I Heart Miss Japan

Tonight, while stuffing our faces with roasted chicken Waymy (meaning Amy and Wayne, thanks Tai!) and I watched the Miss Universe Pageant. This was of course a completely accurate metaphor for American society as a whole (except that Wayne is Irish...anyway): sitting on the couch, gorging ourselves while watching anorexic foriegn women objectify themselves on TV. Ish. But, that being said, it was kind of fun. These women may have been smart, I don't know, but their profiles were like a competition in the Insipid Olympics. One of the them, i think it was Miss Trinidad and Tobago, listed "Meditating, Watching Movies, and Socializing" as her interests. The next, Miss Puerto Rico (and as an aside, why is there a Miss PR? Aren't they techinically a part of the US? I know they aren't a state, they are a territory... is this a trade off for not having representation in congress?) mentioned "Watching Reality TV" as one of her interests. And Miss USA, who I'm pretty sure was legally retarded, mentioned "playing with her Cat and Dogs". I think that was a euphemism.

The one exception to this was Miss Japan. She was a looker to be sure, I wouldn't have kicked her out of bed (ok, well I probably would because a) I'm not gay and b) I'd be really freaked out to wake up and have Miss Japan sleeping next to me), but this was what won me over: her short list of interests was "French Cinematography" and "Flamenco Dancing". This may not seem like much, but in comparisson to "socializing" she might has well have listed "Nuclear Physics". During the Evening Gown competition Miss Japan (or MJ, like I prefer to call her) was the only one wearing black, while everyone else looked like some sort of demented taffeta cupcakes. She came off as elegant, intelligent, and charming, while the others seemed confused and uncomfortable. Then, the piece de resistance: during the "interview" (or one idiotic question that your other finalists wrote in eyeliner while trying to remember how to spell) MJ was asked the question "If you could change one thing in history, what would it be?" Now, knowing MJ as I do, I thought for sure this Okinawa homegirl would break out with "Not having nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki would have been great", but she did one better. In the middle of a beauty pageant, in which her job is to be objectified by a panel of mostly male judges and the international public at large, she says that what she would change through time was "the history of men oppressing women." Boo-ya.

Of course, MJ got second place, she was the first runner up, so in the event that someone finds inappropriate pictures of Miss Puerto Rico she might get a chance at that crown. But when she found out that she lost, she took her flowers and walked off stage. Didn't stick around to smile and cry and pretend to be happy for the winner like the rest of hypocrits, she just left, like "Screw you stupid bitches, I've got some French Cinema to watch." And I love her even more for that.

This is to replace my earlier, less articulate post on being a "QuirkyAlone"...I encourage you to read this one.

Now that I've actually finished the book, "QuirkyAlone", i think we should start with a definition of terms. As defined by Sasha Cagen et. al a QuirkyAlone, or QA, is a person who prefers to be alone rather than compromise their romantic ideals; who values friendships as their primary relationships and builds a family of friends; who can be in relationships but doesn't espouse the "tyranny-of-coupledom" mentality; who understands and lives the distinction between solitude and loneliness, and who are generally quirky, compelling individuals. I of course am a QA, but didn't realize it. I thought I was just a freak who didn't like babies and rejected the ideal of the picket fence for a loft and a vacation home in south beach. Case in point: everytime someone (usually a girl, lets be honest) has a baby they want to parade it around. I'm fine with that, good for them, they shoved something out of their body and they should be proud of that. However. They bring this thing for me to look at and they expect cooing and cuddling and all those typical girly behaviors, and I just can't deliver. I just don't get it up for babies. I don't get what the big fucking deal is. If I wanted something that pooped its pants and couldn't communicate in my life I would still be dating my ex (kidding....sort of). I get why people get all excited about their own babies and I'm sure I'll be the worst offender when I have kids (yes I want kids. It will be like a science experiment...kidding....sort of), but why do they expect everyone else to be all excited? They present me with this baby and look at me all expectant like I'm going to suddenly break out with the googoo gaga crap, and all I can think of is complete, adult sentences, like "my, what an articulate way to express your wants through the medium of the scream. What an elegant social commentary on the commercialism inherent in modern american life. I think i'll join you in your primal yell." Surprisingly enough, that never goes over well with the parents. I've lost many a coworker's trust with that routine. But to them I say, "no one told you to bring your fucking baby to work. This is where I come to do my job, make personal long distance phone calls, and write my blog. Now get your orangutan out of my face."

Ahem. I wasn't much of a babysitter, lets put it that way.

The fact of the matter is that ultimately I do want to be in a relationship and have a family, and I think anyone that spends at least 3.2 minutes with me can see that, but I want to be in a relationship that I haven't encountered yet. Every so often I'll see a kid out of the corner of my eye, and smile, knowing that someday I'll understand what all the hoopla is about. But I don't know if marriage is the right word, or partnership, or whatever. I'm not trying to be new age, I've just been thinking a lot now about what I want out of life, and what I should call the person that could accompany me on that journey. Right now I am loving being with my friends, and being with myself, in a way that I always have but hadn't given myself permission to enjoy. I always thought something was missing from my life because I didn't have a boyfriend (to put it like the junior high kids do), and while I felt fulfilled and loved, it was never enough. Then I actually got a boyfriend, and after much soul-searching and introspection realized that it was absolutely enough, and I was much, much happier without this freeloader taking up all my time and using all my gas to drive his lazy ass around town. I was much happier not being this needy, clingy thing because I thought that was how you demonstrated that you "really cared". I was so afraid of letting him figure out that I really didn't give two shits about his comic books and his beer brewing because I thought we would break up. After we did break up, I realized that if I was afraid to let him know I had no interests in his interests, it probably wasn't worth my time pretending to care and being resentful in the process. Since I broke up with the J-dog I have regained some of the confidence that went on hiatus when I started college and really let myself start to wallow in the joy of being single. I'm sad it took me this long to figure it out, but I think I had to go through all the bad, broken relationships, especially this last one, in order to understand that I'm the only person I can count on being with for the rest of my life, so I better be fan-fucking-tastic.

