One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it
U2 "One"
Simple, simple lyrics. Yet, I found myself choked up tonight at the U2 show. Twice. I'm not a concert cryer, nor am I one of those crazed fans who screams bloody murder and then faints right there in the middle of a moshpit. I do, however, enjoy any music that evokes some emotion and manages to replace my everyday skin with those fantastic, tingly little goosebumps. I know Jade, it's chicken skin ;)
Tonight, I shed actual tears. I'm not sure where they came from really...I wasn't even in a particularly sad or emotional mood. I may have been embarrassed (even if slightly) from my blubbering if it hadn't been for one thing, I happened to look over at the 40-something year old man next to me at the very moment he was wiping a tear from his cheek.
Thursday, November 3, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
I Do. Or do I?
I got into a long discussion about marriage today. Well, not just marriage, but partnership. These days it seems marriage can potentially be an entirely independent and unrelated action from the actual union of two people anyway. But in an attempt to try and understand why humans do what we do, we asked ourselves how and why people get together. A boatload of questions came about, but not many answers. Not many definitive ones anyway:
Is it natural for humans to want to find that one special person and ‘settle down’ as they say? Or is it the ideology of marriage that has brainwashed us into thinking that we do? If marriage just didn’t exist, would we still act the same way toward relationships? Would we even get into relationships? Are we walking around sizing everyone up to fit into that one slot whether or not there is an exchange of vows? Does the desire for children factor in here anywhere and change anything? Statistically speaking, if we’re meant to pair up with just one person, is it possible for everyone to find their partner in their lifetime? Does the probability of settling down with one person get higher or lower or stay the same the longer you are single? Are over half of marriages ending in divorce now because people are being fed an unrealistic view of what it should be? Are we having undue pressure put on us to get married because that is what is considered the standard? Why are people not getting married as young as they used to? Marriage was created by humans, will it ever be dismissed by humans? Is it even realistic to assume that we are wired to be monogamous?
Phew, I need a drink.
Is it natural for humans to want to find that one special person and ‘settle down’ as they say? Or is it the ideology of marriage that has brainwashed us into thinking that we do? If marriage just didn’t exist, would we still act the same way toward relationships? Would we even get into relationships? Are we walking around sizing everyone up to fit into that one slot whether or not there is an exchange of vows? Does the desire for children factor in here anywhere and change anything? Statistically speaking, if we’re meant to pair up with just one person, is it possible for everyone to find their partner in their lifetime? Does the probability of settling down with one person get higher or lower or stay the same the longer you are single? Are over half of marriages ending in divorce now because people are being fed an unrealistic view of what it should be? Are we having undue pressure put on us to get married because that is what is considered the standard? Why are people not getting married as young as they used to? Marriage was created by humans, will it ever be dismissed by humans? Is it even realistic to assume that we are wired to be monogamous?
Phew, I need a drink.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Not Bitching (for once)
There’s something to be said about going off and just bitching about the things that bother you sometimes. And I mean BITCHING, only the way a woman can. There’s probably a reason the term was originally associated with women in the first place, we’re quite simply really, really good at it. And it’s no secret that I’ve bitched lately about men and their shortcomings (pun fully intended).
I feel a lot better.
And I think the universe heard me complaining. And now, since I am a huge advocate of keeping things fair and balanced, I must now give credit where credit is due.
Big ups to the man who has caused me to wear an especially satisfied smile on my face lately and brought the spring back into my step. As well as helping me remember that there are things worth shaving my legs for. I don’t know where he came from or how he learned the things he knows, but I certainly wouldn’t mind finding out. I’m actually not so sure he’s human to be honest. Some of his abilities are not of this earth.
Some time ago I made out with him…in a 7-Eleven freezer. I would hardly think cases of Budweiser and 2 percent milk to be alluring, but when he spun me around and kissed me in the vapor of our visibly cold breath, I knew I stumbled upon something interesting. And although it would be quite some time before I really knew what I was in for, I got a sneaking feeling that this one had some tricks up his sleeve. These tricks, my friends….are not for kids.
