Enough

For some strange reason, for the past six months, but mostly recently, God has been punishing me for some forgotten sin by subjecting me to constant, unceasing coverage of something called The Royal Wedding. Now here are some things I know for sure: I do not know these people well enough to care about their wedding, and….nah, that’s pretty much it. I don’t care about their wedding. Not their pumpkin coach driven by enchanted mice, not their garments sewn by tiny, magical, Chinese fairy children, and not the hundreds of chinless, snaggledy-toothed British subjects whose lives this will affect. And I feel kind of bad about this, like I am somehow a lesser human being for not caring, but it is a basic fact that I would rather draw the number 7 on a page for twenty straight hours than be subjected to another moment of discussion on this topic. William and Kate, good luck, and go away.

While we’re on the subject, I would also like to point out that I would rather not hear any more debate on whether or not it is prudent to vaccinate children. In my mind the facts are basic: if you vaccinate your children, they will not die of smallpox. Other points aside, let’s move on.

And, you know, I am also disinclined to muster any enthusiasm for a chronicle of Charlie Sheen’s death spiral or Lindsay Lohan’s court battles. I totally get the car-wreckiness of it all, but there comes a point when citizens of the world say to themselves, “Wow, this person is in a terrible situation. He or she needs mental health assistance, not a standing ovation from Leno’s audience.” I think we collectively passed that point a while ago. It all kind of reminds me of when Michael Jackson was alive, and how the tabloids would call him Wacko Jacko, and detail the really weird things he did. People were totally interested in that, but if the headline would have read, “Crazy Homeless Guy Who Lives Under the Bridge Does Something Crazy….Again!” no one would have been interested. Why is it that a celebrity, be it Sheen or Mel Gibson or Margot Kidder found wandering around someone’s backyard without her front teeth – she was SUPERMAN’S GIRLFRIEND! - is more interesting than the people who are potentially wandering around our own backyards?

I don’t want to hear anything more about birth certificates…

Or how people who are demanding birth certificates are not racist, it is merely a coincidence that they only want to see birth certificates of Mexican-looking people and certain mixed-race-type Presidents. (PS, have I ever mentioned that I am offended by the fact that Obama self-identifies as black? I am. I think he should identify as “blackish” or “mixy.” Something catchy and adorable like that. And the census should be changed too. Having my own mixy child makes me sensitive to the fact that regular white people only have to check off one box, while I have to wade through countless racial identifiers – is my child Hispanic of non-Eskimo descent? Is he Pan-Asian with a Latin twist? I think I ended up getting so confused, I identified him as Malamute. Now I’m all stressed out that the census people are going to come put me in prison.)

What was I talking about? Oh, yes, I also would rather eat an entire bag of those orange Circus Peanuts, which, for the record, I HATE, than hear one more thing about Dancing with the Stars. I know this thing has been around for a while, but I am still struggling with the concept. I genuinely don’t get why so many people are interested in watching people without a talent compete in something that actually requires talent. And then why do I have to hear about it on the morning news, which used to be devoted to things like news? You know, the Hamid Karzai kind of news.

In summary, I realize that this is all kind of random and churlish, but I find these particular topics too blandly annoying to devote an entire post to each one individually. Also, I’m supposed to be studying for finals right now. The future defendants of the world would be very disappointed to know that this is how I spend time that is supposed to be dedicated to my valuable law school education. Just do me a favor and keep these topics from me. Thanks!

State Capitals

I had to learn all of the states and capitals in fourth grade, unlike kids today, who are soft. Sometimes when I am running with friends, if things get tough, I break out the “Let’s Name the State Capitals” game. Here’s how it usually goes:

