"Don't try suicide, you’re just gonna hate it: 25 (mostly crappy) songs that try to talk you off the ledge." Read this article today that critiques songs that are aimed at persuading the depressed to not try suicide. It's hysterically funny! It's filled with funny lines like: "In all probability, the last thing deeply depressed people wants to hear is Billy Joel telling them to cheer up, accompanied by über-cheesy ’80s synths."
Check it out for a chuckle.
http://www.avclub.com/articles/dont-try-suicide-youre-just-gonna-hate-it-25-mostl,32378/
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
We were just two weirdos who passed in the night...
A long, long time ago, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth...okay, maybe not that long ago, but a long time ago, when I was a sophomore in college, I was walking home one night across campus to my dorm. I also happened to be singing out loud. (Never been very inhibited). A young man passed me, walking the other direction. After he passed me I heard him shout: "Hey!"
I expected he was going to make some crack about my singing. I turned back toward him (still singing) and to my surprise, he had his pants around his knees and was flopping his dangly parts at me! I didn't miss a beat in my song, turned back away and continued walking.
When I got back to my dorm I mentioned the incident to the first friend I saw and she freaked out! She ran and got the resident in charge (I forget what they called those students) and that person called the campus police. I had to make a report of the incident. They were all very sympathetic and wanted to know if, perhaps, I felt I needed to see the school psychologist for the trauma. I have to admit it had never occurred to me to be traumatized... I was more surprised by the huge brou ha ha than I had been by the flashing. Then I realized that some of the sheltered little girls who lived in my dorm probably would have been terribly upset.
I then began to regret that I had not roared and charged at him. I'm quite certain that he would have been so startled by such a reaction that, with his pants around his knees, he would have tripped himself up and fallen flat on his face. I could see the headlines: "Coed Tackles Flasher!" Alas, the idea hadn't occurred to me. I just thought at the time: "what a weirdo!" And I imagine that might have been what he thought about me, walking along alone at night singing and not even having the good grace to scream when he showed off his dangly parts.
*Sigh* I guess we were just two weirdos who passed in the night. Granted, I was the more benign weirdo...
I expected he was going to make some crack about my singing. I turned back toward him (still singing) and to my surprise, he had his pants around his knees and was flopping his dangly parts at me! I didn't miss a beat in my song, turned back away and continued walking.
When I got back to my dorm I mentioned the incident to the first friend I saw and she freaked out! She ran and got the resident in charge (I forget what they called those students) and that person called the campus police. I had to make a report of the incident. They were all very sympathetic and wanted to know if, perhaps, I felt I needed to see the school psychologist for the trauma. I have to admit it had never occurred to me to be traumatized... I was more surprised by the huge brou ha ha than I had been by the flashing. Then I realized that some of the sheltered little girls who lived in my dorm probably would have been terribly upset.
I then began to regret that I had not roared and charged at him. I'm quite certain that he would have been so startled by such a reaction that, with his pants around his knees, he would have tripped himself up and fallen flat on his face. I could see the headlines: "Coed Tackles Flasher!" Alas, the idea hadn't occurred to me. I just thought at the time: "what a weirdo!" And I imagine that might have been what he thought about me, walking along alone at night singing and not even having the good grace to scream when he showed off his dangly parts.
*Sigh* I guess we were just two weirdos who passed in the night. Granted, I was the more benign weirdo...
Saturday, December 25, 2010
My Best Car Ever
No, it was not my first car. My first car was quite interesting though. I was sixteen years old when I bought my first car. I didn't even have my driver's license yet. I had saved the money from my fast food job to buy myself a car. I bought a 1971 Chevy Caprice for $300. This car was so rusted out that during the course of my relatively brief ownership it slowly self-destructed. The first attempt at suicide was before I could even drive it! My mother had driven me down to the local park (where I hung out with my hoodlum friends) in my car. Soon, my friends and I noticed a commotion at the park entrance; police cars, a fire truck... and in the midst of it, MY car! Seems when mom went over the speed bump, the entire gas tank fell off! Actually, I think the car had leprosy because after the gas tank thing (which I got fixed), over the course of its miserable life as my car, it lost its muffler in a similar fashion; the radiator developed so many holes that it leaked like a sieve, requiring me to carry around gallon jugs of water in the trunk (and leading to my only bit of automotive knowledge: if you don't have water in the radiator the heater wont work); and the fuel pump also lost its will to live. After the fuel pump incident I sold the car for scrap metal for $50.
