sex, Armstrong ventures into a territory few bother to explore: scathing and witty unselfconscious writing.
For more entertainment, visit http://www.dooce.com
But sometimes it makes sense to be honest about your devil-child. Or poke fun at the little Asian database administrator. Maybe publicly torment Mormons. Oh, and probably the people that care about whether their chicken broth is made from free range chicken or not.
Being called a “well rested self-entitled ho bag” might actually feel great.
This title was affectionately given to Heather B. Armstrong, professional blogger, the 35-year-old stay-at-home-mom allowed to wear pajamas to work.
Armstrong started her blog, Dooce, in 2001 with a poem about Carnation milk, rants against organized religion and an honesty springing from a life of feeling repressed under long skirts and frizzy hair.
After growing up in Mormon-ville, Tennessee, learning about porn (and English) at BYU and teaching herself HTML, Armstrong was hired by a web designing firm in L.A.
“I worked as a web designer for drug-addicted executives and discovered what life was like as a recovering Mormon. Meaning life was filled with PowerPoint templates and lethal amounts of tequila,” Armstrong said.
Dooce, pronounced like deuce and a subtle tribute to her inability to type “dude” over IM, was Armstrong’s hobby until an anonymous co-worker complained about her sarcasm. She was fired in 2002, sparking a fierce debate about privacy issues on the web. After the apologies to the Asian database administrator that Armstrong mercilessly ridiculed, Dooce gained the loyalty of readers, now averaging about 300,000 a day.
She told BBC News: "Blogging is an easy and powerful form of personal expression. It's a way of communicating with friends and with becoming part of a community."
The emotional meltdowns, her husband, two children and two dogs are all source material for this web blog. The advertising revenue allowed her the free time to publish two books, including, It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown and a Much Needed Margarita.
Armstrong lives in Salt Lake City, Utah with the “charming geek” in her life, Jon, writing, photographing and blogging daily about her life. Armstrong was voted by Forbes number 26 on their list of Most Influential Women in Media.
According to the blog, “Dooce chronicles my life from a time when I was single and making a lot of money as a web designer in Los Angeles, to when I was dating the man who would become my husband, to when I lost my job and lived life as an unemployed drunk, to when I married my husband and moved to my mother's basement in Utah, to when I became pregnant, to when I threw up and became unbearably swollen during the pregnancy, to the birth, to the aftermath, to the postpartum depression that landed me in a psyche ward. I'm better now,” Armstrong said.
The irreverent, liberal, caustic and insightful style of Dooce boosted it into the top American blog of 2009, according to The Weblog Awards (Bloggies) http://2008.bloggi.es/
The result is a lot of hate mail, said Armstrong. Her response is to give the critics exactly what they are looking for: more exaggerated sarcasm.
“When you call the Department of Children and Family Services, please get the story straight. Not only do I leave her [daughter, Marlo] alone with paper towels, I set her in the middle of a flea-infested floor and surround her with sharp objects and porn. Then I turn on a wood-burning stove in the corner of the room and seal all the windows. Before I leave the room and lock the door, I stick a bottle full of vodka in her mouth to muffle the screaming,” Armstrong wrote.
Armstrong eventually took down some of her religious-bashing scorn in preference of a decent relationship with her parents. Although the honesty in her blog is refreshing and surprising, the monotony of evil children and religion-hate can sometimes seem extreme. Then again, as Armstrong points out, motherhood is a hell some of us have yet to experience.
The hodgepodge of child crises, butts, feeling guilty, believing that her daughter might actually be a little boy in disguise and the guy that talks like Elmo during sex, Armstrong ventures into a territory few bother to explore: scathing and witty unselfconscious writing.
For more entertainment, visit http://www.dooce.com
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Real Life: Plan B
Financial stability is all a matter of perspective.
I think of it in terms of my father’s small business. When I was a child, I never understood the concept of employees and why my father would not want people to work with him and go to lunch with him. But the financially stable architectural company he dreamed of was not possible if he chose to fund employees and a large overhead cost.
Some people questioned my father’s decision to pursue a solo career. Until the economy plunged.
Footing his own health, dental, office space and overhead costs up front kept my father’s company out of debt. Unlike most of the companies and employers in the housing industry, he was able to keep our home and his business afloat through the recession.
Whenever we toy with the hypothetical of what-could-have-been, a sweat breaks out on my father’s forehead. A bigger business means more money in advance and more risk of crashing with the economy.
Government is like a big business. And the public services offered require more resources and more funds from more taxes. Eventually the cost of government services swell to 100 percent more than the cost would be if a private company took over to achieve the same goals.
A government service means more money deposited out front and more risk of crashing with the economy. Or the lack of a budget. Or a failing health bill. Or a prolonged recession.
Privatization of businesses is not taking away necessary control from the government but relieving some of their fiscal responsibility and becoming a check and balance on government power.
It is called capitalism, checking and balancing power so that not only one entity has complete control over every aspect of life. Capitalism is a synonym for private enterprise. Capitalism is the foundation for our government.
