Showing posts with label Surprise: New Things I've Learned. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Surprise: New Things I've Learned. Show all posts

Thursday, July 7, 2016

~ Dry Brushing

If you're not familiar with dry brushing, you're about to be...

I discovered the practice in this Buzzfeed story I stumbled on and read for, well, no real reason.  Now two things you should know;  1)  I have a terrible lotion ethic (how much so?  Enough that I wrote a post about it.  Lamenting Lotioning 5/15) and I probably only tried this because I already had the only item required.  Basically, if the effort level to try something is zero and it could produce an tangible goodness in my life, I'm willing to give it a whirl.

Now I'm the kid of two police officers;  I'm somewhat skeptical of pretty much everything I'm being led to believe.  While I don't live in Missouri I need to be shown, ya know?  Admittedly my expectation was low on this endeavor.  (...I'm sure this won't make any sorta reeeeeeal difference...)

I was promised soft skin. 

What I got?

Well.  The day after my second episode of dry brushin' I'd already recommended it to a friend.  (If you didn't check the link that I learned from) Here's the drill:
  • Get a brush like this:

  • Brush your limbs (apparently it's important to go from feet/hands up towards your heart.  Reason?  No fuckin' clue, I just followed the directions as they were laid out.)
  • Lotion post shower
  • Live your life and prepare to be consistently shocked by how impressive your epidermis feels

Fact:  Last night I woke up several times during the night.  Each time before getting back to sleep I found myself Jimminie Cricketing my legs together because the level of smoothness was that incredible. 

My friend, LEM's experience/feedback? 

If your skin is of the sensitive variety I wouldn't engage in dry brushing daily.  (I'm a 3x a week-er.) 

Soft 'n smooth skin (better circulation, blah, blah, blah) isn't the only benefit.  I'm one of those sticklers for stubble free gams.  It seems like I'm getting an extra day out of my leg shaving.  Even those last few shaves before it's about time to switch to a fresh blade. 

Dry Brushing:  Do.  It.

Dear Next Week You,
You're welcome.


Monday, February 15, 2016

~ Guess Who's Taking Their Country Back? (Hint: Me)

Fact:  I don't have a bucket list and I don't believe in goals.  I believe in wanting sumthin' and doin' what it takes (as long as it keeps within the bounds of being legal, ethical, moral and generally not bein' a dick to others) in order to get it, or conversely, relatively quickly giving up and moving the hell on.  Scads of factors go in to which route I ultimately choose.

For instance, on a company trip a million years ago we rented a SUV.  From the moment I sat up in that seat and mashed the go peddle I knew it was a must.  I saved my pennies and the following year I purchased one.  I've only owned SUVs since.  Sticktoit'dness.

On the other hand, I, for a brief moment assumed I'd be Mrs. Adam Ant.  By the time Billy Idol hit the scene I'd given that up.  Giveup'dness.

But one of my most steadfast desires is one I've held onto for more than a decade, which is, as someone so easily distracted by the shiny thing that just caught my eye, an actual eternity.  I want to gain admission into the Daughters of the American Revolution.  Of course I realize this sounds refuckingdiculous.  I mean, what are the odds that any American can legit trace their lineage to an ancestor active in the American Revolution*?  Let alone a brown one?  While I'm certain there are other brown girls in the DAR, my guess is there ain't many.  And.  I.  Want.  In. 

( * ...Yeah, I got curious too.  It's estimated the DAR has 180,000 members while the boy version, the Sons of the Revolution has 33,000 members.  Meanwhile there are 322 million Americans, you do the math.  Seriously.  I'm shit at math
[Obviously there are those who can trace their ties back to the literal birth of our nation who aren't aligned with any number trackin' organization, but listen,
I can't Google everything...)

I have pestered my genealogy doin' (and saintly) Mom for yeeeeeeears.  Now it's important to note the I have contributed zero in the quest to bring such a thing to fruition.  Other than pestering.  And that shit is time consuming and more complicated than one might imagine.  I'm not a great daughter.  But I am the only one she has sooooo... 