No, my BEST car was the first new car I owned. Phill and I got it in my second year of law school. I believe my dad helped with the down payment. (You see until after graduating law school and becoming a lawyer, I never had much money. When I started my job as a lawyer in 1992 at $35,000 a year I thought it was a fortune! It was more than Phill had ever made and more than I thought I would ever earn as a salary).
The car was a 1990 Mitsubishi Mirage. Four doors. Red. Standard. I drove it for two years for the 150 mile round-trip commute to law school and then for another six years for the 116 mile round-trip commute to my job (for the first six years that I worked at my job I lived in a different town). I drove it from Oklahoma to Pennsylvania at least twice, once by myself. And I know I drove it on some other cross-country trips.
It had 314,000 miles on it when I sold it. These facts, truly unbelievable, but absolutely true, tell you what kind of car this little beastie was: The first spark plug change came at 65,000 miles. The first TIRE change came after 80,000 miles; the original tires were Yokohama's and the tread was still legal when we got new ones! The clutch (remember it was a standard) NEVER went out in the course of my ownership of the car (even though I was known to engage in down-shifting when driving in town). The only serious trouble it ever had was the water pump went out and had to be replaced.
And that little car was a sure-footed as a mountain goat when it came to snow and ice! I don't know that I recall it ever sliding on the ice, even though I drove it through a few blizzards in the course of all those commutes. I never felt safer or more in control in any car I drove.
One year, when the car was really up there in its mileage, my then bosses decided that instead of giving me a raise that year they would lease me a car. Once or twice I had driven one or another of them to lunch in it and they worried that it was not going to last long. Their concerns were unwarranted. It was just a little car with a little engine and turning on the air-conditioning in traffic would make the little thing shake some, but it was fine.
Now don't get the idea these bosses were just great guys! I mean, I do think they are great guys, but they had some ulterior motives too. They insisted that I get the car from a particular local dealership whose business they were trying to court. I told the guys that they could not lease me a car because I drove too many miles for a lease to make sense (I was still commuting at the time). They pooh-poohed that notion until they investigated it themselves and learned I was right. I also told them that my car was fine and I would rather have a raise. But no, it was a car or nothing.
So they bought me a car, a Toyota Celica, standard, black. Sporty little car! Very cute. But it wasn't my Mitsu. I further exasperated my bosses by insisting that they calculate the benefit to me of the purchase of the car (they didn't give me title until it was fully paid for some years later) and deduct from my paycheck the taxes that would be due on that "income" to me. That little episode probably firmly implanted in their minds the notion that I was completely insane but could always be trusted to be honest.
A few years after I became the full owner of the Toyota I had some difficulty when I was down-shifting on a tricky curve out on one rural highway...after all those years driving a stick shift, I couldn't find my gear and almost stalled! I decided then that it was time for me to own an automatic and I bought the Nissan Altima that got totaled last year by the hit and run driver.
My owning my first automatic transmission car ever was a story in itself! You see, with a standard you CANNOT walk off and leave the car running; it will die when you take your foot off the clutch. Not the case with an automatic... And that Altima ran very quietly. At least three times I left my car running in a parking lot for a very long time! Once while I did my grocery shopping, once while I was at the doctor's office and once for the entire morning while I was at the office! On each occasion I didn't realize what I had done until I was heading back to my car and couldn't find my keys. I truly am the absent-minded professor type!
But no car has ever been the car my little red Mitsu was. I loved that car. I wish I still had it. I'm sure it would still be running. And we bought it largely because we liked the size and convenient location of the ashtray! LOL!
The car was a 1990 Mitsubishi Mirage. Four doors. Red. Standard. I drove it for two years for the 150 mile round-trip commute to law school and then for another six years for the 116 mile round-trip commute to my job (for the first six years that I worked at my job I lived in a different town). I drove it from Oklahoma to Pennsylvania at least twice, once by myself. And I know I drove it on some other cross-country trips.
