Tonight I found an old scrap of paper with a flight itinerary to/from Washington, D.C. It is two years old, and I don't know from where it surfaced. Two years ago was the last time I went out of town. Two years ago, my entire life was suspended. I began graduate school and I delved more deeply into my career. There has been no time to travel with research due every Tuesday evening for 100 weeks straight. When I was looking into graduate programs, I clearly remember a colleague telling me that this program nearly killed her. Ha and hm, but I am not writing about grad school tonight. I am writing about the loss of my most precious and invigorating hobby, travel. If you want to perk me up super quickly, even when I am totally spent, irritated, and frustrated, my tune changes instantly at the prospect of taking a trip somewhere, anywhere. Few things are more thrilling to me. No matter where I am visiting, I enjoy some light background local research. Even packing is exciting for me, not to mention the journey itself. Once upon a time, airports and I were very familiar with each other, especially Hartsfield in ATL. (I even refer to many cities by their airport code; it just happens.) Everything about a new location interests me, from local cuisine and customs to dialect and architecture. Most of my favorite memories and experiences are marked by a year and location. I think that the most important part is not always comparing the differences from where and how I live, but rather finding the commonalities in being living, breathing, sentient human beings.
So while I may have more time to travel this year, unfortunately the economy is affecting such luxuries. Eating ketchup sandwiches for a few months a year doesn't bother me if it means saving for a trip. However, there is no one left to travel with. Most of my friends are young wives, so they cannot leave their spouses to go cavorting with a single woman. A few other single friends have declared permanent hibernation for whatever reason (boo--hiss). And the one or two other people left who love peripatetic adventure as much as I just don't have the funding. What, go alone? Surely, I could, but discovering things together--figuring out transit systems, sharing a dessert sampler, laughing at ridiculous commentary--is part of the fun.
Maybe my New Year's wish for myself this year will be to find a travel buddy, one who isn't afraid to jump on a horse and go at a moment's notice.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Melamine in Milk/Plastics in Microwave
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/01/world/asia/01milk.html?_r=1&hp
A guilty plea. How much can be said about this horrifying situation?
An important note for those who aren't aware of the following . . . Plastics, in any form, do not belong in the microwave. It is a lethal combination that, over time, poisons the consumer. This includes baby bottles, a major no-no. Please pass the word about this to your friends who are parents of young children. No plastic wrap, no food containers, whether hard or soft, no styrofoam take-out boxes, no, no, no. Melamine plates are hard plastic, reusable plates, often with fun designs on them, particularly children's characters. These should never go in the microwave, which is explained on the bottom of the plate.
Please, as adults, one had the freedom to eat as he or she chooses, but when one is in care of a child, the innocent youth's welfare takes priority over convenience. Heat the food on the stovetop, even if it takes a little longer.
A guilty plea. How much can be said about this horrifying situation?
An important note for those who aren't aware of the following . . . Plastics, in any form, do not belong in the microwave. It is a lethal combination that, over time, poisons the consumer. This includes baby bottles, a major no-no. Please pass the word about this to your friends who are parents of young children. No plastic wrap, no food containers, whether hard or soft, no styrofoam take-out boxes, no, no, no. Melamine plates are hard plastic, reusable plates, often with fun designs on them, particularly children's characters. These should never go in the microwave, which is explained on the bottom of the plate.
Please, as adults, one had the freedom to eat as he or she chooses, but when one is in care of a child, the innocent youth's welfare takes priority over convenience. Heat the food on the stovetop, even if it takes a little longer.
Swimming Against the Tide
Though blessed with a handful of achievements that I am proud to have fulfilled, I have to say that my greatest one is waking up at 6:45 every morning to go to work. For normal people, this is tiddlywinks. But for the insomniac, having a day job takes a slightly different meaning. No matter how exhausted I am, I can never hit the hay earlier than 11:30 p.m. I think that I can count twice when I went to sleep at a decent hour, one of them being transoceanic jet lag, and the other my worst case of flu in ten years. Then, the nightly ritual begins. Spray some lavender on my sheets. Flip through all of the channels. Twice. Empty my bladder three times. Check the thermostat. Remember that I forgot something critical for tomorrow, so turn on the lamp and write it on my hand so that there is no chance I will forget to do it. I did this a few weeks ago, and a colleague asked me what was on my hand. I showed him that I had written the message twice, once on my palm in addition to the outside of my hand.
