Sunday, July 31, 2005
'The Chinese are strange' said the towhead boy crossing the street on his way to the swimming pool. My thoughts corrected him. No they are not so strange kid. They just look strange here. Here being a yacht club where leggy blondes and golden tans are de jure. 500 Chinese indeed looked out of place on the green lawns of the club. Somebody was having a wedding reception. A Chinese reception. Right then and there it occurred to me that in my sixteen years walking by this particular spot, I had never seen anyone Chinese before. Or, for that matter, any other ethnicity other than white.
I thought of my high school in San Francisco that was predominately Chinese although I had not one Chinese friend. The Chinese kept to themselves and more often than not spoke Chinese to one another. When they did speak English, most spoke with Chinese accents. My friends were white, black, hispanic and all high (it was San Francisco in the seventies after all). I have no idea what became of my former Chinese classmates since 1977. All I know is that I nearly missed my name being called at the graduation ceremonies -- sandwiched in as I was between hundreds of Changs, Fongs, then my name read very quickly and on to the Hongs.
As I walked past the yacht club, the wedding reception was letting out. Pearly white skin and black hair returned to their cars laden with bouquets of leftover flowers. A thought passed my mind that if the Chinese were ever to become seriously interested in sailing, they would have to opt for colored boats; the white of the boats backdropped behind their translucent skin was mis-matched I decided. All of the Chinese guests were speaking English. Even more surprisingly (at least to me), all spoke accent-free -- even the elders. By accent-free I mean CNN/Fox media English, Jennifer Anniston English, Sandra Oh English. A mixture of good-education English and trendy colloquialisms. In other words, were I to close my eyes and listen to the passing group speak, I would not know they were Chinese. Where as back in San Francisco 1977 I most certainly could! Odd I think. I can to this day usually tell if a person on the other end of the phone is African American or Latino. Or further that the person is an African American from NY say, or a Latino from Texas (as opposed to someone white from NY or Texas). A study group of 500 Asians walking back to their cars from a wedding reception is of course a ridiculous basis on which to conjecture that Asians have jettisoned any and all linguistic identity linked to their Asian-ness. Though frankly there is not much to go on in mainstream America either given that Asians are still very much under represented. But take Sandra Oh as an example....
I thought of my high school in San Francisco that was predominately Chinese although I had not one Chinese friend. The Chinese kept to themselves and more often than not spoke Chinese to one another. When they did speak English, most spoke with Chinese accents. My friends were white, black, hispanic and all high (it was San Francisco in the seventies after all). I have no idea what became of my former Chinese classmates since 1977. All I know is that I nearly missed my name being called at the graduation ceremonies -- sandwiched in as I was between hundreds of Changs, Fongs, then my name read very quickly and on to the Hongs.
As I walked past the yacht club, the wedding reception was letting out. Pearly white skin and black hair returned to their cars laden with bouquets of leftover flowers. A thought passed my mind that if the Chinese were ever to become seriously interested in sailing, they would have to opt for colored boats; the white of the boats backdropped behind their translucent skin was mis-matched I decided. All of the Chinese guests were speaking English. Even more surprisingly (at least to me), all spoke accent-free -- even the elders. By accent-free I mean CNN/Fox media English, Jennifer Anniston English, Sandra Oh English. A mixture of good-education English and trendy colloquialisms. In other words, were I to close my eyes and listen to the passing group speak, I would not know they were Chinese. Where as back in San Francisco 1977 I most certainly could! Odd I think. I can to this day usually tell if a person on the other end of the phone is African American or Latino. Or further that the person is an African American from NY say, or a Latino from Texas (as opposed to someone white from NY or Texas). A study group of 500 Asians walking back to their cars from a wedding reception is of course a ridiculous basis on which to conjecture that Asians have jettisoned any and all linguistic identity linked to their Asian-ness. Though frankly there is not much to go on in mainstream America either given that Asians are still very much under represented. But take Sandra Oh as an example....