It had 314,000 miles on it when I sold it. These facts, truly unbelievable, but absolutely true, tell you what kind of car this little beastie was: The first spark plug change came at 65,000 miles. The first TIRE change came after 80,000 miles; the original tires were Yokohama's and the tread was still legal when we got new ones! The clutch (remember it was a standard) NEVER went out in the course of my ownership of the car (even though I was known to engage in down-shifting when driving in town). The only serious trouble it ever had was the water pump went out and had to be replaced.
And that little car was a sure-footed as a mountain goat when it came to snow and ice! I don't know that I recall it ever sliding on the ice, even though I drove it through a few blizzards in the course of all those commutes. I never felt safer or more in control in any car I drove.
One year, when the car was really up there in its mileage, my then bosses decided that instead of giving me a raise that year they would lease me a car. Once or twice I had driven one or another of them to lunch in it and they worried that it was not going to last long. Their concerns were unwarranted. It was just a little car with a little engine and turning on the air-conditioning in traffic would make the little thing shake some, but it was fine.
Now don't get the idea these bosses were just great guys! I mean, I do think they are great guys, but they had some ulterior motives too. They insisted that I get the car from a particular local dealership whose business they were trying to court. I told the guys that they could not lease me a car because I drove too many miles for a lease to make sense (I was still commuting at the time). They pooh-poohed that notion until they investigated it themselves and learned I was right. I also told them that my car was fine and I would rather have a raise. But no, it was a car or nothing.
So they bought me a car, a Toyota Celica, standard, black. Sporty little car! Very cute. But it wasn't my Mitsu. I further exasperated my bosses by insisting that they calculate the benefit to me of the purchase of the car (they didn't give me title until it was fully paid for some years later) and deduct from my paycheck the taxes that would be due on that "income" to me. That little episode probably firmly implanted in their minds the notion that I was completely insane but could always be trusted to be honest.
A few years after I became the full owner of the Toyota I had some difficulty when I was down-shifting on a tricky curve out on one rural highway...after all those years driving a stick shift, I couldn't find my gear and almost stalled! I decided then that it was time for me to own an automatic and I bought the Nissan Altima that got totaled last year by the hit and run driver.
My owning my first automatic transmission car ever was a story in itself! You see, with a standard you CANNOT walk off and leave the car running; it will die when you take your foot off the clutch. Not the case with an automatic... And that Altima ran very quietly. At least three times I left my car running in a parking lot for a very long time! Once while I did my grocery shopping, once while I was at the doctor's office and once for the entire morning while I was at the office! On each occasion I didn't realize what I had done until I was heading back to my car and couldn't find my keys. I truly am the absent-minded professor type!
But no car has ever been the car my little red Mitsu was. I loved that car. I wish I still had it. I'm sure it would still be running. And we bought it largely because we liked the size and convenient location of the ashtray! LOL!
Friday, October 22, 2010
Zombie Battle Royale (Inspired by silliness on Facebook)
As the sun peeked over the horizon on the morning of the Zombie Battle Royale the combatants readied themselves for battle...
General Ann called out to the troops: "Sheena! Is Bailey ready?" Sheena nodded; Bailey hissed.
"Lanae, fill your purse with some stones to make heavier!"
"Donna and Kristina, be ready to set fire to the sofa on my command then position yourselves behind it with your store of dirty dishes to throw at the Zombies!"
"Julia, Jackie, Yvonne! Remove the guards from your fans! You'll follow directly behind me!"
"John! See if you can sharpen that letter opener on that rock over there!"
"Elaine, test your stapler for firing capabilities!"
"Daphne!" Daphne, wearing her comfy shoes and singing "It's a Small World" to her hand- painted smiley-faced piggy bank, failed to notice General Ann calling out her name. "Daaaaphneeee!" General Ann screamed. "Pay attention!" Daphne jerked to attention. "You have a very important job here! You have to stand to the side while singing happy songs, smiling and waving your piggy bank at the Zombies so as to revolt them with sickening sweetness!" General Ann said.
