Sunday, November 28, 2010

Scan, baby, scan

Here is something I never wanted to admit, but here goes: Several weeks after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, I said these words to my friend Dara, “I am glad that George Bush is President and not Al Gore.”

Let me explain.

A week or so after the attack, I was sitting on my back porch in the early evening, looking at the beautiful blue sky, and watching my third-grade son playing in the back yard. He was playing quietly, and I was watching quietly, because our world was scared, and subdued, and nobody was even sure if having fun felt okay. A plane passed overhead, and as it passed, I panicked for a moment. It sounded loud. It sounded close. And I lived in a world where, at any moment, another plane could be overtaken by madmen and used as a weapon. It could happen anywhere at any time. And I thought to myself, “My son will not grow up in the happy, safe world in which I grew up. Things will never be the same.” I remained really depressed about that for a long time – for the fear and the caution that I felt would always be a part of my son’s life.

I didn’t want a President who was going to be understanding, or conciliatory, or diplomatic. I didn’t want a President who tried to find a way around this unbelievable situation through talking or shaking hands, or meeting with high government ministers. And I believed Al Gore to be just that sort of measured, intelligent, high-minded person. Instead, I wanted someone who felt the same way as I did: terrified, angry, shocked, and ready to make sure that something like that never happened again. I thought Al Gore was too much of a statesman, and that George Bush seemed more like a dad who wanted to protect his kids. I wanted that one. The second one. And that’s so hard for me to say, because George Bush really was lousy at a lot of things that I don’t want to get into, but he did a good job of just being a human when this terrible thing happened.

This is what I think of every time someone objects to the idea of full-body scanners or pat-downs at the airport. How terrible things were following September 11th. How we all just wanted to feel safe, and protected and normal again. How the idea of our own personal autonomy was absolutely nothing compared to the needs of our country - a country that was in mourning.

Our Constitution allows us to limit our rights if their limitation contributes to the health, safety or welfare of the people. This can be confusing sometimes, but it makes sense when you think about how we regularly allow the police to frisk suspected criminals to protect themselves and passersby from getting shot, or how we allow schools to post signs that say, “No weapons within 1000 feet” or how we allow cities to create ordinances that prohibit paroled pedophiles from going near playgrounds. The logic behind this is that we, as a society, are willing to give up our right to walk down the street without getting frisked, or carry a gun wherever we want, or allow people to go to all public places as long as it protects our society as a whole. That’s exactly the purpose of the new scanning technology. YES, it’s invasive. YES, it’s inconvenient. YES, it could be embarrassing (but not for me – even my bones look awesome!) But guess what? Its purpose is for the greater good. To protect us from some fucking lunatic – a lunatic that you can’t even imagine because NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT THINK THE WAY LUNATICS DO - from trying to do the next terrible thing. People have put box cutters on their bodies and bombs in their shoes and underwear. They do not stop, and they use the same methods over and over. If you don’t believe me, look up how many car bombings have occurred this year. The purpose of the scanners is to protect you and to protect me, and to protect the sacred memory of the people who died on September 11th.

So, I would like all of you people who are whining about invasion of privacy and inappropriate touching and George Soros to shut up and think about your country. Think about your children, and what you would do to protect them. Think about how, sometimes, we have to give something up in order to make us all feel a little bit safer. Think about how your body really isn’t that great and how nobody is all that interested in looking at it. And remember those weeks and months after September 11th, and how you just wanted to feel safe again.

I don’t want to see more Americans lose their lives to terrorism. I would hate to see that happen because some asshole is afraid that his extremely uninteresting penis will be fondled, or because some person with a camera thinks he’s doing something for America by protesting this. But I’m scared that people are more interested in protecting their personal right to be offended than protecting their fellow citizens. Ultimately, the intention of the increased screening is to make us all just a little bit safer. So if you don’t like it, just drive.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Happy Thanksgiving!

