Wedgies.

We all have them from time to time. Some are worse than others. My grade eleven physics teacher was a sweet, well-rounded (literally) man. He often reminded me of a beach ball in pants. And--he ALWAYS had a wedgie; I called it the "Perpetual Wedgie".

Today was a wedgie day for me, so naturally I recalled Mr. V, physics teacher. It must have been terrible to know that you have a Perpetual Wedgie while explaining that distance over time gives you speed. Sigh. Now that I've taught for a couple years, I cringe at the thought of all the snickers and smirks people gave Mr. V.

Personally, I was always fond of him. He was a nice guy, plain and simple. Plus, he once found a melodramatic poem in my physics notebook and didn't make fun of me or read it aloud to the class.

So, while walking down University Dr., thinking about my wedgie and whether it was safe to rectify it or not I remembered you Mr. V and I salute you for the bravery of teaching high school with that kind of condition.

P.S. I cannot think of a discreet way to fix a wedgie. Anyone have any suggestions?

WWJD?

Last night's guest on the Colbert Report got me thinking.
So, Bill Donahue, Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights president, this is for you:

Mea Culpa

Guess what I did today? That’s right, work.

I spent some time in an air conditioned library, working on my thesis AND blogging. Let me assure you that my multi-tasking skills are alive and well, though I had assumed atrophy after being out of work for so long.

But, the reason that I worked is that last night I did a bad thing. I played Civilization for two and a half hours. One hundred and fifty minutes of my life. I beat the game (by Domination Victory, for my fellow nerdlingers’ information)—that’s the good news. The bad news is that I ended up with a stiff neck, sore bum, and wicked headache.

So I went to bed feeling bad about so much time just plain old WASTED. But in the morning, after L tossed me in the shower and dragged me to school (somewhat against my will), I felt much better about my self.

This taught me that I should continue to do things I regret because guilt is my one and only motivation.

War.

I thought since Kate and Martyn were discussing the wars...or whatever they are calling them (conflicts?)...in the Middle East that I'd make some of my thoughts on the subject public.

1) I feel that I'm not sufficiently educated to really comment on the situation. I don't know enough of the history of the region to have a clear understanding of who is really at fault. But combining my six years of theology classes, history courses, and general knowledge forcefully sucked out of mediocre news sources, I have come to two conclusions:

a) Both Israel and Palestine have the right to exist in peace and prosperity.

b) If terrorism can be "stopped" (I have my doubts about the ability to stop such a thing), it's probably not going to be stopped by bombing civilians...because that's terrorism, too. (Regardless of whether it's a government or a radical group.) And as MLK said, you cannot drive out darkness with more darkness, only light can do that.

2) Why are we so lucky? Maybe this question is too big or too existential? But when I watch the news, rather than getting mad at governments (which seem to be actually incapable of doing things right, so why get mad?) I find myself asking this question--over and over again. My reality seems like a ridiculous joke or a bad children's story (they lived happily ever after...).

We're like sheltered children looking on as the kid's from the other side of the tracks throw rocks at each other. What do we know about their problems? We can't just run in between them and ask them to stop, we can't throw rocks ourselves (our mums would spank us), and we can't just let them keep throwing rocks because eventually they'll hit one of our windows. I suppose we might call an adult over, but there aren't any around. And even if there were, they'd only break up this skirmish, but the kids would just meet on another day, in another place, and do it all again.

It's a terrible situation to be in. Looking on, waiting to see what happens, and when whatever happens does happen...we won't be able to do much either.

Defeatist?


Hmm. I suppose. I just don't see any solutions myself. But, then again, I'm not a world leader, so it's not my job. Gasp, those people who float from place to place on helicopters actually have to do stuff?

The problem is that we're getting the information, but not taking part in any kind of dialogue, not considering ramifications, not trying to think of solutions.

By which I don't mean to say that no one is thinking about war, but it's not our place (in our orderly society) to do anything about it.

Or is it?

Sincerely,

Confused Onlooker with a Nagging Conscience

A New Low --not only am I not doing my thesis, but I AM posting forwards instead of real posts

Who makes me laugh?
1. Jon Stewart.
2. Lindell.
3. My brother, Alex

Things I love:
1. A comfy bed for prolonged sleeping ('cause I love sleeping).
2. Good books.
3. Shoes.

Things I hate:
1. People who should speak English properly, but don't (like reporters, Pres. Bush, and Ann Coulter!).
2. Pedestrians. Since when do they think they have the right of way? They should spend some time in Bolivia!
3. Fish. Stinky, flaky, mushy fish!

Three things in my fridge:
1. Rhonda's offerings: pumpkin bread and a kilo of Saskatoon Berries.
2. Ice cream.
3. Naan bread.

Things I want to do before I die:
1. Visit every country in the world (that won't stone me for exposing my knee cap).
2. Write my (crazy) family history.
3. Build a house.

Things I can do:
1. Make empanadas de viento.
2. Learn new languages.
3. Take good photos.