"Renee...Molly..." General Ann shook her head sadly, "Go behind the sofa and give Sophie some of that milk." "Just stay back there and play Scrabble or something..."
The sun had now risen fully above the horizon and the Zombie hoard could be seen marching steadily toward our valiant band of warriors, while making disgusting groaning noises and occasionally stopping to pick up a fallen hand or re-attach with duct tape a leg that had come off. Grim determination showed on the faces of our soldiers (except for Daphne, who had gone back to singing to her pig and Renee and Molly who were brushing Sophie and playing Scrabble).
As the Zombie hoard came within fighting distance, General Ann shouted: "Now!" Sheena, holding a flailing and hissing Bailey ran to the forefront and flung the angry senior citicat at the advancing Zombies! Horrible (and disgusting) Zombie screams of pain filled the air as Bailey viciously clawed and bit at the Zombies while Sheena cheered her on!
Then General Ann shook up her diet coke bottle and lead the charge on the disoriented (and disgusting) Zombies, spraying fizzy and blinding diet coke in their eyes... The fan brigade, Julia, Jackie and Yvonne followed behind General Ann, wielding their lethal fans with devastating affect! Zombie parts flew everywhere (and were generally disgusting) as the fans chopped and minced the undead hoard faster than they could duct tape themselves back together.
Lanae, swinging her rock-laden purse before her followed on the heels of the fan brigade with Elaine at her side. Each swing of the purse neatly took off the head of an advancing Zombie! Elaine, finding her stapler to be rather poor at firing staples, took to stapling Zombie lips together so that they couldn't make as much disgusting groaning noise.
John screamed like a girl and with his eyes tightly shut, flung his letter-opener at the Zombies. (Editor's Note: Sorry John, you're the only guy on our team so I have to pick on you).
Meanwhile, Donna and Kristina set fire to the sofa, ran behind it and began strategically throwing dirty dishes at those Zombies who had managed to get past the hissing, scratching, biting Bailey, General Ann's blinding fizzy diet coke, the fan brigade, and Lanae with her purse and Elaine with her stapler. Although some of the still advancing Zombies, to Elaine's credit, did have their lips stapled together and so were making fewer disgusting groaning noises.
Off to the side, Daphne stood, in her comfy shoes, and sang "It's a Small World" while smiling inanely at the zombies and waving her hand-painted smiling piggy bank at them. Her's might, indeed, have been the most effective weapon, as the Zombies who caught sight of her would cover their ears and run away screaming, as fast as their rotting legs could carry them!
As the battle raged on, the combatants from time to time would hear Molly squeal: "I love it when Scrabble accepts my made-up words!" Followed, always, by an approving bark from Sophie and a grumble from Renee about needing a better dictionary.
When the dust settled, disgusting Zombie parts littered the field of battle and our valiant warriors stood, weary, covered in soot from the burning sofa but united and victorious. Bailey marched proudly back, tail aloft, swatted Sophie (because Bailey didn't know that Sophie is a sweet doggie who loves kitties) and stole the rest of Renee's milk. And Yvonne shouted at Daphne: "If you don't stop that incessant singing I'm going to whack you with this Zombie arm!"
Good (and handy household objects) had triumphed over evil once again.
General Ann called out to the troops: "Sheena! Is Bailey ready?" Sheena nodded; Bailey hissed.
"Lanae, fill your purse with some stones to make heavier!"
"Donna and Kristina, be ready to set fire to the sofa on my command then position yourselves behind it with your store of dirty dishes to throw at the Zombies!"
"Julia, Jackie, Yvonne! Remove the guards from your fans! You'll follow directly behind me!"
"John! See if you can sharpen that letter opener on that rock over there!"
"Elaine, test your stapler for firing capabilities!"
"Daphne!" Daphne, wearing her comfy shoes and singing "It's a Small World" to her hand- painted smiley-faced piggy bank, failed to notice General Ann calling out her name. "Daaaaphneeee!" General Ann screamed. "Pay attention!" Daphne jerked to attention. "You have a very important job here! You have to stand to the side while singing happy songs, smiling and waving your piggy bank at the Zombies so as to revolt them with sickening sweetness!" General Ann said.