Alabama – All of these interchangeable southern states get the standby capital name of Jackson
Alaska – Seward’s Folly. Only answer you will ever need to a question about Alaska. Just try it.
Arizona – Fiesta Bowl City. Ahem, Tostitos Fiesta Bowl City.
Arkansas – I know this! Jackson!
California – Sacramento, which, in 2002, was celebrated by Time Magazine as America’s most diverse and integrated city. I hate you, liberals!
Colorado – South Park
Connecticut – New England states all have insurance company names. I will go with The Hartford
Delaware – Fake state, no capital
Florida – Tricky state capital of Tallahassee, which I’m just going to say, would be such a Spring Break bummer. Parents: “Hey kids! We’re going to Florida for Spring Break!” Kids: “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!! Where? Orlando? Ft Lauderdale? Key West?” Parents: “No! Tallahassee, seat of the state government!” Kids: “Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.”
Georgia – I’m still too depressed about this Tallahassee thing.
Hawaii – Actually separate country in South Pacific. Does not count.
Idaho – Springfield
Illinois – Springfield
Indiana – Springfield
Iowa – Springfield
Kansas – Kansas City! So easy!
Kentucky – Kentucky City!
Louisiana – Louisiana Purchase. Considered the Seward’s Folly of 1803.
Maine – Met Life
Maryland – Terrapin
Massachusetts – Prudential
Michigan – Go Bucks!
Minnesota – Krueller
Mississippi – Jackson
Missouri – Jackson…uh…City?
Montana – Here is a fact: four of the six least-populous states per capita are in the western United States and are suspiciously squarish. Montana is the least square of them all, so I will begrudgingly admit that it is a real state, and guess that its capital is Ted’s Montana Grill.
Nebraska – I have heard that Nebraska is an actual state, but I am firmly convinced that it and Kansas are solely comprised of Interstate 70. However, a quick check with my friend Wikipedia tells me that I-70 doesn’t even GO through Nebraska. However, putting the search term, “Armadillo in Nebraska” into Google reveals that Nebraska may have armadillos. Therefore, I change my answer from “I-70” to “Armadillo City.”
Nevada – Not to point out the flaws of others, but a Nevadian will tell you, in all sincerity, that it is a faux pas to pronounce the name of their state Na-vah-dah. They will tell you that the middle syllable is said like “dad.” People come to your state to gamble and get a hooker, and you’re worried that they are pronouncing it right? PS, the state capital: Gambledyhookerville.
New Hampshire – State Farm
New Jersey – Armpit. I AM SORRY, FRIENDS FROM NEW JERSEY! BUT THAT IS WHAT THE MAP SAYS!
New Mexico – Arizona is trying to kick it out of the union for sounding too foreign. So far, Arizona’s motion to expel New Mexico has passed the legislature and is awaiting the signature of Jan Brewer.
New York – Newsweek Magazine said Albany is, “…frequently cited as the nation’s worst state government.” So that’s good, right?
North Carolina – Charlotte Airport - CLT
North Dakota – Krispy Kreme
Ohio – Go Bucks!
Oklahoma – I-70
Oregon – I’ve already looked it up twice and already forgotten it. I am not looking it up again.
Pennsylvania – This is a trick question, as Pennsylvania is part of Steeler’s Country, which officially annexed itself from the United States years ago (Mean Joe Green was its first president). Now, this can get complicated, as Philadelphia did not annex, and has a separate capital of “F*%# Off And Die, Motherf*%#er!”
Rhode Island – Listen, I was about to note that this is another trick question, because Rhode Island is clearly an island, and even if it wasn’t, it is actually the size of someone’s backyard, and therefore, not technically a state, but have you ever met anyone from Rhode Island? Those Rhode Island natives will tell you what is WHAT, my friend.
South Carolina – Columbia. They actually yell, with no irony whatsoever, “Go Cocks!”
South Dakota – Long John
Tennessee – Gennessee
Texas – Road House
Utah – A person lacking in creativity would make some Mormon joke, but I am better than that. Utah has a long and fascinating history, as evidenced by the first sentence of its Wikipedia article: “Utah is a state in the Western United States.” Well, let’s go visit, everyone! It sounds so fun!
Vermont – Nationwide
Virginia – West Virginia
Washington – Washington DC
West Virginia – Capital of Virginia
Wisconsin – Custard Cream
Wyoming – Fake square state

Afraid to Fly

I always tell people, “I’m not afraid of flying, I’m afraid of dying,” and that’s the truth. Especially dying from a fiery explosion in the sky, or, even worse, hurtling toward the ground at an unrecoverable speed. Neither of those seem awesome to me. I want to die in my sleep, like a wimp.