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
VP of Nervousness. The kids and I were all on Code Red Alert. Our job was to make sure every inch of the house and garden look amazing and to come across as a charming, gorgeous, gracious family. To this end the grounds were weed-free, kelly-green-groomed amidst ravishing flowers. To this end the interior of the house gleamed clean and spotless -- the refrigerators stock full with drinks. To this end we practiced our smiles in the mirror and collected our summer's worth of respective stories that might entertain and impress hubby's company-invited guests.
All that remained was for the Corporate Wife Who Can't Cook to make a run to Costco so that our many arrivees might actually have something to eat. That was the plan anyway until hubby decided to make a pot of coffee. A task at which he is perfectly capable and has done for years. But nervous he was and he put the grounds into where you are supposed to put the water. That mess finally cleaned, he made a second attempt. This time he neglected to put the coffee pot underneath the filter. Ten cups of missing-the-target coffee poured into the drawer below, onto the counter, and all over the floor. Unable to put the blame on any nearby humans (his favorite tact), he blamed the coffee machine...
Smash of a party... Thank you Costco for your great party food (your avocado dip is outstanding) and for treating your employees well. Thank you Great Aunt Tauty for teaching me to have a great time at my own party. You were right. You said 1) Tell everyone you are a lousy cook. 2) Marry someone who can cook and/or have enough money to afford caterers. 3) Tell your guests good naturedly that they will go hungry and thirsty if they do not fend for themselves (even our British guests seemed to rally to the concept) 4) Pour yourself a big glass of wine and enjoy.
And speaking of treating employees well... (Costco)... A few glasses of wine later, I did make a request to the CEO of hubby's company to please make sure hubby's next pay raise at least give us the delta that would allow me to quit this ridiculous State House job I have. The flexibility of work hours simply does not make up for the mediocrity and corruption one must acquiesce to and which makes it harder and harder to look oneself in the mirror.
In the meantime... the House and Senate approved a perfectly cowardly energy bill -- one that not only does not reduce the United State's dependence of foreign oil but will also serve to make the oil companies EVEN RICHER via undeserved tax breaks and at the expense of our public lands. Meanwhile the Harper's Index says that the number of new U.S. soldiers the Army would need in 2006 to replenish ranks abroad is 80,000. The percentage of this goas it expects to meet is 9.9. The number of Iraqi troops that have been "trained and equipped," according to Bush in April is 150,000. However the number that the U.S. military considers ready to deploy independently is 1,500.
And finally the silly. Also is Harper's: Number of Pepsi products plainly visible in a May TV ad for Arnold Schwarzenegger: 5. And the selling price in June for a bar of soap allegedly made from the liposuctioned fat of Silvio Berlusconi: $18,000. Oh boy....
All that remained was for the Corporate Wife Who Can't Cook to make a run to Costco so that our many arrivees might actually have something to eat. That was the plan anyway until hubby decided to make a pot of coffee. A task at which he is perfectly capable and has done for years. But nervous he was and he put the grounds into where you are supposed to put the water. That mess finally cleaned, he made a second attempt. This time he neglected to put the coffee pot underneath the filter. Ten cups of missing-the-target coffee poured into the drawer below, onto the counter, and all over the floor. Unable to put the blame on any nearby humans (his favorite tact), he blamed the coffee machine...
Smash of a party... Thank you Costco for your great party food (your avocado dip is outstanding) and for treating your employees well. Thank you Great Aunt Tauty for teaching me to have a great time at my own party. You were right. You said 1) Tell everyone you are a lousy cook. 2) Marry someone who can cook and/or have enough money to afford caterers. 3) Tell your guests good naturedly that they will go hungry and thirsty if they do not fend for themselves (even our British guests seemed to rally to the concept) 4) Pour yourself a big glass of wine and enjoy.
And speaking of treating employees well... (Costco)... A few glasses of wine later, I did make a request to the CEO of hubby's company to please make sure hubby's next pay raise at least give us the delta that would allow me to quit this ridiculous State House job I have. The flexibility of work hours simply does not make up for the mediocrity and corruption one must acquiesce to and which makes it harder and harder to look oneself in the mirror.