"Renee...Molly..." General Ann shook her head sadly, "Go behind the sofa and give Sophie some of that milk." "Just stay back there and play Scrabble or something..."
The sun had now risen fully above the horizon and the Zombie hoard could be seen marching steadily toward our valiant band of warriors, while making disgusting groaning noises and occasionally stopping to pick up a fallen hand or re-attach with duct tape a leg that had come off. Grim determination showed on the faces of our soldiers (except for Daphne, who had gone back to singing to her pig and Renee and Molly who were brushing Sophie and playing Scrabble).
As the Zombie hoard came within fighting distance, General Ann shouted: "Now!" Sheena, holding a flailing and hissing Bailey ran to the forefront and flung the angry senior citicat at the advancing Zombies! Horrible (and disgusting) Zombie screams of pain filled the air as Bailey viciously clawed and bit at the Zombies while Sheena cheered her on!
Then General Ann shook up her diet coke bottle and lead the charge on the disoriented (and disgusting) Zombies, spraying fizzy and blinding diet coke in their eyes... The fan brigade, Julia, Jackie and Yvonne followed behind General Ann, wielding their lethal fans with devastating affect! Zombie parts flew everywhere (and were generally disgusting) as the fans chopped and minced the undead hoard faster than they could duct tape themselves back together.
Lanae, swinging her rock-laden purse before her followed on the heels of the fan brigade with Elaine at her side. Each swing of the purse neatly took off the head of an advancing Zombie! Elaine, finding her stapler to be rather poor at firing staples, took to stapling Zombie lips together so that they couldn't make as much disgusting groaning noise.
John screamed like a girl and with his eyes tightly shut, flung his letter-opener at the Zombies. (Editor's Note: Sorry John, you're the only guy on our team so I have to pick on you).
Meanwhile, Donna and Kristina set fire to the sofa, ran behind it and began strategically throwing dirty dishes at those Zombies who had managed to get past the hissing, scratching, biting Bailey, General Ann's blinding fizzy diet coke, the fan brigade, and Lanae with her purse and Elaine with her stapler. Although some of the still advancing Zombies, to Elaine's credit, did have their lips stapled together and so were making fewer disgusting groaning noises.
Off to the side, Daphne stood, in her comfy shoes, and sang "It's a Small World" while smiling inanely at the zombies and waving her hand-painted smiling piggy bank at them. Her's might, indeed, have been the most effective weapon, as the Zombies who caught sight of her would cover their ears and run away screaming, as fast as their rotting legs could carry them!
As the battle raged on, the combatants from time to time would hear Molly squeal: "I love it when Scrabble accepts my made-up words!" Followed, always, by an approving bark from Sophie and a grumble from Renee about needing a better dictionary.
When the dust settled, disgusting Zombie parts littered the field of battle and our valiant warriors stood, weary, covered in soot from the burning sofa but united and victorious. Bailey marched proudly back, tail aloft, swatted Sophie (because Bailey didn't know that Sophie is a sweet doggie who loves kitties) and stole the rest of Renee's milk. And Yvonne shouted at Daphne: "If you don't stop that incessant singing I'm going to whack you with this Zombie arm!"
Good (and handy household objects) had triumphed over evil once again.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
September
It is a beautiful morning.
The sky is clear and the sun is out.
My yard is a mess; littered with fallen, half-grown pecans,
the grass is overgrown, twigs from the pecan tree lie everywhere
In the pool, a small branch with a few clusters of leaves
floats desultorily a few feet below the surface
as if unable to decide whether it should sink to the bottom.
In the flower pot, one tiny, tight, purple petunia bud struggles up from the tangle of leaves
that now look more like weeds than flowers
because I had long-since ceased to tend to them.
The breeze is mild...for Oklahoma
Everything is still green and the trees thickly adorned with their green canopies.
But there are some, a few, dead leaves in the grass.
And the wind conjours up for me the black and white images
of grey sky, black trees, white snow...
of the winter that crouches, waiting for its time.
It is September.
The sky is clear and the sun is out.