To be truthy, not only have I not helped, I have actively attempted to dissuade the efforts, mainly when several months ago Mom told me she was doing that genealogy DNA test and asked if I wanted to also?  Pragmatically Immediately I was all, "just because I haven't had to commit a crime and/or kill someone doesn't mean I won't have to in the future.  I don't know what tomorrow will bring." as naturally, one does.  Rightfully so she did not listen to me.  ...Or maybe at her age she feels confident that she probably won't have to do a murder...  I donno.  (shrug)  Regardless, and obviously to my chagrin, she spit on a q-tip and slapped a stamp on it.   (As if to double down on my terribleness I subsequently mocked her upon reading this)

As you may have come to realize by this point I really, reeeeeally want to be in the DAR.  A) (and I don't know this to be true, in fact, it's probably safe to say it's not) I just suspect there are crested blazers involved in the DAR.  I must have one of those blazers.  (I imagine they're blue.)  I want to wear it every day.  I want a t-shirt underneath that perhaps in sparkly letters says I Want My Country Back.  2) I want to laugh as peoples heads explode when they are forced to see a BBG (big brown girl) free ranging the world in that get up.  Is that wrong?   In the past several years I keep hearing over and over again about folks wantin' their country back.  And frankly, I feel left out and I want in on that too.

(Correction:  My t-shirt will actually read I want My Country
Back, Bitches'Cause I'm that girl.) 

Flash forward to two months ago.  I'm at her (Mom and her hubby's) abode (we call it Southfork), I don't know what we were discussing when out of the blue she says, "oh, there's something I've been meaning to show you" whilst whippin' out the iPad.  Before she can even get the sentence out I chime in with, "did you finally get me into the DAR?"  Super surprisingly Mom pulls up what, from a bit of a distance I recognize as the layout of a family tree.  She goes on to show me one the crazier turn of events I've had in my life.  Ya see, as sheer willpower fates would have it, and in an enormous shock to me, DNA links me up as being the descendant of an American patriot.  By the way, we're not talkin' the loose way 'patriot' gets tossed about these days.  Nope.  Not only are we talkin' a by-anyone's-measure, patriot, we're talkin' a drafter of the Declaration of Independence.  (suck it)  And a President of the United States of America.  (double suck it)   I am the 6x granddaughter of (drum roll) Thomas Jefferson.

As stoked as I am to discover this tie to the beginings of our nation I gotta admit it also fills me with, I guess for lack of a better word, sadness.  Sadness upon the recognition of how common place it is that I'm essentially 'other-ed' in my own land.

Fun fact, this happens all the time--

- What are you?
- But where are you from?
- No, seriously, what are you?

The subtext being very clearly, 'because you're not white, I assume you are not a real American'  ...Which is awesome to have pointed out to you.  Constantly.  By complete strangers in the grocery store.  Or while clothes shopping.  Or when queuing up for a movie. 

...How's that for a routine affirmation that entire chunks of society have trouble even conceiving that the vaguely brown chick in line with ya is, in fact, what America is too?  One must admit that it's a shitty reality when skin hue is the seemingly sole litmus for determining what an American looks like.

But congratulations that's our culture.  We're strengthening it every time we nod our collective heads along with the growingly popular takin' my country back mantra.   It's the contrarian in me that leads me to want to co-opt I-want-MY-country-backness to mean a country where we actually do that everyone's equal stuff we've been having well meaning 'conversations' about since good ol' Grandpa Tom was still alive.  My version of wanting my country back is progressing to the point where America isn't just equal in 'theory', but equal in actual fuckin' practice. 

That's of course, not its traditional meaning.  The mainstream meaning of I-want-my-country-backness is something I've found interesting since it became a thing.

On the surface it's usually explained as; 'I want ol' time-y economics.  Or morals.  Or standards.  Or educational systems.  Or workplace settings.  Or.  Or.  Or...'  None of which off the cuff sound like nefarious notions.  (Completely unattainable and unreasonable?  Yes.  [Fact:  Progress, nay, evolution, has been stifled, held at bay and obstructed, but never has it been kept from actually proceeding.])  Easily palatable to large and nostalgic segments of the country.  Except to those who notice that the underbelly, and in-practice version of yearning for the good ol' days is that those were days that economics were often predicated on harsh conditions for the labor of the day.  Harsher still if you were a POC, whether it be the goin' backness of the 1950's or the 1850's.  Going back to the morals of the day logistically entails a longing for an era that it was either moral to own other (browner) people, or that it was morally acceptable to simply not hire, or serve, or worship with, or provide equal educational opportunities to, or live in close proximity to Americans who were non-caucasian, because, black.  ...Not to sound all, everything is black or white, but if history has taught us anything about how skin color impacts POC it's that with exception of the premise that white men can't jump and that black guys have monster cocks, being black in America has never, like ever, been anything other than a disadvantage.  Yes.  Oprah and President Obama exists.  But there are always outliers.  There are always exceptions to rules-- that's why we have that fuckin' cliché in the first place.  The fact that exceptions exists doesn't negate the fact that the rule is the actual norm most will experience.  And the norm for POC historically, and currently, is a state of disadvantage.  Not because it's my opinion.  Because of the actual evidence of disadvantages experienced by Americans based on the color of their skin, in um, everyfuckingthing*.