I don't know what's with all the f-bombs in thsi blog. I'm excited, I guess. I now officially know what to call myself besides militantly feministic and independent.

So what do QAs like to do, you ask? Well, this one likes to go to movies alone. That way no one can yell at me for talking at the characters, laughing too loud, crying, heckling, etc. I'm pretty much a movie-going nightmare, which is why I always reject it as a first date choice, unless I really want to see the movie and I can't afford to see it on my own (admit it, we've all gone on dates not out of desire for the person, but out of desire for a free meal when your cupboard and pocket book are equally bare....of course, this can backfire in the case of a dutch first dater, who is a dying breed because no one is going to sleep with a man that doesn't pay on the first date. I may be a feminist but I'm not stupid). I really like going to movies on my own though because it give me a chance to be alone in public, a hallmark of the QA. It's social, but not socializing, and it allows me to people watch to my hearts content. Plus, I can cry and laugh and engage with the movie one on one, which I find to be the best way to figure out how you really feel about it. You're not thinking about the person beside you, you're not gauging your reaction on theirs, you're just being you, watching a movie. And doing it in public involves some resiliancy, you have to be proud and know that people are watching you. I get dressed up, put on makeup, and open myself up to the possiblities of the universe. I know some people might look at me and pity me, but I think most people see the wry smile on my face and envy my confidence and self possession. And I like that too.

I also like going out to dinner on my own. Usually I'll do this with a book or a paper, but I always go with the hope that I'll get myself into a new adventure. There are a few restaurants that I go to alone so often that I've gotten to know the staff, the owners, the bartenders, and some of the patrons, of which many are doing the same thing that I am. I love eating at the bar at 112 Eatery because I feel like Norm from Cheers, but with much better cocktails and incredible food (Eat there immediately if you haven't already. 112 Eatery, 112 N. 3rd St in Downtown Mpls, 612-343-7697, ask for Nancy, she's the owner and married to Isaac, the chef. You'll probably need a reservation if it's going to be more than just you). I've made friends there, been asked out on dates, introduced important people in my life to other important people in my life, gotten drunk, had my birthday and generally had a whole lot of fun at 112 all because the first time I went there I was entirely, conspicuously and proudly on my own. People are attracted to me when I'm alone, they want to know my story and why I'm out without anyone else. It might start as pity on their part, but more often then not it turns into admiration. Hopefully I've inspired others to do the same. Some people are always going to think it's sad if you are out to dinner or a movie by yourself, but those are probably the same people that go to their 20 year high school reunion because that was the high point of their lives. So I'm usually able to turn that pity right back around.

So, lovelies, I encourage all of you, if you haven't done so already, to spend some quality, one-on-one public alone time with yourself and find out if you are a QA too. It's totally fine if you aren't, but if you find this action strangely freeing, read the book, and learn more.

Go See the Diane Arbus Exhibit at the Walker!

Last Thursday I went with my friends Sonja and Andy (who are married, in case it matters) to see the Diane Arbus exhibit at the Walker Art Center, aka the most confusing art museum in the history of the world. That's probably not true, I'm sure there are much more confusing museums, but this is the most confusing one I've ever been in, and as mine is the only opinion that matters, it might as well be the world. While Sonja and Andy didn't see what the big deal was (I believe the phrase they used was "scowling, ugly people being captured living bleak, joyless lives") I disagree. I thought there was intense, simple joy, and dare I say pathos in her pictures. These were ordinary people captured in seemingly ordinary and mundane settings that take on a greater social significance through the lens of time and space (Take that, cultural studies!). I craved the simplicity in the photos, in the raw nakedness and the lack of guile. Even drag queens in dresses, wigs and full faces of makeup seemed desperately, violently exposed, and somehow cleansed in the process. The picture and lives were dirty, but that grit made them seem true and pure in a way I can't really express. Go see the show; you'll see what I mean. Or maybe you'll think they're scowling, ugly people living bleak, joyless lives.

What made the exhibit better (and honestly, I'm not sure if I would have enjoyed it as much otherwise) was observing the other exhibit-goers observing the photos. It was two-pronged voyeurism that I really dug. I love people watching. Scratch that, what I really love is people judging, love looking at their clothes and their hair and their posture and their expressions and imagining a life around those things, which I guess when I really think about it, is what I loved about the Diane Arbus photos; her subjects were laid bare in her photos, exposed in all their minutiae, just as people are in real life, right in front of you. The people watching is always great at Art Museums. You of course get the requisite art students with their tragically hip trying oh-so-not-so hard to look accidentally fabulous; the middle age cultural elite, who will go to the opening of an envelope and wear their Walker and MPR Memberships like a badge of liberal honor; the clueless plebian tourists, but then there are the wild cards: the 12 year olds with their hippie parents, trying not to snicker at all the saggy, old boobs in the pictures of the nudist colony; the incredibly awkward first date where the guy is trying really hard not to look at these photos as pornography and the girl is trying really hard to remember why she said yes to the date in the first place; the guards, who are all artists themselves when they aren't trying to pay their rent (as an added bonus, one of the guards told me they loved my hair, so I will refrain from judging them at this juncture) and then everyone else. They are all remarkable.