My yard is a mess; littered with fallen, half-grown pecans,
the grass is overgrown, twigs from the pecan tree lie everywhere
In the pool, a small branch with a few clusters of leaves
floats desultorily a few feet below the surface
as if unable to decide whether it should sink to the bottom.
In the flower pot, one tiny, tight, purple petunia bud struggles up from the tangle of leaves
that now look more like weeds than flowers
because I had long-since ceased to tend to them.
The breeze is mild...for Oklahoma
Everything is still green and the trees thickly adorned with their green canopies.
But there are some, a few, dead leaves in the grass.
And the wind conjours up for me the black and white images
of grey sky, black trees, white snow...
of the winter that crouches, waiting for its time.
It is September.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
On putting my cat to sleep...
Yesterday I was sure it was the right thing to do. Today I feel like a murderer. She forgave me for all the times I hurt or disappointed her in her life. I hope she has forgiven me for this. I hope she understood I just wanted to stop her feeling miserable and I didn't know any other way to stop it.
I miss my little girl so much. I am always the first to tell my cat loving friends to get another cat after they have had to say goodbye to one of theirs. But I don't know if I will. I've had to say goodbye to three beloved cats and four dear dogs in my adult life. My heart is tired.
I question my fitness as a cat parent. There were a lot of things I did wrong; a lot of things I didn't do enough of. Yes, I loved them with all my heart but I don't think that is enough. Sure, they had better lives than barn cats or alley cats and at least they had lives instead of being put to death at a "shelter" but that's not saying much, is it?
I worry about my surviving cat; my boy. The girl whose life I had ended yesterday was his litter mate. He's never lived without her.
Yesterday I dug the hole in which I buried my girl. It was probably over a hundred degrees here and digging a two foot deep hole was very hard. I sweated a lot and my heart was pounding. I had to take several breaks. Today I am very sore. Clearly I was bent on punishing myself. That was stupid.
What cat or dog owner has not cried: "Why do their lives have to be so short?" It is so painful to say goodbye to them because they are such dear souls who want nothing more than to love and be loved. I've always thought though that it is better that their lives are designed to be shorter than ours because if our precious pets survived us then what would happen to them? I know of a couple of very lucky cats who got wonderful homes after their owners passed away. But what happens to most of them? That is why I don't want to get a kitten... a kitten might outlive me. But then I realize that is stupid because I could die tomorrow in an accident so the age of the cat doesn't matter. What would be important would be to make firm plans for a good home for them in the event of my death.
I miss my girl. I'll never get to stroke her soft as a bunny rabbit fur again. I'll never again get to hear her yelling at me that she wants on my lap (oh God how I wish I had not rebuffed her on the last night that she did that... I didn't know...).
I hope I did the right thing.
Oh, and if anyone out there in cyberspace reads this and thinks "Geez, it was just a cat!" Go to hell.
I miss my little girl so much. I am always the first to tell my cat loving friends to get another cat after they have had to say goodbye to one of theirs. But I don't know if I will. I've had to say goodbye to three beloved cats and four dear dogs in my adult life. My heart is tired.
I question my fitness as a cat parent. There were a lot of things I did wrong; a lot of things I didn't do enough of. Yes, I loved them with all my heart but I don't think that is enough. Sure, they had better lives than barn cats or alley cats and at least they had lives instead of being put to death at a "shelter" but that's not saying much, is it?
I worry about my surviving cat; my boy. The girl whose life I had ended yesterday was his litter mate. He's never lived without her.
Yesterday I dug the hole in which I buried my girl. It was probably over a hundred degrees here and digging a two foot deep hole was very hard. I sweated a lot and my heart was pounding. I had to take several breaks. Today I am very sore. Clearly I was bent on punishing myself. That was stupid.
What cat or dog owner has not cried: "Why do their lives have to be so short?" It is so painful to say goodbye to them because they are such dear souls who want nothing more than to love and be loved. I've always thought though that it is better that their lives are designed to be shorter than ours because if our precious pets survived us then what would happen to them? I know of a couple of very lucky cats who got wonderful homes after their owners passed away. But what happens to most of them? That is why I don't want to get a kitten... a kitten might outlive me. But then I realize that is stupid because I could die tomorrow in an accident so the age of the cat doesn't matter. What would be important would be to make firm plans for a good home for them in the event of my death.