(Please Note:  *Not e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.  Just employment opportunities, the ability to get a fair mortgage rate or car loans.  And;  the level of health care received from doctors, dining outemployment opportunities, housing options, treatment in the judicial system, employment opportunities, votingin education and appendicitis pain management.  Also;  if you may be in need of an ambulance, and whilst touring a college campus, and riding on a fraternity bus, and h.s. class photo days and when determining if a child is a child or an adult.  Or any of the literally hundreds of racial bias cases listed here that have taken place since 2003.)   

So, if you're keepin' track that's-- 
For contrast, I'll allow Tim Wise to detail some of the advantages of whiteness in America--  

So, no.  I'm not particularly interested in going back to any past era, no thank you.  Also the same reason I avoid plantations, and places with plantation in its name.  Just.  No.  Historically, folks who look like me haven't had a good time there and I'm not taking my chances.  My only interest is in moving forward and helping to create a country where melanin doesn't determine whether a person is randomly quizzed on their authenticity as an American, or used as a mechanism to put people at a disadvantage by the sheer fuckin' happenstance of being born with more of it than less. This?  This I want more than a blue crested blazer, ya hear me?  I.  Want.  MY.  Country.  Back.

* Even if they don't call 'em 'goals'.  (ahem)  True story.


Things you can do right now to help create such a place:
     - Inform 'yo self.  (Here [source: The Ohio State University])
     - Watch this YouTube of White Like Me
     - Stop waiting for the change and start bein' the damn change
     - Take the Harvard University Implicit Bias Test


Friday, July 15, 2011

~It's Indian Style. Period.

While having lunch with (code name) Jorge Estrada the other day, I learned something new.  Generally, I love learning something new, but learning this pissed me off.

Jorge Estrada, a former co-worker and his lovely wife, (code name) Lupe have three very cute wee one's, including the most recent addition to their 2 girls, a brand new boy about a month ago.  Between the horse riding and dance lessons and neighborhood kids Jorge has his finger on the pulse of the under 7 set.  As we ate our sandwiches, caught up and stiffled our laughter over this really weirdly built guy searching for a table (I still don't know how those wickedly disproportionate spindly legs held him upright), I don't even remember what the topic of conversation was, but I heard the most delightful sounding, unfamiliar string of words pop outta his mouth. 

(Jorge Estrada, BBG, Lupe Estrada - Summer '10)

Now a lot of people would take this as an opportunity to knowingly nod affirmatively, or give a "uh-hun" (aka:  "Yes, I know"), grunt.  I see it all the time.  Quite frequently those folks also tend to have really shitty poker faces, making it uber easy to read that they really are clueless.  I always think if they took the opportunity to find out what X is instead of pretending to know what X is so they look smart, they'd actually be smart.  ...But what am I in charge of?  Barely me and this 15 lb dog, ya know?... 

So as soon as the phrase "criss cross applesauce" hit the atmosphere I was immediately intrigued, and interrupted to inquire what the fuck criss cross applesauce means? 

Turns out we've become sooooo PC that kids today are being taught to sit criss cross applesauce style instead of the ol' school, "Indian style".

Now being sometimes a reasonable adult, I can understand why people would take offense to the Sarasota Scaplers football team.  (a completely BBG made up entity)  But sitting Indian style?!?  Come the fuck on.  Of all of the wonderful things Native American culture has shared with the masses, I say comfortable chair free seating is one of the greatest.  A contribution to be proud of, in my opinion. I can't even fathom how something negative or offensive could be extrapolated from the innocuous sitting Indian style.

A lot of the Indian stuff of the past has gone the way of the dodo bird in the interest of PCness.  Some for good reason, I suppose.  Although, I was never one to think that a college team called the "Braves" was intended to be some sort of slight or slur.  On the contrary, to me it seemed to be a title of honor and pride.  But again, the communal "they" haven't (as of yet, but I am waiting by my phone) asked me to be in charge of everything. Fine.  Anything.  (tear, sniffle, tear) 

But this criss cross applesauce, while fun to say is complete crap.  No matter what kids are sayin' or what Google says, it's INDIAN STYLE damn it. 

Always was, always will be. 

I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm going to go have a comfortable sit and yesssss this girl of partial Native American lineage will be doing it Indian style, proudly.  (Now, what's Blackfoot for SUCK IT?!?) 