I should mention that I have a love-hate relationship with people as a whole. I love watching them walk, think, choose, speak... and I am repulsed and yet attracted by much of what they do. In that way people are like a very bad train wreck- you just can't look away. Most people are so weird, so foreign in a fundamental way from each other and from myself, and yet in almost every person I encounter I find some behavior or article of clothing or speech pattern or gait that I want to try out, to emulate, to figure out how that element that so attracts me might be incorporated into the me-ness, like some characteristic magpie. Even with the photos I was trying to do that, catching my reflection in the glass and seeing the images reflected on my skin. How can I see myself through this image? I guess ultimately my desire to emulate them is really a desire to find that within myself- to understand how I and this other person are similar, and how we are different. I think that's what Diane Arbus wanted us to cull from her photos, that sense of difference and sameness living in the same space. As I walked aroung the exhibit, I could see people looking at the photos, examining them, and finding themselves somewhere within. Every so often I could catch the spark of recognition, as though they were seeing themselves as if in a dream, where you see your face but it isn't your face. You know that it is supposed to be your face, and somehow it all makes perfect sense. That was how I saw these photo, and the other patrons... these people were supposed to be me, and we all make some sort of weird, parallel universe sense.

Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Were a Beer Like Me?

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A Plea for Help

I try to keep this blog light, for the most part, but I'm going to take a moment to urge all of you who read it to speak out to those around you and most importantly to your political officials about the violence that has erupted in and surrounding Palestine and Israel. Most of you know that I am Palestinian so I know you know where my loyalties lie, but at this point it's gotten ridiculous, no matter who you are. There is a siege going on in Gaza that is starving a people to death, separating them from outside assistance or aid. This is in response to a kidnapping of a soldier, which is reprehensible, but why punish the entire region of Gaza? Civilians are dying at this point, and the response is completely dispreportionate to the initial crime. Secondly, the bombing going on between Israel and Lebanon has reached a fever pitch. The Israeli's have bombed all the airports in Beirut, Hezbollah (probably) has retailiated by bombing the port of the beautiful city of Haifa, home to Arabs and Jews both. Now there are refugees fleeing from all over southern Lebanon, and once again civilians are being killed. I'm not going to say that Israel does not have the right to defend itself, it does. But once again, the skirmish by Hezbollah on the Israeli/Lebanese border killed eight and kidnapped two. It does not justify and all out war agains the people of the entirety of Lebanon. At this point, I don't really care what side you are one, people are dying on both sides, and it must stop. Please take the time to educate yourselves about what is going on, and then urge those in power and those around you to put a stop to it. The US still has a lot of power over the region, please help us exercise it.

On Being the Bigger Person

So I recently rejoined a gym, this time LifeTime Fitness, which contrary to popular opinion doesn't seem particularly crowded with Gym Bunnies. I've been going to the St. Paul location, which is in the old University Club, so it has this sort of dilapidated swankiness that I really dig. It looks like a converted hotel, and in fact very well may be. The pool, which is what sealed the deal for me, to be honest, is a national historic landmark. It looks like something out of an old Ethel Merman movie, all this really intricate inlaid tile and floor to ceiling marble pillars. It makes me actually want to go work out, which is saying something. Of course, the other swimmers become distracted by my intricate underwater routines, but they are welcome to join me in my Golden Years of Hollywood fantasy.

Last night I went to a yoga class, which kicked my ass as they always do. The same thing always happens when I go to a yoga class: I start out really excited to go, and then half way through the class I get this sinking feeling in my stomach and all I can think is "this was an intensely bad idea". This thought usually occurs to me in the middle of the 4th Sun Salutation, when I've been in the Cobra asana for what feels easily like 8 years. For the uninitiated this is a pose where you support the full weight of your body on your hands and the tops of your feet. Fun! Right about when I lose all feeling in my upper arms I realize that I am not cut out for this kind of workout. But this is always how I have to work out, I have to sneak up on it. I have to trick my body into thinking it's not that big a deal until I am already in the middle of it, sort of like the way you lure a dog to the vet, or a small child to get a tetinus shot. I tell my body we're just going for a drive, maybe for some ice cream, then I swing a hard right and before my body can say a word I'm in yoga, contorting it into positions it didn't even know existed. Yoga is great like that- every time you finish you're like "i didn't even know I had a muscle in the bottom of my ass". At least this wasn't a "hot yoga" class, where they crank the heat up to 115 degrees and kick your ass for a straight hour and a half. That was easily the most intense physical activity I have ever encountered, and while it felt great, a small part of me is pretty sure it was the closest to death I've ever been. It was this class that made me realize that my favorite pose is Corpse Pose.

Last night's class was good, but as always it was a little disconcerting to look around the room and being the largest one there. That happens to me a lot. I don't know if it's that I didn't get the memo about segregated skinny and non-skinny activities, or that people my size don't think they can do yoga or pilates, which really bums me out, because nothing will get you lean and tone faster than those two things. I spoke with the instructor after class for a while, and she remarked that I had better form and was more flexible than most of the people in the class, which goes to show you that physical size isn't the issue, it's perception. The one good thing about being overweight pretty much my whole life is that I generally do not feel inhibited by my size. I have always done and worn whatever everyone else has, because I was never taught to be ashamed. Is it hard? Sure. Am I at the gym in the first place because I want to lose weight? Of course. Do I let that stop me from doing something that I think could be fun and interesting? Never. In this culture we are taught that only people who look a certain way or weigh a certain amount can do certain things. Our activities are segregated by size and shape, and people buy into it. I think that is bullshit, personally.