And yet there still is a political fuss among economists, government officials and businessmen over whether services such as public libraries, road work, school systems or fire fighters should be privately owned and operated industries.
Perhaps if these companies were operated like a private business instead of a large government system, the financial plan of businesses would be implemented instead of the relaxed monetary direction of our current leadership. See the budget crisis for a recent example.
For a small business, the first step in making a plan for the direction of the company is to make a plan for the money. A business only works if it is financially sound. Private businesses are usually wiser with their finances. Unlike the state, they don’t have a seemingly endless source of coffers to borrow from. And they usually understand the damaging nature of debt.
When I was 10, I built up over $50 dollars in debt to my mother. I felt like she owned my soul till I worked it off. Especially since mowing the lawn meant a $5 dollar a week allowance. I swore never to be in debt again. I was even shy to order my first credit card.
I wanted private control of my finances. Like my dad, I wanted to make sure I was financially able to fund each purchase I made and understand the financial repercussions I would have if I was spending outside my budget.
Despite capitalism and the proper function of businesses in the real world, money is looked at differently when it comes to the government and the resources they provide.
Is the money borrowed by the government to fund public resources really a safer bet than the stable and financially secure business models offered by private providers?
Stability is not always attributed to the sources that deserve the praise.
In real life, we rarely put trust into something that is failing. Time for Plan B.
I think of it in terms of my father’s small business. When I was a child, I never understood the concept of employees and why my father would not want people to work with him and go to lunch with him. But the financially stable architectural company he dreamed of was not possible if he chose to fund employees and a large overhead cost.
Some people questioned my father’s decision to pursue a solo career. Until the economy plunged.
Footing his own health, dental, office space and overhead costs up front kept my father’s company out of debt. Unlike most of the companies and employers in the housing industry, he was able to keep our home and his business afloat through the recession.
Whenever we toy with the hypothetical of what-could-have-been, a sweat breaks out on my father’s forehead. A bigger business means more money in advance and more risk of crashing with the economy.
Government is like a big business. And the public services offered require more resources and more funds from more taxes. Eventually the cost of government services swell to 100 percent more than the cost would be if a private company took over to achieve the same goals.
A government service means more money deposited out front and more risk of crashing with the economy. Or the lack of a budget. Or a failing health bill. Or a prolonged recession.
Privatization of businesses is not taking away necessary control from the government but relieving some of their fiscal responsibility and becoming a check and balance on government power.
It is called capitalism, checking and balancing power so that not only one entity has complete control over every aspect of life. Capitalism is a synonym for private enterprise. Capitalism is the foundation for our government.
And yet there still is a political fuss among economists, government officials and businessmen over whether services such as public libraries, road work, school systems or fire fighters should be privately owned and operated industries.
Perhaps if these companies were operated like a private business instead of a large government system, the financial plan of businesses would be implemented instead of the relaxed monetary direction of our current leadership. See the budget crisis for a recent example.
For a small business, the first step in making a plan for the direction of the company is to make a plan for the money. A business only works if it is financially sound. Private businesses are usually wiser with their finances. Unlike the state, they don’t have a seemingly endless source of coffers to borrow from. And they usually understand the damaging nature of debt.
When I was 10, I built up over $50 dollars in debt to my mother. I felt like she owned my soul till I worked it off. Especially since mowing the lawn meant a $5 dollar a week allowance. I swore never to be in debt again. I was even shy to order my first credit card.
I wanted private control of my finances. Like my dad, I wanted to make sure I was financially able to fund each purchase I made and understand the financial repercussions I would have if I was spending outside my budget.
Despite capitalism and the proper function of businesses in the real world, money is looked at differently when it comes to the government and the resources they provide.
Is the money borrowed by the government to fund public resources really a safer bet than the stable and financially secure business models offered by private providers?
Stability is not always attributed to the sources that deserve the praise.
In real life, we rarely put trust into something that is failing. Time for Plan B.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Diary of a Bathroom Adventurer and Aficionado
The average person will spend 29,120 hours of their life in a bathroom.
Prolonged disassociation from the comfort of your home toilet is an inconvenient fact of life. As a girl, I assume I spend more time in the bathroom than most, fixing hair or make-up, talking to someone about how disgusting the middle toilet is, or merely debating with myself on whether I should sit or squat.
College could be defined as a day full of bathroom adventures.
My best friend and I consider ourselves bathroom connoisseurs after 21 years of visiting an excessive amount of toilets. As elitists we decided to do some research, get the dirt on the bathrooms of Sac State.
Bringing our essential restroom reviewer kits; pen and paper, latex gloves, antiseptic, a camera, optional ziplock bags and que-tips (for taking samples) and of course DNA testing kits (expensive, but completely necessary for more scientific analysis), we set out to uncover the best, the worst and the average.