Some nights are worse than others, but more often than not, I take too long to fall asleep, and then I wake several times in the night. I avoid all things stimulating after 8:00 p.m., and yes, regular exercise is a part of my permanent lifestyle. I used to think that all this was linked to stress, but even now that I am on vacation, I am not sleeping as I should. I've done my research on melatonin, circadian rhythms, sleep psychology, etc. It's very simple, but there is not much I can do about it. My body wants to be on its own schedule, not what is imposed by the business world. Ideally, I would get a job that is more suited for being a night owl. However, I adore my career as a teacher so much that there is no reconciling the two issues at hand. You know, most schools do tend to run on a morning schedule, though I have heard of some proposals to start school just a couple of hours later in the day because of bussing the kids so early in the morning. Believe me, I would jump on that bandwagon faster than I'd pick up a winning lottery ticket.
Some nights are worse than others, but more often than not, I take too long to fall asleep, and then I wake several times in the night. I avoid all things stimulating after 8:00 p.m., and yes, regular exercise is a part of my permanent lifestyle. I used to think that all this was linked to stress, but even now that I am on vacation, I am not sleeping as I should. I've done my research on melatonin, circadian rhythms, sleep psychology, etc. It's very simple, but there is not much I can do about it. My body wants to be on its own schedule, not what is imposed by the business world. Ideally, I would get a job that is more suited for being a night owl. However, I adore my career as a teacher so much that there is no reconciling the two issues at hand. You know, most schools do tend to run on a morning schedule, though I have heard of some proposals to start school just a couple of hours later in the day because of bussing the kids so early in the morning. Believe me, I would jump on that bandwagon faster than I'd pick up a winning lottery ticket.
R U Okay?
A few evenings ago, my father and I attended a holiday party together. I picked him up and brought him back home. He and I live very close to each other. It was perhaps 12:30 when I put the key in my door. I immediately jumped in the shower to get ready for bed. Twenty minutes later, I put my pajamas on and checked my phone one last time before going to sleep. Dad had sent me a text: R U Okay?
I wondered why he did this. There is a fire station nearby, and I thought that maybe he had heard the sirens and worried. It's just how our minds work in this family, and we don't question it too much. I called Dad, and he said that all he wanted was to be sure that I made it inside my home safely. Yes, Dad, I made it in fine. Sheesh, I thought, what are the possibilities of what could happen to me in the five minutes that had passed from his doorstep to mine when he had sent the text? (All right, so I admit that where I live has had its share of frightening crimes.) Had this scenario taken place ten or fifteen years ago, I would have rolled my eyes and fussed that I am not an incapacitated child. However, it didn't bother me one bit that Dad was checking up on his daughter, because the alternative to our relationship could have been far worse than my feeling babied. It's all a matter of perspective.
(N.B. What's cute about this anecdote is the fact that Dad is into texts. As for Mom, we are doing well just by fiiiinally convincing her to get a cell phone some months ago. What's next for them, DVR?)
I wondered why he did this. There is a fire station nearby, and I thought that maybe he had heard the sirens and worried. It's just how our minds work in this family, and we don't question it too much. I called Dad, and he said that all he wanted was to be sure that I made it inside my home safely. Yes, Dad, I made it in fine. Sheesh, I thought, what are the possibilities of what could happen to me in the five minutes that had passed from his doorstep to mine when he had sent the text? (All right, so I admit that where I live has had its share of frightening crimes.) Had this scenario taken place ten or fifteen years ago, I would have rolled my eyes and fussed that I am not an incapacitated child. However, it didn't bother me one bit that Dad was checking up on his daughter, because the alternative to our relationship could have been far worse than my feeling babied. It's all a matter of perspective.
(N.B. What's cute about this anecdote is the fact that Dad is into texts. As for Mom, we are doing well just by fiiiinally convincing her to get a cell phone some months ago. What's next for them, DVR?)
Facebook: I Don't Get It
It's not the concept of Facebook that I don't understand. What I don't understand is some of the friend requests that I get. These are from people who either: A. I don't remember this person's existence in my life at all. (I have, on several occasions, asked the person to tell me how we know each other before adding him or her. It's embarrassing, yet the safety of my identity takes precedence. Yes, some whack jobs have attempted to do this to me before.) B. I know darned well that this person would not invite me to dinner, so why even bother? Are you trying to set a friends record like Tila Tequila did on MySpace? What's the point? We have lived very well without each other so far, so what's the need to squeeze into my life now that there is a finite number to indicate how many friends you have? Apparently, I am not the only person who feels this way, as I was once invited to a group that focused on this very complaint.
Truth be told, I could not give two licks about some of the people who have sent me friend requests. It's not that I dislike them, but rather that we don't have anything in common other than being of the human race. In the eight months that I have been a member and have collected something close to 150 "friends," only one person has rekindled a spark from the very distant past, a classmate that I graduated with. The funny part is that I sometimes talk about her when I am explaining the cultural phenomenon of Facebook, because she and I are developing a friendship now as adults, after many years of not even hearing each other's names. She is probably the one person who I know will be reading my blog regularly, because we discovered that writing is one of our shared passions. She knows who she is, because she is the one who brought me to BlogSpot.