(As a somewhat side note: it's important to remember that body issues are body issues, and everyone has them. Everytime I talk about people that are overweight, friends of mine that are very skinny talk about their own pain of trying to gain weight and feel normal in what is perceived as an overly slender body. Everyone thinks they are ugly and awful, and we can't assume that one type of self-loathing is better than any other. )

As I got to thinking about all this last night, I realized that there is something ultimately empowering about being the largest person in a yoga class. It shows them and me that the only limitations people have are those that are put on themselves. It makes me feel good that people in the class can look at me and be envious of my skill and form, can maybe even wish, however fleetingly, that their body had the power and grace that mine has. All my life, I've heard comments from people to the effect of "For a big girl, you sure don't act like one", and I always want to say to them, for a "small-minded asshole, you sure don't come off that way". What does a comment like that mean? What do they think a "big girl" should act like, that I should shroud my size 14 frame in a muu-muu and apologize for existing in their slender world? And what constitues "big" these days? How is it defined? Big can mean many things to many people, and I choose to believe it means I am a bigger person, which will stay the same no matter how much weight I lose. The next time someone says something like that to me, I'll invite them along to a Yoga class and proceed to kick their scrawny ass.

On the Joys of Movie Hopping

Today, after getting done with work at noon (seriously, if you have to call into a bank at 7:45am on a Saturday, you have some really screwed up priorities) I decided to engage in a lively afternoon of movie hopping. For the uninitiated, movie hopping is paying to see one movie, then sneaking into another or series of other movies following the one you paid for. There were a bunch of movies that I wanted to see, and with very little coin in the old purse, it seemed that movie hopping was the answer. In order to assuage my guilty conscience (right!) the ticket I chose to pay for was for An Inconvenient Truth, where the proceeds go to support organizations dedicated to fighting Global Warming. This also happened to be the first movie that I went to see, and was actually really good. Most people think it's going to be an hour and half of Al Gore droning on and guilt tripping everyone about not taking your bike to work, but it's really nothing like that, and it's really nothing like the Al Gore we thought we knew. He's affable and charismatic, and sounds for all the world like a major statesman. If we had seen this Al Gore in the 2u000 election, he might have one more than just the majority of the popular vote (as apparently that wasn't quite enough). The movie is essentially the scientific support for idea of Global Warming, and it's pretty damn compelling. I actually cried at a couple of moments, but mostly that was in frustration upon seeing the face of G-Dub. Gore came across as a latter day Jimmy Carter, a truly decent man attempting to make his world a better place and therefore being politically hosed for it. Side note: there is a part of the movie where there is this sad little computer animated polar bear swimming in a vast sea without hope of support on dry land or ice. It's heartbreaking! For the love of God, stop Global Warming before it kills all the cute, cuddly polar bears. Or Sweet Jesus, think of the PENGUINS!!! That hadn't even occured to me yet..... *single tear*. Seriously, see the movie.

Next came the Lake House, which was lovely, despite the fact that Keanu Reeves has the oddest acting style ever recorded. I'm not going to say that he's a bad actor, because I don't think that's true, but he is odd. r. It's like he is just an awkward person in general, and so his awkwardness underscores all his characters. In Speed he played an awkward cop, in the Matix he played an awkward hacker, and in this movie he played an awkward time travelling architect. In this film he looked a little scruffy and kind of rough around the edges. He is not a good five o'clock shadow guy, it makes his face look pockmarked and patchy in a very non-hot way. Lovely is pretty much the word I would use for this movie, and I suggest you see it, if only for the house itself. It could be a rental. The last movie I saw was Click, which is a definite rental. It's like It's a Wonderful Life for the information age. Plus, all the women were like, inordinately wicked hot. The wife, played by Kate Beckinsale is like a size 0 with huge boobs, a full body tan and perfectly tousled hair right out of bed. This woman takes care of two children under the age of 5 everyday, all day. Take stock of the women in your life that you know with children under school age, and tell me if they look like this character. I'm betting not. And there's nothing wrong with that. What's wrong is that we have to have this conversation because women are made to feel like shit because they can't roll out of bed with a full face of makeup. Also there was this really rascist moment in the beginning involving "Arabian Sheiks"....anyway. Adam Sandler gives it the old college try, but he is lugging a safe in the script. See it, don't see it, I was disappointed- but hey, I didn't pay.

Yak Balls

So last night I'm out with a couple of my former sorority sisters and one of them, Karra, is getting ready for a date the next afternoon (it was a lunch date because Karra's so popular she already had plans for the evening and other plans in the afternoon). Any talk of first dates naturally comes back to bad first dates, and oh my god have I had some doozies. The worst of these (which I am sharing here completely out of context at the insistence of LeeAnne who point blank told me my blog wasn't funny, but she would read it if this story was on it) is:

The Saga of the Yak Balls
(This one goes on to KJ and LeeAnne)

So like most everyone in these modern times I too am a casual internet dater. Meaning I go to one site and occasionally will chat with people there, and occasionally will go on dates with the people I chat with. I don't have a lot of patience for the crazies and the politics of online dating, but I don't have a lot of patience for the crazies and politics of any kind of dating. I'm getting a bit sick of it all at this point, because it's become clear that online dating has an over-abundance of wunder-geeks with peter pan complexes who wouldn't know what to do with a girl even if they were given an instruction manual written in programming code. Witness the fact that I had an actual boyfriend that I met on this site who never once in the entire time we were dating, including the first time I saw his apartment, cleaned his room because he "wanted me to know what he was really like". Apparently he was really a fucking slob. He also had two outfits total, one of which was a hoodie that said "I'm a rocker. I rock out." and the other was a t-shirt that said "I'm a rocker. I rock out." Clever boy.