But I must fly, because that’s just a practical reality of the world. Now, that’s not to say that I fly unassisted. I have devised a 34-step process that helps me get through the act of flying. It helps me, so maybe it will help you.

1. Book flight. Be sure to book window seat directly over wing. A pilot friend of mine told me that’s the best place to sit, in terms of feeling in control, and having a fixed object to focus on. Note, this seat can backfire in the event that a monster lands on the wing, a la Nightmare at 20,000 Feet. Gah! So scary!

2. By the way, make sure that you don’t fly on a Sunday before 1:00 pm, at least out of Ohio. The airport bars cannot serve liquor before then.

3. Start worrying in advance. Two weeks is good. Obsess about flight and everything that can go wrong.

4. Call doctor. Ask what is legal limit she can prescribe for flight-anxiety medication.

5. Further inquire about highest safe dosage that can be taken at one time.

6. Mention that alcohol will likely be consumed.

7. Start telling people that you’re flying somewhere, and that you probably will not make it out alive. Don’t worry about annoying them – people love to hear this kind of thing!

8. Assemble flying outfit. Find cutest possible pair of shoes, as God does not like to see an adorable pair of peep-toe heels burned up in fiery inferno.

9. Day of flight – ensure that you have necessary travelling accessories: rosary, flight meds, distracting magazine for takeoff, watch with second hand, Sudoku book for distraction if meds and booze make reading impractical, iPod (distraction during flight), laptop (same), trashy novel that’s not so trashy that the person next to you reading over your shoulder will be offended by liberal use of phrases like “throbbing manhood” (same).

10. Call friend who is driving you to airport to request that she bring booze in a sippy cup for car ride to airport, as you are not much of a regular drinker, do not have a stash of the hard stuff, but do not think that you can make it into the terminal without.

11. On way out door to airport: take smallish dose of legally prescribed anti-anxiety medication.

12. At door of airport: compose self. Remind self NOT to walk up to strangers and announce, “I am really scared!” Also: the TSA people don’t care, either. Just give them your shoes and leave them alone.

13. Get through screening and find airport bar. Your kind live there. It is a full one-half scared people and one-half married men who are travelling for their job and looking for a hooker. Avoid the hooker guys.

14. Before going to gate, stop at airport store and make emergency panic purchases. Another magazine. Some Mentos gum. A thing of Reese cups that you, in your increasing panic, eat while standing at the counter, and which cost $4.50.

15. At your gate, if you’re flying on an airline that does not let you select your seat ahead of time, tell gate attendants, without slurring your words at all, that you are under a doctor’s care for flight anxiety, and that you need to pre-board. They will let you, and you can get a seat over the wing.

16. Granted, sitting next to you may be two ten-year old boys who ask you questions like, “How old are you?” and “Why are you drinking wine at ten in the morning?” The good news is that they will not judge you.

17. On the other hand, you may be sitting next to a person who describes himself as a “fundamentalist survivalist,” and who will spend the entire flight telling you how buying a water purifier, a 40 pound bag of millet and a handgun will help you survive the imminent apocalypse. The good news about this guy is that he will not care that you are drunk.

18. Or, you could sit in first class, which is great, but is generally not over the wing. THE WING IS KEY TO SURVIVAL!

19. Just before boarding, take a reasonable-sized dose of anti-anxiety flight medication and one piece of Mentos gum.

20. Board flight at last possible moment if seat is reserved. Do not introduce yourself to co-flyers as “the scared one.” Offer gum to seatmates. Wonder where your Reese cups are.

21. Ignore pre-flight message from flight attendants re: what to do in an emergency. Refuse to even acknowledge. Too scary. If travelling with companion, tell companion that, in the event of an emergency, you will be the one crying and peeing her pants.

22. At moment plane starts toward runway, start praying. Try not to be too demanding of God – just request safe passage to destination. Mention that turbulence, weird sounds, and sudden, unexpected drops would also be counterproductive. Promise that you will provide Him with some free publicity via your blog.