On Thanksgiving, it is traditional to pause and reflect on the people and things in life for which we are grateful. I have much for which to give thanks: a child I love beyond expression, a family that is large and close, friends who are far kinder and more wonderful than I deserve, and a future that gives me the opportunity to live my dream. But that’s boring. So instead, I’m going to talk about something for which I have surprising, overwhelming gratitude: the gift of running.

I am not a natural runner. In high school, Coach Click, the gym teacher, made us all run a mile once. That was four times around our high school track. We were supposed to run it all, but I got a quarter way around the track and thought I was going to die. And I’m not talking figuratively die, I mean literally. My face looked like a tomato, my heart was beating erratically, I was getting that fuzzy feeling that means that passing out is just around the corner, and my legs did not want to go. While Coach Click made all the fat kids and whiners keep going, he took one look at me and said, “Get inside.” That was the end of my high school running career.

I didn’t even think about running again until my son reached 7th grade and proclaimed that he was going out for the cross-country team. By this point, I was a devoted half-a-pack-a-day smoker, so the thought of running down the block, much less the two miles that comprise a middle-school course, was ridiculous. Nevertheless, the boy and I went to Frontrunner, our local running store, to get him a pair of running shoes. And that was where the first part of the running gift was given to me.

Despite the fact that we were getting shoes for my son, the workers at Frontrunner, who are devoted runners themselves, asked me, “Does he get his interest in running from you? Are you a runner?” I didn’t want to tell them that I was more of a smoke-cigarettes-and-sit-on-the-couch kind of girl, so I just said, “Oh, no. I can’t run.”

Well….those words must be some sort of emergency signal to the Frontrunner faithful, because within twenty seconds, I was surrounded by no fewer than four associates. In my memory, it was more like twenty, but I think four is correct. They all sat in a circle around me, and started the hard push. “ANYONE can run,” they said gently. “It’s very relaxing.” “We have a starter sheet for you. It’s called ‘run 30 minutes in 30 days.’” “Think of all the friends you’ll make.” And then the worst, “You can do it. We believe in you.”

Now, to my extreme sadness, no one had ever tried to indoctrinate me into a cult before this point (What, Moonies, was I not good enough for you?), but I knew the signs when I saw them. Calm smiles. Gentle voices. Lots of reassurances. Head nods. They practically promised to call me every morning and meet me for a run themselves. I knew that running and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms, but these people insisted that running, in fact, wanted to speak to me and be my friend if only I would give it another shot. No thanks. I let them press the beginners running schedule into my hands, but otherwise made only vague commitments and scrammed out of there as soon as I’d purchased the first of many pairs of giant, clown-sized running shoes for my son.

Less than two years later, I quit smoking, and knew that I needed to exercise to keep my mind off of the cancer sticks. And for some reason, I’d kept that running schedule for beginners clipped to my fridge the whole time. My friend Angela was a marathon runner, and she made it sound like she thought I could do it. So I started. Slowly, and poorly, but I started.

A little over a year later, I ran my first race with Angela – a four miler in the woods, where old men pushing baby strollers filled with bricks passed me, where children running in flip-flops passed me, and where, humiliatingly, a blind, epileptic dog with three legs passed me in the third mile, promptly had a seizure in front of me, and still managed to come in ahead. But I didn’t care – I had run four miles!

Since that time, I have run with friends, co-workers, strangers and my son (who thinks it’s really funny to show me that my running pace is his fast walking pace. Ha, ha, Jude. You’re fucking hilarious.) But most of all, I have run with my friend Angela, who always creates routes with good bathroom access, who rarely complains when every route I devise takes us through crack neighborhoods with no bathrooms, who can spend an entire mile telling me all about the show Mad Men, just to keep me distracted, who is not afraid of hills, who can Parkour anything in her path, and who has an endless supply of interesting conversation for the road. I am so lucky to have her as a running partner and friend.