BUT. We are not discussing him, gentle readers, we are discussing Yak Balls. My point in relating this initial piece is that in general it seems like many of the man-boys that one meets online haven't quite mastered the art of adulthood. They haven't even been able to free sketch the turtle on the back of the brochure to get into the art school of adulthood (that was a strangled metaphor, and you're welcome to call me on my cell phone to explain it to you).

So, back to the Saga of the Yak Balls. So I arrange to meet a gentleman who I have been speaking with for about a week for dinner. He picks the restaurant, a Tibetan place on Grand Ave that's known for serving exotic meats, like yak, goat, etc. He's been there before and speaks highly of the food, and I'm always willing to try something new and delicious. It's a first date in the late spring and I want to make a good impression (as always), so I wear a pair of black pants, a black tank top, and funky necklace and a little denim jacket. I look put together but not overly formal. It should be noted that I firmly believe in first impressions, and taking the time to attire oneself appropriately indicates that the meeting is important to the person because time and care were taken over one's appearance. I arrive at the restaurant and am sort of standing around, waiting for him, when I hear someone call my name. I turn around and I literally have to keep myself smiling and walking. The effort is massive, because this is what I am faced with: for our first date, the first time he meets me in public, the hero of our story chooses to wear cutoff shorts whose identity as denim or khaki was obscured by a plethora of paint spots which suggested he came straight to our date from working the paint mixer at Home Depot. Above the aforementioned shorts was a T-shirt with the Native American figure of Kokopelli and a tagline that read something like "Santa Fe, New Mexico" or "Kokopelli Festival 2003". Below the shorts was the horror of horrors, Teva sandals buckled over black socks. Who honestly thinks this is a good look other than fathers in 50's sitcoms? He is shirt was tucked in, so it was apparent to me that he actually did look in the mirror and think "Yeah, this works". Suffice it to say my first thought was not "I'd hit that."

This outfit was a cavalcade of horrors, but I spent a good 15 minutes of the date wondering which one was worse. It was like a neck and neck 3 way tie over which item I hated more. Eventually I had to give up, it was just too hard to decide. So we sit down, and immediately I realize that he is a Sweaty Man, the kind that sweats for no apparent reason while those around him are comfortable in sweaters and jackets. I can understand being nervous on a date, but this spoke to some sort of medical condition. I watched in horrified fascination as he proceeded to sweat his way all through dinner, so profusely that it was literally dripping down his face. How do you eat watching that? You don't, that's how, and here's why it's easy: I had never been to the restaurant before, so I naturally asked him what was good. We didn't have any other goddamn thing to talk about, so we had one of those painfully awkward conversations about what we were going to have. So when I ask him what's good he immediately says "The Yak Balls."

Now what do you think when someone says Yak Balls to you? You think he's talking about Yak Testicles, which is exactly what I thought. The fact that he continued to explain that they were more like ground Yak dumplings didn't mitigate the fact that I felt in my heart that what I had been told to order for dinner was the gonads of a Yak. But I ordered them, nonetheless, as he had suggested them and I felt it would seem rude and unadventurous of me to decline, and I am neither rude or unadventurous. We continue to sit in sweaty, uncomfortable halting conversation until the food comes (he was sweaty, I was uncomfortable). I should say halting, because everytime I tried to talk I was halted by more words from him. The man would not shut up. He just kept talking and talking and talking and for the life of me I could not get a handle on anything he was saying. He was so boring that I had forgotten how to understand English- I'm sure it was an instinctual coping mechanism. Now I don't wear a watch, but I found myself continually checking my naked wrist, to the point where it seemed like a tick. I went to the bathroom for a while to kill some time, hoping he might just leave, but there he was, grinning like an idiot upon my return.

Then the food came.

I cannot express to you my disgust with the Yak Balls. It should be noted that I eat raw meat, oysters, snails, truffles, frogs legs, and have been known to eat a deep fried worm on a dare (Ali...). None of these can compare to the culinary trauma that was the Yak Balls. They tasted like someone had taken ground pork, put it in a used sweatsock, boiled it in salty water, then wrapped it is gelatinous tasteless dough. Yummy. So I'm picking at my Yak Balls, and he looks over and says "Is something wrong?" Where do I begin to address the number of things that were wrong at this point? I settle for telling him that despite my best intentions, Yak Balls are not for me. He pays the check (thank God) and asks for a box, so he can take the Yak Balls home with him.

We decide to go on a walk around the neighborhood (or rather he decides, at this point I am resigned to my silent participation in the Date That Will Not End). We walk around a bit, him trying to take us farther and farther from the cars, me trying desperately to pull us back in that direction. After what easily seems like a decade of small talk, we thankfully arrive at the cars and I praise Jesus that the Sweaty Man does not go in for a kiss. I thank him for dinner and get in my car. I do not say anything along the lines of "this was nice", "we should do it again sometime", "give me a call". I am not a man. I do not "spare feelings" by lying. I just get in my car and drive home.