I miss my girl. I'll never get to stroke her soft as a bunny rabbit fur again. I'll never again get to hear her yelling at me that she wants on my lap (oh God how I wish I had not rebuffed her on the last night that she did that... I didn't know...).
I hope I did the right thing.
Oh, and if anyone out there in cyberspace reads this and thinks "Geez, it was just a cat!" Go to hell.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Arm-Wrestling and Boobs
My firm went on its annual legal staff only fishing trip last weekend. The lawyers are supposed to "bond" on this trip; with the lines of communication being opened between shareholders and associates, etc. There are not too many women amongst the legal staff at my firm. There is me, I am a shareholder and have been here 18 years; one female staff attorney who is a "kid" who just got sworn in last October; a female paralegal who has been with us some years; and this year we had a female summer intern who will be starting her final year of law school in the fall.
The "kid" attorney, whom I will now refer to as "the kid," and I somehow ended up arm-wrestling after the cook-out on Friday evening. I think this was her idea... I frankly don't recall how we came to be sitting across from one another at the picnic table, right arms at the ready... I think beer was involved. As we clasped hands I heard one of the senior shareholders yell: "I'll take the athlete over the smoker!"
I, you see, am "the smoker." I am 48 years old, smoke heavily and have done so for some 30 odd years (and let me tell you they have been "odd" years!) and have, for lack of a better phrase, a "heart condition" for which I must take daily pills. The kid, on the other hand, is 26 or 27 years old with pure, virgin lungs and presumably a strong heart, since she ran hurdles in high school and college and still runs daily. She has not an ounce of fat on her body and clearly defined muscles in her limbs.
Ahhh.... but here is where the subject of "boobs" come into play! Being 48 years old, I was born in 1962. For some reason there seemed to be an even greater obsession with huge boobs on women in the 60's and 70's than in later eras. If you don't believe it, go find yourself some vintage Playboy magazines of the era and you will see the freakishly large boobs that were "admired" back then. And, maybe some of you are old enough to recall that you couldn't hardly open a magazine of any kind without finding, towards the back, the full-page ad for those magical creams or exercise devices that were guaranteed to give you giant boobs! These ads were always accompanied by the before and after photos of the bimbo who was standing slump-shouldered (probably to hide the fact that she already had boobs) in the "before" photo and who was smiling and proudly thrusting her bulging cleavage upward in the "after" photo.
My parents were and still are to this day, "wild-eyed liberals." One of their errors in judgment as such was their idea that it was okay to leave dad's Playboy magazine on the coffee table in our living room even though mom and dad had three little daughters. As mom tells me today, she didn't want to be a "hypocrite." Apparently it never occurred to them though that Playboy gave a very one-sided picture of female sexuality: women as playthings, and that perhaps this was not a good thing for the developing minds of little girls to be exposed to.
My mom is not busty... So I, as a young girl, became deeply concerned that I would be as flat-chested as my mom. As explained above, the importance of having big boobs had been thoroughly impressed upon me! So, while I never bought the creams or devices, I DID do bust exercises... lots of them and regularly. I developed fantastic upper body strength. There was a whole gym class of girls in a school back in Dayton, Ohio who came to hate me because the gym teacher decided: "If Julia can do boys' style push-ups the rest of you can too!" I set the school record in the "flexed-arm hang."
Along with all this came truly note-worthy arm-wrestling prowess. It took me the longest time to figure out when I was 12, 13, 14 years old, that it did NOT impress the boy that you had a crush on for you to beat him at arm-wrestling. (I'm really slow most of the time at figuring out how other people's minds work). In my twenties I actually won a trophy for arm-wrestling in a bar competition.