Beginning at the University Union, my cohort and I visited every first floor bathroom we could find. Please respect that we did our research without any judgment on the age of the buildings but purely on the gross-out factor. Think of this as a consumer report or a prevention guide. We judged on smells, colors, chipped tiles, toilet plungers, lighting, air quality and traffic.
Twenty-seven buildings and two hours later, we sat down to analyze our results.
The results boiled down to 14 percent excellent, 32 percent average bathrooms and 54 percent repulsive.
An average bathroom at Sacramento State looks something like Lassen Hall. No automatic, hands-free devices. Lacking that tangy reek. Clean. Wearing down. But with the essential purse hook, necessary to avoid the germ-infested flooring. Average means a combination of feeling safe in your stall and wondering when that pink on the walls or floors was ever an interior designer’s standard.
Standards aside, dignity is lacking in most of our bathrooms. Although I vote to invest in a revamping of our toilets, or even just getting some candles, there were a few bathrooms that inspired my use. Shockingly, the honor of the best bathroom was not given to the newest facility, the Well.
Cleanliness trumps design.
Based on the shelves, the sinks, the height and lighting of the mirrors, the sparklingly purity and the fact that my notes on this bathroom contain three words; love, best and clean, the AIRC is officially Sac State’s finest. The air was fragrant, perhaps the biggest luxury.
Besides this, the location is ideal. The commute to this school is problematic because of the amount of coffee I drink. Couple that with the lack of bathrooms in parking structures and you become quite thankful for the 24 hour availability of the utopian toilets in the AIRC.
My own complaining aside, I feel worst for the environmental studies majors of Amador Hall. Crowed the worst bathroom by our judgment scale, this bathroom is grungy, nasty, putrid and yellow.
There can be nothing worse than a small, mustard-colored space.
The smell was vulgar and sickening, hitting you at the same time you notice that floating scum in the air. Less than a minute was spent in this bathroom before our eyes started watering and our stomachs churning. Soft and tender parts should not be exposed to something so polluted.
But of course, when biology requires it, we sometimes have to venture into the uncharted territory of thin walls and grimy sinks.
Please no touching the door handles, or any handles, to avoid disease.
I also recommend a bathroom study as fodder for picking your major. Think about it, if you have to spend the next four years of your life near, in and touching a bathroom, it should have valid weight in your decision making.
After all, college is all about decisions.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
On Kids, Budgets and Fiestas
Today I remembered that our state budget still has not passed. It has been so long that I forgot that we had a problem . . . or a budget.
There are many people we could blame for this unfortunate situation including our governor, our education, our taxes or our parents.
Or Mexico.
The economic meltdown could be attributed to the 2.7 million illegal immigrants the Pew Hispanic Research Center claims live in California.
Of course, the jump to a $20 billion budget gap is clearly the fault of corporate giants and their illegal alien buddies.
And naturally, if you live in between four thin walls without a door or a roof, crammed next to relatives you may or may not like and using a large pail for a bath tub, you should never want to just jump a fence into paradise.
But $13.1 billion in taxes. This is the number the Federation for Immigration Reform believes we pay out of our pocket to support “non-Americans.”
California is obviously trying to ruin our lives and culture, suck our money from us and spen¬d most of it on illegal immigrants. If we just deported all of them, life would be perfect and all our money problems fixed.
Or we would still have a budget crisis and just spiral into a deeper recession after the loss of cheap labor and productivity.
No one seems to be positive about the impact of illegal immigrants on our state, thus opinions all depend on which side of the fence you are on. Literally.
Teresa Soliz’s children are American. Her husband was an illegal immigrant. The entire family is now stuck in Mexico City, Mexico, after being deported. Legally or not, Soliz wishes she had never left California.
It has been nine years and $6000 dollars in debt later and Soliz still cannot get her family back to this country. In the end, Soliz feels like California has sucked up way more of her money than she ever consumed in public resources.
It really is all about the money. For Californians, it is the money spent on supporting public services that are devoured by the illegals. For the immigrants, it is all about the better living, the better education and the opportunities to actually make more than 19 cents an hour.
Everyone has someone to fault for our money problems and the research is even more muddled than the blame-game.
“The fact of the matter is, yes, illegal aliens do create an extra burden on our economy and also on our budget situation. But, at the same time, that is not the reason why we have an economic downturn,” Gov. Schwarzenegger said.
More people means more taxes paid. The taxes that illegal immigrants pay are often overlooked, especially the sales taxes. Illegal aliens don’t get stuff for free either.
More people in California means a rising gross domestic product. This is the number of goods produced by society, a very beneficial growing point for the economy.
That twelve percent of our $110 billion dollar budget that has been attributed to illegal immigrants is mostly for the education of their children. Education is one of our top budget items, locally and nationally. We can hardly pin all the blame of our debt on the children of undocumented residents.
Oh and those children we are helping educated are technically American citizens. They were born here, just like you.
Instead of blaming a group of people that is shaping the culture of California, perhaps we should bond together for a joint cause: balancing that messy budget.