Once home, I change into my grubbies and then do a quick email check. Not fifteen minutes after we say goodbye Sweaty Man has sent me an email, in which he talks about what a great time he had, and how much he enjoys our rapier-quick banter. He must have been listening into another table, because the only rapier I remember was the one I was imagining plunging into his eye just to get him to shut the hell up for a minute. Finally he mentions that he would love to get together to watch a DVD. Now, everyone knows that "watching a DVD" is code for "coming over to make out in the dark". This is a) not a second date activity and b) not something I would be engaging in with Sweaty Man in easily the next billion years. How was this the guy that called me right away, that imagined chemistry great enough to suggest I would even kiss him on the cheek, let alone repeatedly and in my home? I had to put an end to it right there. I wrote him back and said that while he seemed like an interesting person, I wasn't particularly interested in seeing him again. I thanked him again for dinner and said goodbye. He wrote me back to say that while the outcome wasn't what he hoped, he appreciated my honesty. (Side note: Boys, let that be a lesson to you: if you don't want to date us, for God's sake just say it. We're not going to like it, but it's better than the Uber-limbo of the lie "I'll call you sometime" .)

At least he could take comfort in the left over Yak Balls.

Brief Responses to the Comments from my Earlier Post

First of all, yes, Tai, the snuggles meant something, but Wayne upgraded my computer and provided it with wireless for absolutely free. Perhaps if you also have some technology to bring to the table, I could be persuaded to put you in first place, until then, feel confident in your seating as a very close second.

Second of all Ali: I agree with you that I am talking about the Mega suburbs and that communities can be formed in the smaller ones. I would even argue however that the suburbs that now touch the metro, such as Roseville and the other ones you mentioned are extensions of the cities themselves, and can no longer be lumped into the same category as your Minnetonkas or your Lake Oronos. I know that communities can be formed in the larger ones too, I don't think they are all automatons. However, I think the largess of the homes out their preclude any sense of community because you are in essence creating a fortress. And I agree with you that culture can take many forms, such as a garden, etc, my argument is that most of these people do not seek out culture or choose to cultivate it. That is what I have a problem with: I can accept and even embrace that your sense of culture includes creating a comfortable home, investigating different recipes, even going to a recital or concert given by the local community high school when you don't have a kid in it. But there are people out there, and you know this is true, that move to the suburbs and create a haven for themselves in which they can live out life in a cultural vacuum, getting no more information than what prime-time programming can provide. You have met these people, who think that voting for American Idol (speaking of which, doesn't that sound vaguely like a sign of the end times, like we are worshipping idols? remember Moses and the Chosen People ((wouldn't that be a great name for a band?))? god wasn't too happy about that golden calf idol... anyway, I'm getting off topic) is more important than voting for President. Do people like that live in the City? Of course they do, and it is just as frustrating to me. My argument is that there are more sheep living in the suburbs, by nature of what the suburbs are, then in the city.

And finally my argument never had anything to with who worked "harder". I never accused the people of the suburbs of laziness. You can work hard and still live in a cultural wasteland (who wrote that originally? ). My main arguement was actually not about the people, but about the way that the suburbs utilize resources wastefully. So I guess you could say that my logical argument is about the wasting of resources, while my illogical argument is about the people and purely my unsubstantiated opinion.

Ok let move on to something else... (which of course does not preclude commentary!)

On Soccer Moms and Why I Sincerely Distrust the Suburbs

It has come to my attention that many of my gentle readers were confused about my hatred for the suburbs. I too felt that the post in which I express my dislike of them was short of substance, but this was because I was typing it up at the end of my work day and didn't want to stay here any longer than was absolutely necessary. Some things suffered, some critical points were missed, some animals may have been harmed. This post will have lots of spelling errors for the same reason. Further, the concept of the soccer mom was thrown into the mix, so here I will address my feelings on the "Soccer Mom" heretofore referenced as the SM.

Oh, the SM. It's normal for any woman to be jealous of her. In my darkest moments I must admit even I, Rosie the Riveter herself, has felt the siren song of the Crate and Barrel Life. She is clean, elegant, put together, in possession of all of the signs and symbols of successful womanhood: the kids, the husband, the picket fence, the dog. But there is a dark side to the SM, a secret shame and almost certain madness upon awaking to the fact that this indeed is your life. Witness the horror of the Stepford Wives or Bree on Desperate Housewives, SMs both. "Lives of quiet desperation" is the phrase that most often comes to mind when I think of the SM. And here's why: She is defined by things outside herself, her house, her kids, her car, her husband, even her ann taylor credit card. She is trapped by the trappings of the life she was told to want. Now, this is not to say that there are not women who are satisfied and fulfilled by this life, I'm positive there are, and I am happy for them. Feminism means choice, and that includes the choice to stay home and make a job of raising your family. However. I don't think most women think this choice though. I think they end up sublimating their desires and their rage, and end up as very simple, disappointed people. I've seen it happen with my own to eyes. I had two friends in high-school, both with what would be considered "soccer moms", stay at home moms who worked as a mother and runner of the household. One was joyful, funny, slightly messy and had fun with her kids and her life. She was satisfied and happy. The other one was pinched and bitter, fully believing that she had never lived up to her potential, because she didn't see the potential in being a committed wife and mother. It's all about the choice. Who is making the choice, the woman, her husband, or the society we have surrounded ourselves with? If it's truly her, and she is truly happy, then more power to her. If not, then she needs to play a little Aretha and be ok with the fact that raising children and washing some slobs underwear isn't as fulfilling as everyone made it out to be. It's all about honesty, people.