But, many years and many cigarettes had rolled under the bridge by the time I found myself holding hands with the kid across that picnic table kid last Friday night. I had a real fear that she was gonna take me down. Nonetheless, I planted my feet wide apart and flat on the ground (the position of one's feet when arm-wrestling is much more important than most people realize) and leaned from the hips in toward my opponent... someone hollered "Go!" I heard my partner's snide comment about taking the athlete over the smoker, and then... I TOOK THAT TWINKIE DOWN!! Girlfriend was beet red! She then grabbed my right arm with both her hands and stood up, and with that advantage, finally, but not easily, managed to take me down. It was a proud moment for this "old lady." I turned to my partner who had doubted me and said: "Betcha didn't know I have a trophy for arm-wrestling!" He said: "I believe it now!"
I then retired to a chair somewhat removed from the rest of the group, where I could catch my breath and still my racing heart, because beating the kid damn near killed me! LOL! She says she's in training for next year... uh oh...
The "kid" attorney, whom I will now refer to as "the kid," and I somehow ended up arm-wrestling after the cook-out on Friday evening. I think this was her idea... I frankly don't recall how we came to be sitting across from one another at the picnic table, right arms at the ready... I think beer was involved. As we clasped hands I heard one of the senior shareholders yell: "I'll take the athlete over the smoker!"
I, you see, am "the smoker." I am 48 years old, smoke heavily and have done so for some 30 odd years (and let me tell you they have been "odd" years!) and have, for lack of a better phrase, a "heart condition" for which I must take daily pills. The kid, on the other hand, is 26 or 27 years old with pure, virgin lungs and presumably a strong heart, since she ran hurdles in high school and college and still runs daily. She has not an ounce of fat on her body and clearly defined muscles in her limbs.
Ahhh.... but here is where the subject of "boobs" come into play! Being 48 years old, I was born in 1962. For some reason there seemed to be an even greater obsession with huge boobs on women in the 60's and 70's than in later eras. If you don't believe it, go find yourself some vintage Playboy magazines of the era and you will see the freakishly large boobs that were "admired" back then. And, maybe some of you are old enough to recall that you couldn't hardly open a magazine of any kind without finding, towards the back, the full-page ad for those magical creams or exercise devices that were guaranteed to give you giant boobs! These ads were always accompanied by the before and after photos of the bimbo who was standing slump-shouldered (probably to hide the fact that she already had boobs) in the "before" photo and who was smiling and proudly thrusting her bulging cleavage upward in the "after" photo.
My parents were and still are to this day, "wild-eyed liberals." One of their errors in judgment as such was their idea that it was okay to leave dad's Playboy magazine on the coffee table in our living room even though mom and dad had three little daughters. As mom tells me today, she didn't want to be a "hypocrite." Apparently it never occurred to them though that Playboy gave a very one-sided picture of female sexuality: women as playthings, and that perhaps this was not a good thing for the developing minds of little girls to be exposed to.
My mom is not busty... So I, as a young girl, became deeply concerned that I would be as flat-chested as my mom. As explained above, the importance of having big boobs had been thoroughly impressed upon me! So, while I never bought the creams or devices, I DID do bust exercises... lots of them and regularly. I developed fantastic upper body strength. There was a whole gym class of girls in a school back in Dayton, Ohio who came to hate me because the gym teacher decided: "If Julia can do boys' style push-ups the rest of you can too!" I set the school record in the "flexed-arm hang."
(Note the shoulders and upper arms [and total lack of boobs] in the above Glamour Shot)
But, many years and many cigarettes had rolled under the bridge by the time I found myself holding hands with the kid across that picnic table kid last Friday night. I had a real fear that she was gonna take me down. Nonetheless, I planted my feet wide apart and flat on the ground (the position of one's feet when arm-wrestling is much more important than most people realize) and leaned from the hips in toward my opponent... someone hollered "Go!" I heard my partner's snide comment about taking the athlete over the smoker, and then... I TOOK THAT TWINKIE DOWN!! Girlfriend was beet red! She then grabbed my right arm with both her hands and stood up, and with that advantage, finally, but not easily, managed to take me down. It was a proud moment for this "old lady." I turned to my partner who had doubted me and said: "Betcha didn't know I have a trophy for arm-wrestling!" He said: "I believe it now!"
I then retired to a chair somewhat removed from the rest of the group, where I could catch my breath and still my racing heart, because beating the kid damn near killed me! LOL! She says she's in training for next year... uh oh...
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