Our congress could take a moment outside the capital and learn from the best. Buy a piñata. Grab a beer. Go to the park and take a nice siesta.
On second thought, I think congress has taken a long enough siesta.
There are many people we could blame for this unfortunate situation including our governor, our education, our taxes or our parents.
Or Mexico.
The economic meltdown could be attributed to the 2.7 million illegal immigrants the Pew Hispanic Research Center claims live in California.
Of course, the jump to a $20 billion budget gap is clearly the fault of corporate giants and their illegal alien buddies.
And naturally, if you live in between four thin walls without a door or a roof, crammed next to relatives you may or may not like and using a large pail for a bath tub, you should never want to just jump a fence into paradise.
But $13.1 billion in taxes. This is the number the Federation for Immigration Reform believes we pay out of our pocket to support “non-Americans.”
California is obviously trying to ruin our lives and culture, suck our money from us and spen¬d most of it on illegal immigrants. If we just deported all of them, life would be perfect and all our money problems fixed.
Or we would still have a budget crisis and just spiral into a deeper recession after the loss of cheap labor and productivity.
No one seems to be positive about the impact of illegal immigrants on our state, thus opinions all depend on which side of the fence you are on. Literally.
Teresa Soliz’s children are American. Her husband was an illegal immigrant. The entire family is now stuck in Mexico City, Mexico, after being deported. Legally or not, Soliz wishes she had never left California.
It has been nine years and $6000 dollars in debt later and Soliz still cannot get her family back to this country. In the end, Soliz feels like California has sucked up way more of her money than she ever consumed in public resources.
It really is all about the money. For Californians, it is the money spent on supporting public services that are devoured by the illegals. For the immigrants, it is all about the better living, the better education and the opportunities to actually make more than 19 cents an hour.
Everyone has someone to fault for our money problems and the research is even more muddled than the blame-game.
“The fact of the matter is, yes, illegal aliens do create an extra burden on our economy and also on our budget situation. But, at the same time, that is not the reason why we have an economic downturn,” Gov. Schwarzenegger said.
More people means more taxes paid. The taxes that illegal immigrants pay are often overlooked, especially the sales taxes. Illegal aliens don’t get stuff for free either.
More people in California means a rising gross domestic product. This is the number of goods produced by society, a very beneficial growing point for the economy.
That twelve percent of our $110 billion dollar budget that has been attributed to illegal immigrants is mostly for the education of their children. Education is one of our top budget items, locally and nationally. We can hardly pin all the blame of our debt on the children of undocumented residents.
Oh and those children we are helping educated are technically American citizens. They were born here, just like you.
Instead of blaming a group of people that is shaping the culture of California, perhaps we should bond together for a joint cause: balancing that messy budget.
Our congress could take a moment outside the capital and learn from the best. Buy a piñata. Grab a beer. Go to the park and take a nice siesta.
On second thought, I think congress has taken a long enough siesta.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Miss Phlaglefriendly
Phyloblast? Phaoblaster? Phlalaloblast? How exactly do you pronounce this?
Better question: what IS a Phlagleblast?
I did not realize this question would haunt me when I was driving to school. I did not know I would care that this eleventh annual homecoming event was complete with prizes, scavenger hunts and caricatures. Or that a guy dressed in a lion’s mane had planned the whole festival.
I was focused on school. My day usually starts out with a quick tromp from the parking structure to the bathrooms in the University Union, a break for after my commute and before class. I rarely have time to stop and enjoy the food or the people watching or the colorful decorations.
Wait, decorations?
When I waltzed through the union on Monday I had a rare gift: time. I took a long moment to stand right inside the door and stare up at a hanging monkey, trying to figure out what was going on. It was an hour till my next class. My computer had died earlier in the day leaving me with a cell phone, a pen and intense hunger.
Lucky for me, Phlagleblast is a synonym for free food.
I managed to make a few equally excited friends in line for free Round Table Pizza. None of us could figure out why the food was free (and slightly expected a charge of some type, even if it was just taking a short quiz or filling out a survey), but we were grateful not to spend money on Panda Express or Burger King.
The truth is students are usually poor. The truth is most students are always hungry. The truth is people bond over free stuff.
Sac State’s genius way to unite a commuter with strangers in a school of 20,000 students was working.
My first friends I met in line for pizza. We all kept asking each other, “Is this free? Are you sure it’s free? Did you ask if it was free?”
I will never see any of those people again, but I took some phone numbers and had pleasant conversations and adventures, including asking for a second slice of free pizza and being denied by the stingy food donor.
I felt like I was back in preschool; colorful animals and hanging vines and lots of food and balloons, not to mention friendly people standing and laughing while taking bites of thin slices of thick crusts.
According to a large sign, there was going to be more free food offered every half hour. Muscle milk was next, so I decided to explore other attractions more suited to my interest and body type.
A mister Brian Rodgers was more than pleased to help me out.