And so, this Thanksgiving, I will run the annual Turkey Trot, a five miler with a deceptive uphill stretch at the end, where last year, I was passed by someone dressed as a giant port-a-potty. And I will run it with gratitude and thanks to the zealots at Frontrunner, who gave me the first step in this process, to all of the runners who gave me words of advice and encouragement when I was training for my first half-marathon, to each and every person I’ve gone on a run with – I remember every run I’ve taken with a friend – and to my favorite running partner, Angela, for helping me keep this gift alive, even when I’m injured, or stressed, or just too tired to go. Running is a gift that fantastic people have given to me, and I am more thankful than I can ever say.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

I "like" this!

Okay, Facebook posters, I need some answers.

Question 1: Why are people so bossy on Facebook? Every time I open my page, I am told that I need to REPOST THIS NOW if I support breast cancer research, America, taking a stand against bullying, veterans, mothers, children, puppies and probably a host of other things. Now, I am all for people feeling passionate about their causes, but would you walk up to a person on the street and start shouting in their face: IN AMERICA VETERANS REPRESENT THE FREEDOMS MOST OF US TAKE FOR GRANTED. REAL AMERICANS KNOW THIS! DO YOU? 97% OF PEOPLE WILL NOT SHOUT THIS AT THE NEXT PERSON THEY SEE. WILL YOU BE ONE OF THE 3% WHO WILL SHOUT THIS? ON A CORNER? WILL YOU SHOUT IT ON A CORNER? HOW ABOUT A SIGN? WILL YOU MAKE A SIGN? YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY MAKE A SIGN. SEE YOU LATER WITH YOUR SIGN! USE COLORED MARKERS. THE FAT ONES!

I have to be honest. I support veterans/breasts/moms/America in the same way as everyone else: I try not to actively hurt them by running them over with my car. I vote. I don’t protest military funerals. And, while I sort of vaguely acknowledge that raising awareness is a good thing for people with a cause, I just don’t think that the best way to raise awareness is to act like a bossy asshole and try to shame people into reposting a message on Facebook. And don’t tell me to vote, either. Believe me, I have plenty of other people to tell me to vote. I need you to spend your time and energy crafting interesting status updates, not telling me to do something I already have taken care of.

Question 2: Speaking of status updates, why must people acknowledge the day of the week as their status update? Example: “Monday: boo.” Or “Hump day!” or “It’s Friday!” Let’s be clear: only the most ignorant, first-grade hamster doesn't know what day of the week it is. The same thing goes with the weather. “It’s a beautiful day!” “Ugh, rainy day.” I don’t get it. Are you getting your degree in meteorology? Is this part of your class credit, to practice saying the weather? If not, why not – and please, do this for me – say something that I can’t learn by turning on the weather channel?

Question 3: Why do people constantly post how stressed they are? I am starting to get worried. Here is a typical post: “My hectic day: Awoken by vomiting ferret, had to take 200 cupcakes to youngest son’s school, finalized the Underhill account at work (2 million dollars), ran a marathon after work, taught spinning class at the Alzheimer’s ward at the nursing home, and then had to go to the grocery store, where they were out of Robitussen, which sucks because I am sick as a dog! I am so busy and stressed!”

Let me just say this: First of all, you are overscheduling yourself. Second of all, shut up. If you have time to post this on Facebook, you’re not that busy. Also: I just want to point out that you brought this on your damn self. Everyone knows that ferrets are smelly and will steal your wallet. Ditch the ferret and invest in some fish. They’re relaxing. As far as the cupcakes go, give your kid twenty bucks and send him to Kroger. I don’t care that he’s only ten years old and his only method of transportation is a bike, just couch it as an opportunity for problem-solving and leave him to it. That’s called creative parenting. The Underhills are assholes, marathon running is overrated, all you have to do at the nursing home is tell the Alzheimer’s patients that you taught the class – they won’t remember - and if you’re sick go to the damn doctor. Also: wash your hands, and remember, no matter how much you bitch and moan about the unbelievable pressure you’re under, you could be in a Turkish prison, and that would be really bad. Do you know the schedule at a Turkish prison?