Looking back at my past, I accidentally noticed something, although I’ve never had a “type”, seems in recent years there were a string of guys who weren’t the burliest of chaps. The I’m-a-lover-not-a-fighter types, which is all great and good. I like to think that anyone I choose to spend time with is an exceptional person, for the simple fact that I am extremely selective about my free time and whom I spend it with. But I have to say, I’ve missed a few things over the years. Like guys who own (and know how to operate) tools, like saws and drills and stuff. A tool belt is an added bonus, even if I ask him to put it on just for fun! Or the guy who can pick up those big jugs of water without turning purple before toppling under its weight and cracking a rib. Speaking of picking things up…there’s something refreshing about a guy who can pick me up (and let’s say…just for the hell of it…carry me into the bedroom) with the same ease as say, carrying a bag of feathers. Okay, a hundred and five pound bag of feathers, but whatever.
Moreover, there’s something fantastic and strangely comforting in knowing that if someone fucks with you, he’s not even going to hesitate in taking the necessary steps to introduce his fist to the person's face (only if absolutely necessary, of course). I mean, not that he’d go looking for bar brawls or anything, but he ain’t running away from a little danger when another’s respect has been compromised.
But it’s not just about size and strength, there’s also something very attractive about a man who makes an experience of taking you clothes off, one piece at a time…in the living room. And especially appealing when he actually takes the time to check out the ensemble you just bought (after all, that is at least part of the reason you bought it, you kinda thought someone might be taking a peek pretty soon). There’s something enticing about a man who isn’t afraid to make the first move and even if you say no, he’s aware that it just means no until next time. And until next time he will wait. And when next time comes, he will be equally disarming and kiss you wildly…(and change your water jug for you too).
As always, out of respect for the privacy of others, I never mention any names but, with a big smile I say thanks to my new friend for all the spooning...and the forking.
I feel a lot better.
And I think the universe heard me complaining. And now, since I am a huge advocate of keeping things fair and balanced, I must now give credit where credit is due.
Big ups to the man who has caused me to wear an especially satisfied smile on my face lately and brought the spring back into my step. As well as helping me remember that there are things worth shaving my legs for. I don’t know where he came from or how he learned the things he knows, but I certainly wouldn’t mind finding out. I’m actually not so sure he’s human to be honest. Some of his abilities are not of this earth.
Some time ago I made out with him…in a 7-Eleven freezer. I would hardly think cases of Budweiser and 2 percent milk to be alluring, but when he spun me around and kissed me in the vapor of our visibly cold breath, I knew I stumbled upon something interesting. And although it would be quite some time before I really knew what I was in for, I got a sneaking feeling that this one had some tricks up his sleeve. These tricks, my friends….are not for kids.
Looking back at my past, I accidentally noticed something, although I’ve never had a “type”, seems in recent years there were a string of guys who weren’t the burliest of chaps. The I’m-a-lover-not-a-fighter types, which is all great and good. I like to think that anyone I choose to spend time with is an exceptional person, for the simple fact that I am extremely selective about my free time and whom I spend it with. But I have to say, I’ve missed a few things over the years. Like guys who own (and know how to operate) tools, like saws and drills and stuff. A tool belt is an added bonus, even if I ask him to put it on just for fun! Or the guy who can pick up those big jugs of water without turning purple before toppling under its weight and cracking a rib. Speaking of picking things up…there’s something refreshing about a guy who can pick me up (and let’s say…just for the hell of it…carry me into the bedroom) with the same ease as say, carrying a bag of feathers. Okay, a hundred and five pound bag of feathers, but whatever.
Moreover, there’s something fantastic and strangely comforting in knowing that if someone fucks with you, he’s not even going to hesitate in taking the necessary steps to introduce his fist to the person's face (only if absolutely necessary, of course). I mean, not that he’d go looking for bar brawls or anything, but he ain’t running away from a little danger when another’s respect has been compromised.
But it’s not just about size and strength, there’s also something very attractive about a man who makes an experience of taking you clothes off, one piece at a time…in the living room. And especially appealing when he actually takes the time to check out the ensemble you just bought (after all, that is at least part of the reason you bought it, you kinda thought someone might be taking a peek pretty soon). There’s something enticing about a man who isn’t afraid to make the first move and even if you say no, he’s aware that it just means no until next time. And until next time he will wait. And when next time comes, he will be equally disarming and kiss you wildly…(and change your water jug for you too).
As always, out of respect for the privacy of others, I never mention any names but, with a big smile I say thanks to my new friend for all the spooning...and the forking.