The unsigned musician was jamming with his bass, a few avid fans standing in front of him. I decided to boost his audience total to a grand three.
This was probably the best decision of my day. I had another bonding experience with the music of the acoustic funk rock singer and guitar player. I think I stood there making random appreciative eye contact with fellow audience members for over 20 minutes, almost contributing to how late I was to my next class.
Then I discovered balloons.
I have a fascination with balloons. They are happy and youthful and innocent. I met another friend in the balloon line. She tied my balloon to her wrist since I could not take it to my class.
After I passed the monkeys and food and music and people running around getting stamps and free junk, I realized that this pointless and hard-to-pronounce event was made for people like me: the commuter with no time, rarely stopping and really just needing an excuse to relax, eat and listen to some music.
Oh, and make friends. Jennifer still texts me about my blue balloon she tied to her wrist.
(If you would like to re-create my moment of musical bliss, check out Brian Rogers at: http://www.myspacecom/brianrogersmusic .)
Better question: what IS a Phlagleblast?
I did not realize this question would haunt me when I was driving to school. I did not know I would care that this eleventh annual homecoming event was complete with prizes, scavenger hunts and caricatures. Or that a guy dressed in a lion’s mane had planned the whole festival.
I was focused on school. My day usually starts out with a quick tromp from the parking structure to the bathrooms in the University Union, a break for after my commute and before class. I rarely have time to stop and enjoy the food or the people watching or the colorful decorations.
Wait, decorations?
When I waltzed through the union on Monday I had a rare gift: time. I took a long moment to stand right inside the door and stare up at a hanging monkey, trying to figure out what was going on. It was an hour till my next class. My computer had died earlier in the day leaving me with a cell phone, a pen and intense hunger.
Lucky for me, Phlagleblast is a synonym for free food.
I managed to make a few equally excited friends in line for free Round Table Pizza. None of us could figure out why the food was free (and slightly expected a charge of some type, even if it was just taking a short quiz or filling out a survey), but we were grateful not to spend money on Panda Express or Burger King.
The truth is students are usually poor. The truth is most students are always hungry. The truth is people bond over free stuff.
Sac State’s genius way to unite a commuter with strangers in a school of 20,000 students was working.
My first friends I met in line for pizza. We all kept asking each other, “Is this free? Are you sure it’s free? Did you ask if it was free?”
I will never see any of those people again, but I took some phone numbers and had pleasant conversations and adventures, including asking for a second slice of free pizza and being denied by the stingy food donor.
I felt like I was back in preschool; colorful animals and hanging vines and lots of food and balloons, not to mention friendly people standing and laughing while taking bites of thin slices of thick crusts.
According to a large sign, there was going to be more free food offered every half hour. Muscle milk was next, so I decided to explore other attractions more suited to my interest and body type.
A mister Brian Rodgers was more than pleased to help me out.
The unsigned musician was jamming with his bass, a few avid fans standing in front of him. I decided to boost his audience total to a grand three.
This was probably the best decision of my day. I had another bonding experience with the music of the acoustic funk rock singer and guitar player. I think I stood there making random appreciative eye contact with fellow audience members for over 20 minutes, almost contributing to how late I was to my next class.
Then I discovered balloons.
I have a fascination with balloons. They are happy and youthful and innocent. I met another friend in the balloon line. She tied my balloon to her wrist since I could not take it to my class.
After I passed the monkeys and food and music and people running around getting stamps and free junk, I realized that this pointless and hard-to-pronounce event was made for people like me: the commuter with no time, rarely stopping and really just needing an excuse to relax, eat and listen to some music.
Oh, and make friends. Jennifer still texts me about my blue balloon she tied to her wrist.
(If you would like to re-create my moment of musical bliss, check out Brian Rogers at: http://www.myspacecom/brianrogersmusic .)
Monday, September 13, 2010
Split Second Saturday
The Second Saturday event in downtown Sacramento tends to draw late night, artsy partiers, becoming more rowdy as the alcohol consumption surges. This Saturday, the event ended with three men wounded and one killed in a shooting right outside the Streets of London bar.
Second Saturday began years ago as a respectable art community event, complete with beach cruiser bicycles and serious art and design fans. This was located at another location then moved to Midtown for safety reasons. Ironic.
Within the last three years the popularity has grown, along with complaints about nightclubs and drunken brawls. This makes it more of a destination for 21-year-olds with no homework and a point of contention for quiet, art-seeking attendees.
Saturday night was well attended by two sets of people: attendees and police. The force was out in extra strength on Saturday in an attempt to keep the event friendly and contained.
The fact still remains, one 20-year old Latino is dead and three more are wounded. Where were the police then?
Reports say that the police were not only in the same area when the shooting occurred but they also heard the gun fire. As of today, no suspects and no motives have been brought to the table.
Police and witnesses say that it is the loiterers that gather in front of the closed shops that are the problem. The shooting was a good two hours after Second Saturday officially closed but the police were still out in force.