But for the rest of you who send me friend requests because we had a political science class together in college, what gives? Bottom line: If you don't really care how I am doing, then don't request my friendship on Facebook. If you feel so compelled, just send me an e-mail asking me what I have been up to since 1983 when we last talked. Keep it real, y'all!
Truth be told, I could not give two licks about some of the people who have sent me friend requests. It's not that I dislike them, but rather that we don't have anything in common other than being of the human race. In the eight months that I have been a member and have collected something close to 150 "friends," only one person has rekindled a spark from the very distant past, a classmate that I graduated with. The funny part is that I sometimes talk about her when I am explaining the cultural phenomenon of Facebook, because she and I are developing a friendship now as adults, after many years of not even hearing each other's names. She is probably the one person who I know will be reading my blog regularly, because we discovered that writing is one of our shared passions. She knows who she is, because she is the one who brought me to BlogSpot.
But for the rest of you who send me friend requests because we had a political science class together in college, what gives? Bottom line: If you don't really care how I am doing, then don't request my friendship on Facebook. If you feel so compelled, just send me an e-mail asking me what I have been up to since 1983 when we last talked. Keep it real, y'all!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sign of the Times
This exact time tomorrow night, people around the world (okay, people on the EST in the United States, more precisely) will be filling champagne glasses and preparing to toast loved ones in honor of health and happiness for the New Year. Other than a few twinges I am getting right now as I write this, this is the most anticlimactic I have ever perceived the turn of the year. I had to check myself whether I am in a depression to feel this way. No, I am rarely depressed. Am I irritable that I have no Romeo to plant my lips on? Nope, not it either. After several years of spending NYE with very wrong romantic interests, I would much rather be alone forever than go through that again. (In fact, the last year that this happened, my midnight toast was, "Here's to being alone!") I have gotten to the stage that my greatest daily wish is to be productive but at a relaxed, not frenzied pace. I am seeing past all the fanfare of tomorrow night, and I'm looking ahead to actual New Year's Day. How much laundry and paperwork can I get done uninterrupted on a day that I know no one will ask me for favors, because everywhere will be c-l-o-s-e-d? I don't want to stay up until 2:00 a.m. because of what it means for the next day. If all this sounds pathetic, then so be it, because this is what would make ME happy on my first day of 2009, not putting on a show of feigned excitement at the tock of the ticker.
Which brings me to the ultimate reason why I think that this year I will return home early after maybe dinner or a show. I don't want to mark time anymore. We measure everything in years, weeks, minutes, and seconds for athletes. What I would love to resolve for myself in 2009 is NOT to count the years anymore, not to look wistfully at the past and realize how much time has whispered away or anxiously peer into the future. I want a totally different way of measuring life, if it has to be measured. Clocks are man made, something that we have imposed on ourselves. Yes, they are needed to ensure clarity and consistency when crucial, but are they necessary all the "time"? I think that my sitting out on watching the ball drop is my feeble attempt at protesting the passing of time. All I want is to do what I love with people I love, and to leave the (watch) watchful counting eye blind.
Which brings me to the ultimate reason why I think that this year I will return home early after maybe dinner or a show. I don't want to mark time anymore. We measure everything in years, weeks, minutes, and seconds for athletes. What I would love to resolve for myself in 2009 is NOT to count the years anymore, not to look wistfully at the past and realize how much time has whispered away or anxiously peer into the future. I want a totally different way of measuring life, if it has to be measured. Clocks are man made, something that we have imposed on ourselves. Yes, they are needed to ensure clarity and consistency when crucial, but are they necessary all the "time"? I think that my sitting out on watching the ball drop is my feeble attempt at protesting the passing of time. All I want is to do what I love with people I love, and to leave the (watch) watchful counting eye blind.
Friday, December 26, 2008
What Does It Mean?
Christmas Day 2008 has come and gone. So much I heard this season that it's a down year, that it doesn't feel like Christmas, that people have to economize carefully when buying gifts. But, I wonder, what does all the spending mean? Why do we train our children to respond to the question, "What did Santa bring you?" We have tied cheap plaster happiness to tangible merchandise, disposable, consumable goods. Moreover, we don't want our children or lovers to feel neglected, so surely a stuffed tree will bring them joy . . . Is it not enough to know with certainty that someone is thinking of you most sincerely this time of year, that someone is hoping that you are peaceful and blissful? Because what is worse than not having a closet full of clothes or fun gadgets is not having anyone to hug you on Christmas morning and to gaze directly into your soul to wish you a Merry Christmas.
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