23. At moment of takeoff, glance at watch, noting where second hand is.

24. Close eyes, clutch rosary, and pray like the dickens.

25. Sometimes, at this point, it is helpful to have a nun sitting across the aisle from you. She will pray with you and be very comforting.

26. Fundamentalist survivalists, on the other hand, will not even notice what you are doing, and will be telling you about first failed marriage.

27. Check second hand on watch. When 90 seconds have elapsed, breathe cautious sigh of relief, but continue to clutch rosary.

28. At 150 seconds, be guardedly optimistic. You have made it through “danger zone” and the likelihood of plane crashing has decreased significantly.

29. Order wine, ignoring disappointed looks from ten-year-old seatmates, who have decided that you are suitable friend material.

30. Relax until beginning of descent. If only going to layover, plan when to take next anti-anxiety medication and plan strategy for hitting layover bar.

31. On descent, make sure to gasp loudly every time it sounds like the engine has stalled.

32. Keep an eye on the ground to evaluate when it would be okay for you to safely jump out of the plane without a parachute.

33. Upon touchdown, kiss rosary, give sincere thanks to God and skilled pilots, and give ten-year-old boys Sudoku book as token of friendship.

34. Pull out cell phone when permitted, and type status into Facebook: “ALIVE IN (YOUR CITY HERE)!”

My Big Fat Welfare Check

Lately, there have been a lot of quick polls posted on FB. Do you like Coke or Pepsi? Ohioans: Are you for or against Senate Bill 5? Stuff like that. And then it gives the percentage of people who voted one way or another. One I saw the other day said this, “Should a person have to pass a drug test in order to receive government benefits, such as welfare?” The poll voters, at least at that point, were overwhelmingly voting “Yes.” To me, this says one thing: people on Facebook hate children.

Now first of all, I just want to clarify that hating children is okay in my book. In fact, if there was a poll on Facebook that asked, “Do you hate children?” I might be tempted to answer “yes,” to that one. I like my child (in theory), but I get annoyed with other children. I don’t like it when they whine. When they are in their pre-orthodontia phase, their teeth really freak me out. Teenagers, with their weird obsession with Edward Cullen and their lightening-fast texting skills irritate me, too. But as much as these youngsters bother me, I would never purposely take food out of their mouths, take clothes off of their backs, or prevent a roof from being placed over their heads; but when you state that welfare checks should be prohibited for people who fail drug tests, that’s exactly what you’re saying.

Because here are some true statements: The average welfare check for a family of four is $900 a month, plus food stamps equaling about $500. That works out to a princely salary of $16,800 a year for a family of four, to feed them, clothe them, provide a home for them to live, pay their utilities, and also, pay for necessary things like transportation. Unlike what many talk-show pundits and awesome white people say, this is not a life of luxury, under any stretch of the imagination. Close your eyes for a moment, and imagine the life of a child living in that situation. Do you think it would be difficult? Do you think children deserve to grow up in poverty? I’m just wondering. Because even a child of a parent who is trying his or her hardest to get by, perhaps working in a low-paying job, but doing everything he or she is supposed to do to provide a safe and loving home….even that child has a hard road ahead of him or her. It’s tough to be poor in America.

Now, let’s change that situation a little bit. Instead of having an upstanding parent who just can’t find a good-paying job for whatever reason, let’s make that parent a drug addict. According to the majority of people who answered this Facebook poll question, the children of drug addicted parents who receive welfare checks should be punished. Their parents should NOT receive their gigantic, awesome, spectacular welfare check unless they test clean on a drug test. And if I am assuming the intelligence of Facebook voters who answered “yes” to this question, the Facebook voters are, in fact, totally okay with the children of those dirty drug addicts being tossed out on the street, or without electricity, or without clothing, or whatever other totally luxuries are purchased with a welfare check. Because if the parents can’t get their welfare check, then the kids don’t get it either.