I suppose their operating theory was that as long as there are huge drunken crowds there might be potential for problems. I don’t suppose anyone of them expected a problem this big.
Some are blaming the police. Some are blaming Second Saturday. Some are blaming alcohol. Some are blaming night-clubs. Some are blaming young people. Assessed separately, none of those issues are avoidable. Perhaps the problem is the combination.
But the truth is, late nights in the city are never as safe as your Grandma’s kitchen. Is this really an issue that can be fixed?
Taking away Second Saturday would not only subtract business from local vendors, it would also take away the art community’s desire to express itself through local venues.
Taking away alcohol from Second Saturday would make it much less popular, less fun and less of a money maker for vendors and street entertainers.
With or without alcohol, isn’t a killer still a killer?
Either way, I don't think I will wander the streets late at night, whether there is an art event going on or not.
Luckily the police arrived in time to save the three wounded victims who were trying to crawl to safety. The police still don't know if the shooting was a random gun-happy fiend or the result of a drunken brawl.
While police are searching for these answers, so are the business associates. What are they going to do now? They can’t change what happened early Sunday morning, but they can change the future. It has already changed from an art event to a party to a murder headline to a political point.
Maybe we should separate the events, give art walks to the artists and a club or bar to the partiers. That might make everyone happy. Go back to the days of the quiet tourists who want to browse through a local art shop and leave the drinking fest for the bars.
It draws two crowds anyway: the artsy, fartsy and the carouser. Let's get back to serious art and serious drinking.
Second Saturday began years ago as a respectable art community event, complete with beach cruiser bicycles and serious art and design fans. This was located at another location then moved to Midtown for safety reasons. Ironic.
Within the last three years the popularity has grown, along with complaints about nightclubs and drunken brawls. This makes it more of a destination for 21-year-olds with no homework and a point of contention for quiet, art-seeking attendees.
Saturday night was well attended by two sets of people: attendees and police. The force was out in extra strength on Saturday in an attempt to keep the event friendly and contained.
The fact still remains, one 20-year old Latino is dead and three more are wounded. Where were the police then?
Reports say that the police were not only in the same area when the shooting occurred but they also heard the gun fire. As of today, no suspects and no motives have been brought to the table.
Police and witnesses say that it is the loiterers that gather in front of the closed shops that are the problem. The shooting was a good two hours after Second Saturday officially closed but the police were still out in force.
I suppose their operating theory was that as long as there are huge drunken crowds there might be potential for problems. I don’t suppose anyone of them expected a problem this big.
Some are blaming the police. Some are blaming Second Saturday. Some are blaming alcohol. Some are blaming night-clubs. Some are blaming young people. Assessed separately, none of those issues are avoidable. Perhaps the problem is the combination.
But the truth is, late nights in the city are never as safe as your Grandma’s kitchen. Is this really an issue that can be fixed?
Taking away Second Saturday would not only subtract business from local vendors, it would also take away the art community’s desire to express itself through local venues.
Taking away alcohol from Second Saturday would make it much less popular, less fun and less of a money maker for vendors and street entertainers.
With or without alcohol, isn’t a killer still a killer?
Either way, I don't think I will wander the streets late at night, whether there is an art event going on or not.
Luckily the police arrived in time to save the three wounded victims who were trying to crawl to safety. The police still don't know if the shooting was a random gun-happy fiend or the result of a drunken brawl.
While police are searching for these answers, so are the business associates. What are they going to do now? They can’t change what happened early Sunday morning, but they can change the future. It has already changed from an art event to a party to a murder headline to a political point.
Maybe we should separate the events, give art walks to the artists and a club or bar to the partiers. That might make everyone happy. Go back to the days of the quiet tourists who want to browse through a local art shop and leave the drinking fest for the bars.
It draws two crowds anyway: the artsy, fartsy and the carouser. Let's get back to serious art and serious drinking.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
How to Make a Plan for the Rest of Your Life
Welcome to the next four or seven years of your life: College. Over 3,840 hours spent on an attendance certificate.
This is my life, a full time student and a part time writer. Learning what college teaches best:
1. Things that you need to know.
2. Things that you will never need to know again.
Despite this, college has a formative out-of-the-classroom experience. It is all part of the after-adolescence development period and almost just as painful.
We spend most of our first three to four years at our chosen school, wandering around, completely lost. We don’t have money. We don’t know who we are. We don’t know what kind of person we want to date. We don’t know what kind of person we want to be. Most of all, we don’t know what we want to do with the next 50 years of our life.
But the pressure is on high. Now is the time to make small decisions that will have major effects. And we feel completely unqualified for the task.
Our energy is much too focused on the conversations of the people around us, or fantasizing about that one boy in that one class that we never get to actually talk to. Or maybe just making it through, one class at a time, one paper at a time, one grade at a time. Semesters pass and we loose track of what we are doing.
So we change majors.
We sleep, eat (if we have the money) and try to find a date. We get an internship and bore ourselves mindless.