Friday, July 15, 2005
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em
I’m exhausted but cannot sleep, why this happens I will never understand…so I find myself in front of my computer. Back in the day I would have found myself holding my journal in my lap. The journal that I painstakingly kept…long hand. It’s so much easier to type. I seem to have this love/hate relationship with technology…
…exemplified by my personal anti text messaging campaign lately. I loved it at first for so many reasons. A great little novelty and a reason to spend all too much money on a new cell phone which boasts easier access to texting (which has now become its own verb), the quiver of excitement from hearing the special ring tone you’ve set for your special incoming texts. The wonder of what that little message might tell you that spoken words could not. But then, I began to despise it. I started to think that communication in this form would deteriorate our one on one, face to face experience. It seemed like an easy, almost cowardly, way out of having to really speak to someone. I decided to put myself on hiatus from texting.
Reluctantly, I must confess I may have changed my mind. But I don’t suppose that’s such a bad thing. There is always reason to discover the good things in everything, especially when you may have just overlooked them initially. My flip flopper attitude stems from a virtual tennis match of texting I participated in recently.
In the silence of the late evening, I lay in bed thinking about my adamant new old fashioned ways, and then I hear that special ring tone. I began to imagine life when there were no telephones. Not only cell phones, but regular telephones as well. Correspondence came in the form of fancy inked letters with a melted wax seal, stamped with a family shield or monogram of some sort (all this to insure the messenger wasn’t being a snoop while on his way to his destination). The anticipation of a letter from a lover may have made the days feel like weeks, and the weeks an eternity. And just as we always appreciate the book much more than the movie because of the pictures we paint so vividly in our minds, the mere thought of her smile from his words as she reads them would stay with him long after the pen touched the paper. It seems that because everything took longer, perhaps they were appreciated more. And that wasn’t so bad.
So what does this all have to do with modern times I asked myself? I realized that if I took a step back, I might find the very qualities I’d written off, because of our hurried world, staring me right in the face. Turns out, there could be many similarities in those feather quill letters and the texts I’ve received. They were just shorter versions…and of course, I was receiving them at lightning speed. No horses or messengers or carrier pigeons. But the wonder and imagination were ever present. Dare I say there was even something romantic about talking to another without actually speaking? With the inescapable romance of a dark and stormy evening (where I was anyway) and the distance between us, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps something I wrote may have made him smile. I vividly painted my mental picture, his face highlighted by the dim light of the LCD screen on his cell phone, nimbly pushing the corresponding numbers to form the words he was about to write.
Of course text messages are a far cry from writing a letter, but I found that I liked partaking in a form of communication that telephones seemed to have taken away long ago. And maybe this technology that I love and hate so much is bringing a bit of it back.
…exemplified by my personal anti text messaging campaign lately. I loved it at first for so many reasons. A great little novelty and a reason to spend all too much money on a new cell phone which boasts easier access to texting (which has now become its own verb), the quiver of excitement from hearing the special ring tone you’ve set for your special incoming texts. The wonder of what that little message might tell you that spoken words could not. But then, I began to despise it. I started to think that communication in this form would deteriorate our one on one, face to face experience. It seemed like an easy, almost cowardly, way out of having to really speak to someone. I decided to put myself on hiatus from texting.
Reluctantly, I must confess I may have changed my mind. But I don’t suppose that’s such a bad thing. There is always reason to discover the good things in everything, especially when you may have just overlooked them initially. My flip flopper attitude stems from a virtual tennis match of texting I participated in recently.
In the silence of the late evening, I lay in bed thinking about my adamant new old fashioned ways, and then I hear that special ring tone. I began to imagine life when there were no telephones. Not only cell phones, but regular telephones as well. Correspondence came in the form of fancy inked letters with a melted wax seal, stamped with a family shield or monogram of some sort (all this to insure the messenger wasn’t being a snoop while on his way to his destination). The anticipation of a letter from a lover may have made the days feel like weeks, and the weeks an eternity. And just as we always appreciate the book much more than the movie because of the pictures we paint so vividly in our minds, the mere thought of her smile from his words as she reads them would stay with him long after the pen touched the paper. It seems that because everything took longer, perhaps they were appreciated more. And that wasn’t so bad.