6:30 - torture
7:00 – torture
8:00 – torture
9:00 – 3:00 – torture
3:00 – light snack
3:15 – torture
4:00 – torture
4:30 – macrame and other crafts
5:00- - 8:00 – torture
8:30 – torture
8:45 – lights out

This is a very busy and not-so-fun schedule, I think any of us would admit. So just remember, friends, life is good. We don’t need to be bossing people around, or telling them the weather, or overwhelming ourselves with a recitation of our busy lives. Let’s save our status updates for talking about important things. Like nachos.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

But I welcome YOUR comments

For a long time, I used to play a little game while reading USA Today online. The game was called, “Spot the nutty comment poster”. Here’s how it went: I would go to USAToday.com and find the most benign story possible. The headline would be something like, “Cute dog makes locals smile” or “Toothpaste is awesome”. I would then scroll down to the area where readers of the page could post comments, and count how many comments it took for the thread to disintegrate into one of the following three areas:

1. The liberals are killing our country
2. The conservatives are killing our country
3. I hate me some gays

Guess what the average was? Three comments. Three. For the puppy story, the comments would go something like this:

Comment #1 from LovesPups3: Ha ha, LOL. That DID make me smile : )
Comment #2 from SNeDeker@qrl: That looks like my puppy.
Comment #3 from RushLives#1: Under Obamacare, puppies will be subjected to Death Panels!!!

For the toothpaste story, it would go like this:

Comment #1 from HelloKTY: Ha ha, LOL. I love toothpaste ; )
Comment #2 from ArizonaMom**: I have that brand of toothpaste.
Comment #3 from 9/11ConSPiracy: Under Bush, only the wealthiest 3% could get toothpaste.
- Or -
Comment #3 from Biblesez42: Gays like to put toothpaste up their a$$es!!!!!!

This drove me to one and only one conclusion: people who post comments on USAToday.com are fucking lunatics.

Although I no longer play the game, I cannot stop myself from reading the comments. I wonder to myself: Where do these people get their information? Do they really think that they are informing anyone? Changing anyone’s mind? A hateful comment about a conservative will inspire a hateful retort about a liberal, which will inspire a hateful comment about the gays. Then, someone will put a comment, in bad English that says, “I am so sorry to bother, but have you know that you can save $$$ on online store so good? T-shirts, canvas bags and more!” which always adds a little levity, but my point is that no one listens to the other. No one considers the ideas of the other, asks for more information, asks why they think that way. It’s a bunch of exposition with nothing more. These commenters can come up with a username, hook up to any site, and spew all of the hate they want, all from the privacy of their parents’ basement, where they likely live, because these people sure as hell don’t have jobs. (If they do, I would like to tell their boss right now that they should get fired because THEY ARE NOT WORKING VERY HARD!!!)

And, while I understand that people feel passionate about their politics, I really wonder why people so frequently think that comments in online newspaper articles are the most helpful place to say crazy shit about gays. A) Where do you live that the biggest problem you encounter is the gays? Because, based on the gays I know, a big, gay town sounds like it would be freaking awesome. B) Why are you so obsessed with the gays? Even if you think that being gay is a sin or an abomination or whatever, aren’t there worse sins and abominations? Have you ever heard of poverty? The Cholera epidemic in Haiti? Puppy mills? Adult, consenting sex, my friends, is no puppy mill. C) My King James Bible is 1074 pages and talks about many things, mostly helping the poor. Is the only thing your Bible talks about the gays? Then why isn’t it called the Gayble? Can I see your Gayble?

Don’t get me wrong –free speech is a fine thing, and I love that, in our world, we have multiple platforms available for people to express their Constitutionally given right to say whatever the hell they want, crazy or no. But just as we should not abuse our second amendment right to bear arms by taking a semiautomatic machine gun to a playground and taking target practice on the giant slide just because we can, we should not abuse our Constitutionally given right to free speech by vomiting an ill-conceived, ill-measured word soup all over the pages of a national publication, just because we can. But if you do, use your real damn name, so that you can be held responsible for cleaning up your own vomit.