So we change majors.
We fail a class, waste a whole day on Facebook and spend all our money on a new TV to watch that reality TV show about our career. Then end up changing majors.
I may or may not be speaking from major life experiences.
Last week a high school senior asked me to help her figure out her plan for the next four years. Her question was simple enough: “How did you pick your major, Leia? I am so confused. I don’t know what I want to do.”
I have drastically changed majors three times. It was stressful, I cried frequently. A black cloud of indecision and insecurity has hung over these last three years of schooling. I have absolutely no advice for this girl, a mere three majors behind me. She should probably accept the fact that she may cry more than necessary.
Being a girl comes with a certain catch; you cry a lot. At least I did. I cried about my major, my stupid job, my slim paycheck and how impossible it is to stick with “plan A.” Over 50 percent of freshman change their majors. Hello seven years and $20,000 of debt later.
Only a semester ago I was wearing scrubs and studying organic chemistry in LA. Now I live in Sacramento and spend the majority of my time on the internet thinking about life, love, the pursuit of happiness and things to write about.
Life changes faster than a freshman changes majors.
Yet those relationships that stuck through the tears and the changes of personality and geography, those are the friendships that have been the most beautiful and influential. Whether I am going to be an architect, a writer, a nurse or a singer, I still have these places and these memories and these people.
Sometimes I think that we all just need to calm down. I am going to stop trying to figure out the rest of my life. I can barely make the first step. Let’s focus on that. My goal is to graduate and beyond that, the future is a dim adventure.
But I digress. This column isn’t about me. It’s about college, the painful and enlightening experience that has nothing to do with the 3,840 hours you spend in class, learning something interesting, something you don’t want to learn or absolutely nothing.
This is my life, a full time student and a part time writer. Learning what college teaches best:
1. Things that you need to know.
2. Things that you will never need to know again.
Despite this, college has a formative out-of-the-classroom experience. It is all part of the after-adolescence development period and almost just as painful.
We spend most of our first three to four years at our chosen school, wandering around, completely lost. We don’t have money. We don’t know who we are. We don’t know what kind of person we want to date. We don’t know what kind of person we want to be. Most of all, we don’t know what we want to do with the next 50 years of our life.
But the pressure is on high. Now is the time to make small decisions that will have major effects. And we feel completely unqualified for the task.
Our energy is much too focused on the conversations of the people around us, or fantasizing about that one boy in that one class that we never get to actually talk to. Or maybe just making it through, one class at a time, one paper at a time, one grade at a time. Semesters pass and we loose track of what we are doing.
So we change majors.
We sleep, eat (if we have the money) and try to find a date. We get an internship and bore ourselves mindless.
So we change majors.
We fail a class, waste a whole day on Facebook and spend all our money on a new TV to watch that reality TV show about our career. Then end up changing majors.
I may or may not be speaking from major life experiences.
Last week a high school senior asked me to help her figure out her plan for the next four years. Her question was simple enough: “How did you pick your major, Leia? I am so confused. I don’t know what I want to do.”
I have drastically changed majors three times. It was stressful, I cried frequently. A black cloud of indecision and insecurity has hung over these last three years of schooling. I have absolutely no advice for this girl, a mere three majors behind me. She should probably accept the fact that she may cry more than necessary.
Being a girl comes with a certain catch; you cry a lot. At least I did. I cried about my major, my stupid job, my slim paycheck and how impossible it is to stick with “plan A.” Over 50 percent of freshman change their majors. Hello seven years and $20,000 of debt later.
Only a semester ago I was wearing scrubs and studying organic chemistry in LA. Now I live in Sacramento and spend the majority of my time on the internet thinking about life, love, the pursuit of happiness and things to write about.
Life changes faster than a freshman changes majors.
Yet those relationships that stuck through the tears and the changes of personality and geography, those are the friendships that have been the most beautiful and influential. Whether I am going to be an architect, a writer, a nurse or a singer, I still have these places and these memories and these people.
Sometimes I think that we all just need to calm down. I am going to stop trying to figure out the rest of my life. I can barely make the first step. Let’s focus on that. My goal is to graduate and beyond that, the future is a dim adventure.
But I digress. This column isn’t about me. It’s about college, the painful and enlightening experience that has nothing to do with the 3,840 hours you spend in class, learning something interesting, something you don’t want to learn or absolutely nothing.
Friday, September 3, 2010
In the Beginning There was School
The pivotal points in history all come down to a choice. To be or not to be? Jerry Brown or Meg Whitman? Paper or plastic? My current dilemma at Sac State seems equally important; how should I spend my 16-units?
With the 16-unit limit for freshman, sophomores and juniors, the picking and planning of classes just increases in difficulty. How many three-unit classes and how many one-unit classes does it take to make 16?
The unit cap is only helpful to those last to register, or the slackers that want to be forced to take the least amount of units possible. But it kills the overachiever. Suddenly, my dream of taking 21 units and graduating a semester early bites the dust.