Things I can't do:
1. Touch my toes.
2. "Settle down."
3. Not argue.

Three things I'd like to teach someone before I die:
1. To love and really appreciate words.
2. To be a flexible and fairly (I'm realistic) open person.
3. How to start conversations with almost anyone.

Shows I watched when I was a kid:
1. Care Bears.
2. El Chavo del Ocho/Chapulin Colorado (I had the music records, too!).
3. Duck Tales (woo -ooo).

Things I Don't Understand:
1. Instructions from yoga instructors. What does "soften your kidneys" mean? Can that actually be done? I'm not even sure where my kidneys are!
2. People who eat junk food all day, every day.
3. Not wanting to learn.

Things On My Desk:
1. Paper.
2. Books.
3. Pens and pencils (notice that I'm not at my desk, haha. Live on Proctastinatrix, live on...).

Things I'm Doing Right Now:
1. I tried watching soaps (a record new low for me), but I couldn't bring my self to do it...so now I'm watching The Berenstain Bears.
2. Hangin' in my PJs.
3. Not my thesis.

Three Ways To Describe My Personality
1. Particular.
2. Animated.
3. Fickle.

Things I'd Like To Learn:
1. French.
2. How to fly ( I flew a C-12 once, but only for a few minutes).
3. How to ice skating.

Of Imelda Marcos and Other Masochists

From a young age, my father called me "Imelda Marcos"--first lady of the Philippines notorious for her excessive shoe collection.

I wouldn't say I have a shoe fetish. Not at all. But I like them, a lot. It's not like I'd commit tax fraud to buy shoes! But, I do admit to a somewhat reckless purchase of late. Yes, it's true; I spent eighty dollars on shoes. Beautiful strappy wedges that make me feel like Grace Kelly. Lovely shoes that I catch other women admiring on the street. Shoes that make me a little taller. Shoes that are a dark enough shade of brown to go with brown OR black (yes, it's true Lyla).

Sigh.

So if I'm so happy, what's the problem?

Well, in addition to all of the above they were also comfortable. I wore them to do groceries and I wore them while carrying the groceries up four flights of stairs--without a bit of a problem. I felt that for the first time I understood Donna Reed vacuuming in heels. Alas, I was deceived.

Yesterday, after a light sushi dinner, L suggested ice cream.

If there's anything I like more than nice shoes, it's ice cream.

Although there are at least two ice cream places within three blocks of our home (dangerous, eh?), we decided on DQ Blizzards. Moreover, we decided to walk from Broadway to Campus Drive for blizzards. At the time, this seemed like a great idea. What could be better than a long walk on a lovely summer evening? We would walk under the trees and peek into peoples houses--and get bitten by mosquitoes. Ah. The good life.

And what did I have to fear? I'd been wearing my glorious shoes (comparable in their divinity only to my glorious winter boots) for an entire week. I'd worn them for lounging, for walking, and for hard labor.

So, we began the thirty minute walk. We discussed life and mosquitoes. It was entirely pleasant.
But then, somewhere around University Drive and 14th, I realized my feet were actually, really and truly hurting.

But the promise of an oreo blizzard was too great to give up on because of a little pain. So we marched on. And friends, the pain only worsened. By the time we reached Dairy Queen, I was starting to limp a bit, but I was sure that sitting down to a nice ice cream would be just the thing to give me strength for the half-hour walk home.

It wasn't.

On the walk home, not only were the balls of my feet supporting my entire weight, but I fancied I could FEEL blisters developing. Slowly rubbing their way to the surface; gloating in their chaffed glory. But this I could manage. What woman in our sick society that encourages us to wear these shoes has not had to walk with blisters on her feet? Why, I remember that I once used an artfully placed gum wrapper to mitigate the pain of a blister on yet another pair of beautiful shoes (those were a pair of black patent leather mary janes with a two-inch heel--they were beautiful and I was much younger).

But it got worse still. Soon, the strappy bits daintily encircling my ankles began to pinch and then to cut my skin.

Like you, L wondered why I didn't just take the damn things off and walk barefoot on the sidewalk. I wish I could have, but I can't. I just can't do that. I come from a part of the world where, as the saying goes, simply wearing shoes gives you the right to be called: Doctora. It's true. I have never--EVER--walked barefoot outside (except by a pool or on a beach). Unfortunately, I've been effectively conditioned.

So, by the time I arrived at my fourth floor apartment I could hardly walk on any part of my feet. L brought me a tub of warm water with Manitou Salts (finally, they came in handy) for my feet to soak in. That helped a bit, but I remained in pain all night and am only just beginning to recover the full use of my most necessary appendages.

So, the question is: what will become of the shoes? Will I give them to charity for some other poor soul to suffer their deceptive comfort? Or will I wear those dread shoes again?

As I'm sure Imelda would say, the answer is: Yes, I'll wear them again, just as soon as my feet heal, baby.