So what does this all have to do with modern times I asked myself? I realized that if I took a step back, I might find the very qualities I’d written off, because of our hurried world, staring me right in the face. Turns out, there could be many similarities in those feather quill letters and the texts I’ve received. They were just shorter versions…and of course, I was receiving them at lightning speed. No horses or messengers or carrier pigeons. But the wonder and imagination were ever present. Dare I say there was even something romantic about talking to another without actually speaking? With the inescapable romance of a dark and stormy evening (where I was anyway) and the distance between us, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps something I wrote may have made him smile. I vividly painted my mental picture, his face highlighted by the dim light of the LCD screen on his cell phone, nimbly pushing the corresponding numbers to form the words he was about to write.
Of course text messages are a far cry from writing a letter, but I found that I liked partaking in a form of communication that telephones seemed to have taken away long ago. And maybe this technology that I love and hate so much is bringing a bit of it back.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Bush League
They gave me a handy little locker for my shoes, but what about my inhibitions? Where am I supposed to put those?
I found myself in Koreatown a couple days ago. A friend of mine had recommended this Korean bathhouse for a massage and the loofah body scrub they offer...at quite the modest price, no less. Well, that was about the only modest thing about the place. I’ve been to a spa or two in my day. Burke Williams and the like, I also used to work for a day spa while I lived in Chicago. All of these spas seemed to run pretty much the same way, you’re handed a robe and a key, and then you’re pretty much good to go. Use whatever you like, the hot tub, sauna, pool, steam showers, all of which are primarily occupied by entirely naked women. When it comes time for your service, however, whether it be a massage, salt scrub, mud mask, etc…I'm accustomed to being whisked away to a quiet, Zen-like room…just me and the masseur.
NOT so in Koreaville. Aside from being the only white girl in a room full of some of the hottest Asian women I’ve ever seen, they were way less modest than any chick I’ve ever witnessed prancing around in the women’s lounge at an Americanized spa. I swear some of them would get out of the hot tub and grab their folded up towel and just walk with it right in their hand. It was slightly intimidating, I won't even try to pretend otherwise. They've got some great genes -- those bitches. The 70’s bush on the other hand was unlike any I've ever witnessed live. I know, I know. I swear I wasn’t staring, but it was hard not to notice. I am all for rolling with the old school triangle, it’s vintage, it’s retro, it’s in, that’s cool. But trimming the length is a must! I mean no disrespect at all, I was a total bush leaguer in there (no pun intended), they were all damn hot, over-sized muffs or not.
So, here I am (sporting my micro-mini triangle) getting into the hot tub. No big deal I can handle those miniscule moments of nudity amongst strangers. But now comes time for my massage. This lovely Korean woman comes over to me and I believe she is calling me over for my "appointment" but I have entirely no clue what she is saying to me, so I just got up and followed her. We walked into a room that I had noticed upon my arrival. There appeared to be a massage table directly in front of the doorway, and I thought to myself, ‘what an odd place to put the table…right in front of the door??!!’ As I made my way through the entrance, trying to avert my eyes from the overgrown muffin that was lying on that table, an alarming reality set in. There were 7 more tables in this giant shower-like room, and they were all occupied by naked women, except for the one designated for me. I had a couple of choices here. I pictured myself sprinting to my car, barefoot, white robe flailing crazily behind me from my adrenalin-induced speed. 'Screw my wallet, I’ll get new credit cards...I wonder if they're gonna charge me for this robe.'
“Face down!”
“Huh?” I mumbled when I realized I was still standing very close to the only visible doorway (read: exit).
“Face down!” She smiled as she tapped her hand onto the table. Yep, this time I understood exactly what she said.
My next move surprised even me. I smiled a smile from ear to ear and dropped my robe right there on the floor. Me, chicken? Hah!! I did, however, FEEL like a chicken…a chicken getting prepped for the deep fryer. I was being cleaned, slathered and tenderized. I was even garnished with something that resembled a cucumber salad.
I never knew the meaning of the word liberating until that day. Every nook and cranny was exposed to a room full of ladies, not to mention the woman who didn’t miss a beat while she flipped and patted and kneaded (all the while maintaining her entire routine wearing only a matching bra and panties. Black. Lace. I'm not kidding).
Americans are funny about our junk. We are a painfully yet hypocritically modest society in so many ways. God forbid we see a nipple on television and women have to fight for the right to provide their child vital sustenance in public. But Britney Spears (pre K-Fed) grinding under gallons of pouring water for her audience of 9 year olds who want to be just like her is totally acceptable. Funny, I say.