And I know what some of you are thinking to yourself, “Why should we give drug addicts our hard-earned money? Even if they get a welfare check, they won’t put that money to rent, or utilities, or transportation, or clothing for their children.” Here is my question: how many poor, drug addicted welfare recipients do you know? And I’m not talking about the ones that Glenn Beck demonizes on his show, I am talking about personally know. Not heard of, not heard about, not a friend of a friend, not read about. Know. In this country, 4 million people receive welfare checks, and about 37 million receive food stamps. Even if you know one person who went straight from the welfare office to the crack house and smoked his or her entire welfare check, do you know what the other 4 million are doing? And yet you want to sit on FACEBOOK all day, instead of doing something about it, and pass judgment on millions of people you have never met. Well, thank God we live in America, where you have the right to do that. And thank God only poor people are addicted to drugs! Imagine if drug addiction were a real problem that wealthy people suffered from too! That would be horrible, wouldn’t it! Then we might have to start saying, “People who test positive on drug tests should not get a tax refund. Or a driver’s license. Or be allowed to have children. Or walk on public streets.” But since only poor, welfare recipients are addicted to drugs, we don’t have to worry about making any other rules.

And here is the last thing I am going to say to you, those of you who answered “yes” on that dumb Facebook poll: Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. We have a choice in this life – to hold tightly to what little we have on this earth, and begrudge others their piece unless they would use it exactly as we demand they do, or to understand that we are all the same, and when you deny others what they would have to live, you deny yourself the opportunity to be a loving, caring, compassionate human being.

Mess

I don’t talk much about my job, because it is totally awesome, and I love it. I like my coworkers, I love my company, I do interesting work, my office is close to home, and I have a parking spot in a covered garage. No complaints, see?

Except.

I work on a floor that is filled with approximately one million people, most of them strangers. On our floor, we have a big, wonderful kitchen area, with two microwaves, three glass-fronted fridges, some sort of deluxe coffee-maker, an icemaker and water dispenser, and a sink with a garbage disposal. I am a huge fan of garbage disposals, so this is a big deal for me. This is an excellent setup, which is why I have no earthly idea why some freaks continually insist on making it as filthy as possible, and then leaving their mess behind.

And just so you don’t think I am some anal-retentive nutjob who needs everything to be ruler-measured and perpendicular (I am, but that is beside the point), here is what I mean by mess:

1. Crumbs left in and around toaster (did I mention we have a toaster? We have a toaster!)
2. Things exploded in microwave (usually things that are brown) and left there to form hard crust
3. Drips of coffee, soup, goulash, etc. left on counters
4. Trails of coffee left on floors like bleeding wound from stabbing victim
5. Spilled salt, sugar and powdered creamer or… cake mix? Not sure.
6. Stir sticks left on counter
7. Things splattered all over inside of sink (e.g., entire bottle of ketchup) and not washed down the drain
8. Ice from awesome ice dispenser callously spilled on floor and abandoned to become river of water on floor
9. Weird, empty bottle of prescription saline, like to flush a medical port or something, left on counter next to microwave

In other words, our kitchen looks like a crack house. Now, I have never actually seen anyone leaving this mess, but that just leads me to believe that THE PEOPLE LEAVING THE MESS KNOW IT’S WRONG, AND ONLY DO IT WHEN THEY THINK NO ONE IS WATCHING. That, my friends, is the lowest of the low. What kind of grown adults make a mess, and consciously decide, “I simply work too hard to clean up after myself. Therefore, I will allow my co-workers to do it for me. Alternately, I will wish and hope that there are cleaning fairies that come in the dark of night, and take this mess away.”

I have news for you: there is no cleaning fairy. There is just a sad, confused, freaked-out co-worker who is getting twitchier every moment. And she doesn’t understand if your motivations are evil, if you need some sort of training on basic cleanny-uppy skills, or if you just don’t care about where you work and who you work with enough to grab a paper towel (we totally have a paper towel dispenser hanging right there on the wall!) and clean up after yourself.

All I want is for people to treat their workplace the same way – no, better - than they would treat their own home. Throw away your garbage. Wipe down the counters. Try to keep things organized. I am not asking you to spend your Saturday with a toothbrush and a can of Comit, making the thing sparkle. I am asking you to perform basic functions of human decency. Too much to ask? Nah.