That being said, I know first hand (ok, I guess technically second hand, but still) that it is possible to be fulfilled by both motherhood and a job. My mother worked my entire life because she wanted to and felt driven and fulfilled by work, and I never felt deprived of her attention or affection. She never wanted to take care of me full time and never felt that she had to. I'm sure she felt torn at times, especially in the eighties when being in the workforce for women meant glass ceilings, sneakers with suits, and shoulder pads, but I'm proud of how far she went at a time and in a place where that wasn't expected or frankly, always allowed. My father and mother both did a great job of balancing career and family, and I think I'm a better adjusted adult for it. So I've never bought into this hogwash that children with stay at home parents are any better. Parents that stay at home can be just as fucked up as parents that don't. It's not about location, it's about participation (there, put that on a fucking bumper sticker instead of those stupid honor roll notices). My parents participated in my life through school events, extracurriculars, everything, and still had their own lives. I think parents that are too involved in the planning and execution of their child's day to day activities are raising losers- literally. People who will never amount to much because they were never taught how to take care of themselves. You all know who I'm talking about. If you suspect you might be one, here's a quick test: Is mommy still folding your undies? Then I think you know the answer.

That all being said, if you are a SM that drives a hummer, you are automatically a waste of skin. Sorry, but thems the breaks. Also, I disagree entirely with Ali's assertion that all SM kids are well put together and clean. I have seen plenty examples to the contrary, generally coughing up a lung behind me on an airplane. Dirty little brats. I know writers throughout this century have pontificated on this very issue, but why is it that some parents are literally blind to the shitty behavior of their children? Ali told me a story the other day about a kid at Target who knocked 3 aisles worth of display shoes off the racks. Just wiped them off with his arm. And the mother looks at the employee whose job it is to clean this shit up and says: "Kids will be kids". I think I would have said "Your kids will be dead in about 3.2 seconds if you don't get in their and start cleaning, bitch." I would get fired, but man, would it ever be worth it.

Moving right along...THE SUBURBS! Anyone ever see the movie "The 'Burbs". This is why I hate the suburbs. I believe this movie is true. Maybe people don't start worshipping Satan, but they do start worshipping at the alter of rampant, wasteful consumerism. They become unconcerned with the world around them because they are trying to escape it. They come into the city once a week (unless they work here) and call it dirty, dangerous and expensive. So what? That's what cities are, and thats what makes them exciting. I like the city because you have to work a little bit harder. You have to walk instead of drive because you can't afford parking. You get to go to a corner market or a farmers market instead of the supermarket. You create actual neighbors out of shared experience and even create urban families, while in the suburb your giant yard separates you from your neighbor and your fences create physical barriers. I know this is a gross generalization, and it is just my perception. There are plenty of things wrong with the city. I guess it just boils down to this, and it's my blog so I can be ridiculous: people from suburbs are more annoying to me than people from the city. End of story.

That's not really a constructive reason, though, is it?
I must also mention at this juncture that I am currently typing this while I am sitting on my couch, which doesn't seem like a huge deal, but is because it means I can access the internet via an AirPort, which is the wireless set up for a Mac, which Amy's boyfriend brought over with him from Ireland. Hooray for Wayne! He is my new favorite.

So, back to the issue at hand. I think the real reason that I don't like the suburbs or those in them as a general rule is that I don't trust them. I don't think the people that live there have the best interests of humanity at heart, so I guess I distrust them for the same reason I do republicans. I believe that they have the best interests of their own immediate family at heart, and I don't think they are bad people. I do think they are short-sighted, however. These houses that first initiated this rant were enormous, much too large for single family dwellings. They were like castles, but new. And I just think it is excessive to use that much space and resources when you do not need them. The same goes for the gas guzzling SUVs. I understand that often times a lot of space is needed to haul around kids, dogs and their equipment. But you aren't landing at Normandy, you're going to ballet practice. Come to think of it, the vehicles that transported the allied forces to the beach at Normandy were positively Lilliputian in comparison. The point is, we as a nation are using way over our share of every natural resource, and I see the suburbs at the vanguard of this.

I also don't see the appeal aesthetically, but that's just me. Give me a rehabbed (amber help me out here on the spelling) loft in the city with no fucking yard to take care of and I'll be yours forever. I like homes with character, and ultimately I feel that is what is lacking in the homes, clothes, and sometimes personalities of the suburbs.

A Weekend Among the Cheeseheads

Apparently I don't like to stay too long at home, because last week once I returned from the wonder of Wichita I spent exactly one full day in Minneapolis and turned right around to go off on another mini-break. This time around my roommate Amy and I stopped off first in Rochester to visit our delightful friend Tai who is in full wedding-planning-family-freaking-out mode. She is the most easy going person you will ever meet in your entire life, and I truly admire her ability to remain sane and joyful when everyone around her is making her life a personal hell. All for a wedding! I've never understood this madness. Why should the happiest day of your life require you to break out in stress hives? This I think was Tai's intention when she wanted to have her wedding in her parents backyard, go real casual for the ceremony and her reception, but I guess the fam had other plans. This is why I want to fly somewhere warm and tropical for my wedding (when and if I have one, which is essentially my way of knocking on wood and not jinxing myself by talking about a wedding before I have even the hint of a groom lined up). I want my wedding to be a stress free as possible, even if that means leaving everyone at home. Anyway we got tanked on Margarita's and talked about boys, which is as good an antidote to insanity as I have ever heard.