I have to say, another excellent feature of this hard core smack down I stumbled into was the fact that they didn’t have to be all pseudo proper and fakey respectful out of fear that you would sue them for coming within three inches of your business. It was more like, “You’re in my hood now, you pale American, your laws are no good here.” And probably thinking all the while that my triangle was just too darn small.
It was brilliant. I highly recommend it.
I found myself in Koreatown a couple days ago. A friend of mine had recommended this Korean bathhouse for a massage and the loofah body scrub they offer...at quite the modest price, no less. Well, that was about the only modest thing about the place. I’ve been to a spa or two in my day. Burke Williams and the like, I also used to work for a day spa while I lived in Chicago. All of these spas seemed to run pretty much the same way, you’re handed a robe and a key, and then you’re pretty much good to go. Use whatever you like, the hot tub, sauna, pool, steam showers, all of which are primarily occupied by entirely naked women. When it comes time for your service, however, whether it be a massage, salt scrub, mud mask, etc…I'm accustomed to being whisked away to a quiet, Zen-like room…just me and the masseur.
NOT so in Koreaville. Aside from being the only white girl in a room full of some of the hottest Asian women I’ve ever seen, they were way less modest than any chick I’ve ever witnessed prancing around in the women’s lounge at an Americanized spa. I swear some of them would get out of the hot tub and grab their folded up towel and just walk with it right in their hand. It was slightly intimidating, I won't even try to pretend otherwise. They've got some great genes -- those bitches. The 70’s bush on the other hand was unlike any I've ever witnessed live. I know, I know. I swear I wasn’t staring, but it was hard not to notice. I am all for rolling with the old school triangle, it’s vintage, it’s retro, it’s in, that’s cool. But trimming the length is a must! I mean no disrespect at all, I was a total bush leaguer in there (no pun intended), they were all damn hot, over-sized muffs or not.
So, here I am (sporting my micro-mini triangle) getting into the hot tub. No big deal I can handle those miniscule moments of nudity amongst strangers. But now comes time for my massage. This lovely Korean woman comes over to me and I believe she is calling me over for my "appointment" but I have entirely no clue what she is saying to me, so I just got up and followed her. We walked into a room that I had noticed upon my arrival. There appeared to be a massage table directly in front of the doorway, and I thought to myself, ‘what an odd place to put the table…right in front of the door??!!’ As I made my way through the entrance, trying to avert my eyes from the overgrown muffin that was lying on that table, an alarming reality set in. There were 7 more tables in this giant shower-like room, and they were all occupied by naked women, except for the one designated for me. I had a couple of choices here. I pictured myself sprinting to my car, barefoot, white robe flailing crazily behind me from my adrenalin-induced speed. 'Screw my wallet, I’ll get new credit cards...I wonder if they're gonna charge me for this robe.'
“Face down!”
“Huh?” I mumbled when I realized I was still standing very close to the only visible doorway (read: exit).
“Face down!” She smiled as she tapped her hand onto the table. Yep, this time I understood exactly what she said.
My next move surprised even me. I smiled a smile from ear to ear and dropped my robe right there on the floor. Me, chicken? Hah!! I did, however, FEEL like a chicken…a chicken getting prepped for the deep fryer. I was being cleaned, slathered and tenderized. I was even garnished with something that resembled a cucumber salad.
I never knew the meaning of the word liberating until that day. Every nook and cranny was exposed to a room full of ladies, not to mention the woman who didn’t miss a beat while she flipped and patted and kneaded (all the while maintaining her entire routine wearing only a matching bra and panties. Black. Lace. I'm not kidding).
Americans are funny about our junk. We are a painfully yet hypocritically modest society in so many ways. God forbid we see a nipple on television and women have to fight for the right to provide their child vital sustenance in public. But Britney Spears (pre K-Fed) grinding under gallons of pouring water for her audience of 9 year olds who want to be just like her is totally acceptable. Funny, I say.
I have to say, another excellent feature of this hard core smack down I stumbled into was the fact that they didn’t have to be all pseudo proper and fakey respectful out of fear that you would sue them for coming within three inches of your business. It was more like, “You’re in my hood now, you pale American, your laws are no good here.” And probably thinking all the while that my triangle was just too darn small.
It was brilliant. I highly recommend it.
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