Those go-getter genes in me make me believe I can manipulate the situation to my best advantage. Seven semesters later, I still haven’t figured out that everything cannot succumb to my plan for the world. My first few semesters at college were spent trying to figure out the system. Now, my last semesters will be spent trying to manipulate the system.
In three years, there has never been a semester where my class schedule went according to my first plan, or my second plan, or even my third plan. It seems like it should be such a natural progression, like growing up or driving to work or making a baby. Instead, I spend most of my first week dating around, trying to find the class that works perfect for me and realizing that I am not omitted from the 16 unit limit, or from the pre-requisites, or any of the wait lists.
This week, I changed almost all my classes the night before they started. This week I sent out more than 20 e-mails to different professors. This week a teacher lectured me for being sick from “self-caused stress.”
I had high hopes when I began the week rested. I was ready to jump into the world of the day planner. Then the reality of the syllabi, the exam schedule and the lack of sleep set in.
On Monday, I was up early: changing classes, meeting my first deadline and writing e-mails. Tuesday comes next: conducting my first interview and noticing signs of sickness. Tuesday afternoon finds me auditioning for a vocal jazz ensemble on a whim. Wednesday morning I am on interview number two. Wednesday night comes and I am making an excel spreadsheet to plan out all my classes. Thursday morning, change classes. On Thursday afternoon the lab computer breaks. Suddenly, I realize there is nothing in the house to eat for dessert.
Science has never failed the world with its accurate conclusions; what goes up must come down, what can go wrong will go wrong and stress causes illness.
Yet, somehow it all works out in the end. This excel spreadsheet I have now is not on track with my original plan, but it is 16 units worth of classes that I need to graduate. The trick to being a good student is being organized and understanding that you cannot always manipulate the system.
The other trick to school is accepting the fact that you are permanently exhausted for the next four months. Pulling 12 hour days at school by being an overachiever, standing in line at the registrar, showing up to professors’ offices, doing homework early, auditioning for music classes and learning how to write a column is all a part of this college experience our parents reminisced about.
Apparently, our parents only remembered the after-finals-week parties. College is a lot of work.
For me, Thursday night is the beginning of freedom; the classroom section of the week is over. Once more it all comes down to a choice. Facebook or Twitter? Sushi or Pizza? Movie or TV?
With the 16-unit limit for freshman, sophomores and juniors, the picking and planning of classes just increases in difficulty. How many three-unit classes and how many one-unit classes does it take to make 16?
The unit cap is only helpful to those last to register, or the slackers that want to be forced to take the least amount of units possible. But it kills the overachiever. Suddenly, my dream of taking 21 units and graduating a semester early bites the dust.
Those go-getter genes in me make me believe I can manipulate the situation to my best advantage. Seven semesters later, I still haven’t figured out that everything cannot succumb to my plan for the world. My first few semesters at college were spent trying to figure out the system. Now, my last semesters will be spent trying to manipulate the system.
In three years, there has never been a semester where my class schedule went according to my first plan, or my second plan, or even my third plan. It seems like it should be such a natural progression, like growing up or driving to work or making a baby. Instead, I spend most of my first week dating around, trying to find the class that works perfect for me and realizing that I am not omitted from the 16 unit limit, or from the pre-requisites, or any of the wait lists.
This week, I changed almost all my classes the night before they started. This week I sent out more than 20 e-mails to different professors. This week a teacher lectured me for being sick from “self-caused stress.”
I had high hopes when I began the week rested. I was ready to jump into the world of the day planner. Then the reality of the syllabi, the exam schedule and the lack of sleep set in.
On Monday, I was up early: changing classes, meeting my first deadline and writing e-mails. Tuesday comes next: conducting my first interview and noticing signs of sickness. Tuesday afternoon finds me auditioning for a vocal jazz ensemble on a whim. Wednesday morning I am on interview number two. Wednesday night comes and I am making an excel spreadsheet to plan out all my classes. Thursday morning, change classes. On Thursday afternoon the lab computer breaks. Suddenly, I realize there is nothing in the house to eat for dessert.
Science has never failed the world with its accurate conclusions; what goes up must come down, what can go wrong will go wrong and stress causes illness.
Yet, somehow it all works out in the end. This excel spreadsheet I have now is not on track with my original plan, but it is 16 units worth of classes that I need to graduate. The trick to being a good student is being organized and understanding that you cannot always manipulate the system.
The other trick to school is accepting the fact that you are permanently exhausted for the next four months. Pulling 12 hour days at school by being an overachiever, standing in line at the registrar, showing up to professors’ offices, doing homework early, auditioning for music classes and learning how to write a column is all a part of this college experience our parents reminisced about.
Apparently, our parents only remembered the after-finals-week parties. College is a lot of work.
For me, Thursday night is the beginning of freedom; the classroom section of the week is over. Once more it all comes down to a choice. Facebook or Twitter? Sushi or Pizza? Movie or TV?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