Having woken up remarkably sans hang-over Amy and I pressed onward towards the heart of Darkness itself, Wisconsin. Now, we tease Wisconsin here in Minnesota, what with their steady diet of beer, cheese, and deep-fried beer battered cheese, their obsessive compulsive relationship with Brett Favre and their general drunken zaniness. But I'm going to admit to what all Minnesotans secretly know and feel shamed by: Wisconsin is a) a prettier state than Minnesota and b) their citizenry, while a bit on the weird side, are definitely more outgoing/ less reserved and culturally diverse than their mostly Scandinavian counterparts to the west. I personally blame the crazy-ass Germans and the small but vocal Arab contingent (of course, that's because I'm German and Arab, and like to take credit for everything). I may be locked up in the Mall of America and chased by rapid Norwegians and Swedes throwing ludefisk and lefsa for admitting this, but we all know it's true, and I'll risk Minnesotan exile in order to speak the truth. I imagine I could fine sanctuary across our Eastern border.

Now I didn't always feel this way about Wisconsin, but this time I around I decided to put all my joking aside and really embrace that which is the Sconnie lifestyle, and I came back a better person for it. First off all, you are pretty much required by law to have some sort of alcohol running through your veins at all times, preferably beer. At Summerfest, where we were to see Cowboy Mouth (more on this shortly) there were easily 8 different manners of beer tent. Just types of beer tent. There were approximately 1700 actually tents. You could have your good old American swill, Miller, or you could go slightly more refined with a refreshing Leinie's. For something a little unusual there were 4 different offerings from Sprecher, not even counting the non-alcoholic wonder that is their Root Beer. Then for the micro-brew beer snob I counted 3 different brewery pavilions, and I didn't even walk the full length of the festival. These weren't stands so much as they were mobile restaurants. Now how can you not love a State whose biggest outdoor festival practically prevents you from walking more than 8 feet without buying a beer? Second of all, there is a giant ass lake right next to Milwaukee, and while MN may be the land of a Thousand Lakes, we don't have a built up city by one like Wisconsin. Sure, Duluth is plenty beautiful, but if you don't have a cabin, there just isn't much to see. Third of all, and this again, may be due to the huge amounts of beer I'm consuming, but I can say without a doubt that I have never had a bad time in Wisconsin. Never. Everytime I've gone to that state it's been a laugh riot. There was the wenis incident of 2001, when a bunch of us when to visit Ali after Freshman year, then there have been the several trips I've taken with Amy to see her family. So perhaps it was time for me to get off my high horse and really revel in the beer and cheese scented ether of Wisconsin.

The reason we went to Wisconsin in the first place was to see the band Cowboy Mouth. This is a New Orleans based band (or I guess used to be) and they ROCK. They have great music on cd etc, but live they are AMAZING: best live group I have ever seen, and I've seen Queen, U2 and Prince. Fred and the band just get so into it it's incredible to watch, and you can't help but be sucked in. The lead singer/drummer gets so sweaty you think he's going to have a heart attack right there on stage, but he just keeps giving it everything he's got, which makes the audience want to do the same, and honestly, provides you with a great, gut wrenching catharsis usually reserved for ancient Greek tragedy. Seriously, the next day, Amy came down to wake me up and I was all like "ouch, my abs hurts" and she was like "yeah, mine do too"... and we sat and thought about it for a while and realized we had been singing and screaming so hard it was like we had done a 2 hour session of Windsor Pilates. I appreciate any workout I can do semi-drunk.

So, long story short: Check out Cowboy Mouth. If you're the kind of mouth breather that needs a bandwagon, they are the band that did "Jenny Says", so there, they are too popular!

Saturday we did pretty much nothing, except explore the new monstrosities parading as single family homes that are going up around Amy's parents house. These home are ridiculously huge, and even though we were hiking our way through the bones of the homes, with just the wood frames, they are glutinous. There is no need to live in something that big, at least not something that big that isn't already standing. These homes are a terrible use of resources, destroying the surrounding wooded areas that were part of the reason people wanted to move out to the suburbs in the first place. These giant castles are built right on top of one another and sell for literally ungodly amounts of money, as in, you will have to sell your soul or your first born to purchase one. Now, those who know me know that I find the suburbs repugnant on the deepest level. I don't get them, and I don't get those who live in them. I cut them out of my life. I'll touch on that more, I'm sure, later. But, it was fun entering (no breaking, thank you) these unfinished constructions and getting to run around in them.

Then Amy taught me how to drive a stick shift. CORRECTION: attempted to teach me. Now, she was an excellent teacher, much better than my screaming parents (thanks for the hearing loss and deep routed fear of all things clutch related, mom and dad), but I have what is kindly referred to as a "lead foot". I do ok except for the starting and the stopping. And the shifting. We shall not speak of this again.

And then on Sunday, we went to Amy's brother's house for a party which included a whole roasted pig. Now I know some of you out there are vegetarians, and all I can say is, I'm so very sorry. Because pulled pork, like butter, is tangible proof that there is a God, and he does in fact love us best. Sweet sassy molassy- them's good eats. I won't belabor the point, but suffice it to say I practically ate myself comatose. But hell, I wasn't driving.