Wednesday, May 18, 2011

~Learn Something New Day

I love learning something new.  Doesn't really even matter what.  I'm just curious by nature, which I guess is slightly better than being naughty.  (My humble and utmost apologies for that sad ass OPP maker's reference.  That was uncalled for.)

(Random side note:  I just spent :30 of my life, that I'm never getting back, mind you, attempting to figure out why a semi colon [after the word 'for', above] kept happening when I thought I was touching the period key.  Backspace, delete, push period key, see semi colon, repeat x4.  Turns out I have an errant fleck o' dust on just that spot on my screen.  Welcome to my life.)

A few postings back I made mention of not knowing that it was a wheelbarrow.  All my life I thought it was a wheelbarrel.  (A Day In Review: Saturday/May 2011)

I think I've also mentioned that I was a grown ass girl before I knew what a foundry is.  Honestly in all of my Catholic school education I don't think that word was ever uttered.  I remember the night I discovered the existence of the mythical "foundry".  How can I recall so clearly?  ....(insert harp-y music here)...

I was out 'Schmidtin'" (aka: going to a joint called Schmidt's) enjoying an adult beverage and enjoying flirting with some guy who at some point told me he worked in a foundry.  Once he fielded the question, "whaaaat's a foundry?"  My follow up was "what do you make?"  His answer:  $21.00 an hour. 

...And how do you not remember a conversation like that

Foundry (fowndree)
1. workplace for casting metal or glass: a building equipped for the casting of metal or glass
2. making castings: the skill or practice of casting metal or glass

I've never been one to be ashamed of what I don't know.   Some would say that's because I don't have the good sense to be embarrassed.  I say better to be the real you and learn some shit vs. pretending you know something ya don't and not learning.    I guess, I'd rather be looked at as the girl who learned sumthin' than the girl who just went on being ignorant.  Maybe that's just me?

The total tonnage of things I don't know about stuff and junk is staggering.  But today the load got a little lighter.

The other day when I met up with LB2'd and the Godkiddies, I spied this sign:
Because I'm not ashamed, I don't mind tellin' ya, not only do I not know who the fuck Paul R. Gingher is, I also have noooooo fuckin' clue what a Natatorium is.  Do you?

Of course it sounded like a fanfuckintabulous place.  I said something like, "whaaaaaat's a Natafuckintorium*?  (Due to small ears, and my strongly honed ability to censor myself when necessary, I did manage to leave the fuckin' outta the Natatorium question.), and the next thing I knew our legs carried us to the magical and fanstatical NATATORIUM!!!  We opened the door and peeked in.  Eh.  It was ok.  I mean, it was just a room, albeit a room bedazzled with murals and interesting and random seating juxtapositions.  Honestly, somewhat of a disappointment.  No offense to Paul R. Gingher, who I'm sure is/was a tremendous individual.  I guess I just expected a bubble machine, unicorns and a tiara station, or sumthin' equally as appealing.  It did not live up to what it's moniker suggested.

I found myself Googling doing some research to discover what in the world this crazy, new to me word is about.  Turns out..."A natatorium is, strictly speaking, a structurally separate building containing a swimming pool. In Latin, a cella natatoria was a swimming pool in its own building, although it is sometimes also used to refer to any indoor pool even if not housed in a dedicated building (e.g., a pool in a school or a fitness club).[1] It will usually also house locker rooms, and perhaps allied activities, such as a diving tank or facilities for water polo. Many colleges, universities and high schools have natatoria."   

Thank you Wiki.  I cannot attest to the veracity of that info, it is Wiki.  ...There was only so much research I could do, ya know?  (Google.  First entry.  Sold.)  I can say I did not see a pool whilst peepin' in the great Paul R. Gingher.


If'n ya didn't already, now you know a new word Natatorium.  (Say it out loud.  It's more fun to say than to actually see.)

...Look at us.  Doin' some learnin' in 'da World.

Update:  I've, of course, been asking people if they knew what a natatorium is.   Much to my surprise, several people did.  Which made me feel slightly stoopid.  While chatting with AnonD I asked the same of her, she like me, was unfamiliar with the lovely sounding natatorium.  I read her the blurb about it and she got very excited as she discovered that she has a natatorium!!  And she really, really does.  She and R have a training pool, which is bigger than the usual training/resistance pool, that lives in it's own separate room in their house.  I've been in the AnonD natatorium!  Needless to say, it's been an exciting day for us both.  I'm proud to say I'm 1 degree from a natatorium. 

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