In the meantime... the House and Senate approved a perfectly cowardly energy bill -- one that not only does not reduce the United State's dependence of foreign oil but will also serve to make the oil companies EVEN RICHER via undeserved tax breaks and at the expense of our public lands. Meanwhile the Harper's Index says that the number of new U.S. soldiers the Army would need in 2006 to replenish ranks abroad is 80,000. The percentage of this goas it expects to meet is 9.9. The number of Iraqi troops that have been "trained and equipped," according to Bush in April is 150,000. However the number that the U.S. military considers ready to deploy independently is 1,500.
And finally the silly. Also is Harper's: Number of Pepsi products plainly visible in a May TV ad for Arnold Schwarzenegger: 5. And the selling price in June for a bar of soap allegedly made from the liposuctioned fat of Silvio Berlusconi: $18,000. Oh boy....
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Seagull Squall. The elderly neighbors next door mean well I'm sure. Perhaps they are even proud that they have been able to create a peaceful Noah's Ark of sorts. In every other respect, however, they are the elderly couple you hope you'll never end up becoming. But first the animals. They feed them. All kinds. As punctual as a Swiss clock comes a squawk of wildlife couples demanding their food every evening: X for the seagulls... Y for Scruffy the raccoon and her six kits. Z for Petunia the skunk, the pigeons, and stray cats. This is all fine in the grand scheme of things since our ever diligent Autralian Shepard patrols the perimeters. Our only real danger are the sated seagulls flying over our yard back towards the harbor after supper i.e. splat, splat, and splosh. But that's it folks. That is the highlight of my neighbors' day. The clock on their mantle stopped ticking twenty years ago and everything has stayed exactly as it was then, including their hair-do's. They are sloshed by five just in time to put out the feed bowl.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Anna Bloviation's Aesthetic Atrocity of the Week. I don't know about you, but I remember when $1 million dollars was not only a lot of money but when you went out and actually put your mind to spending it, you got in most cases something pretty special. Not so here. This McMansion house is part of a recently-leveled woodland now home to nine of these humongous houses, each a pebble's throw from the other (literally). Price tag? $1.2 million dollars. Let me pan out for you so you can put this atrocity into perspective....the road directly in front of the 'picnic area' you see behind the traffic cone is a MAJOR THOROUGHFARE with non-stop 24/7 traffic (it took a couple of lights and timing to get a shot without a car whizzing by). To the right is a view to a cemetery (not that there is anything wrong with cemeteries...). To the left you can not only see the neighbor's beige-colored house closing in on this house's 'personal space' but behind that house is a major intersection that joins yet another busy street. Granted the traffic cone and cement watch-a-ma-thing will disappear once construction is completed but would you spend $1.2 million dollars for this 'sanctuary'? I could find you a number of affordable housing units in my town with a lot more curb appeal, ambiance, and quiet than this monstrosity... not to mention that maintenance costs would be substantially lower.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
It Doesn't Get Much Better... (well maybe if there were a view to the ocean on my right)
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Anna Bloviation's Garden Continues to Defy its Un-Green-Thumb Care... both flowers and grown children. Water is all more or less takes for the garden. For the children it is a daily 7-mile walk with the daughter in support of her mission to beat the freshman fifteen (I am dying...). Arriving home fatigued at 9:30 p.m., it is then a rare one-on-one philosophical discussion with the son until 1 p.m. to discuss his summer courses -- specifically Death and Dying. Something Americans don't do particularly well we agree. We agree too that we will be totally screwed if hubby/father were to die before his time...
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
I am a notorious spammer and run the gambit from dumb blond jokes to political virtuoso. Day after day I spam. It's my 'love tap' if you will. Since we crazy Americans don't do sensible things like get together for a leisurely lunch and glass of cabernet at an outdoor cafe, we instead keep to our silos and touch souls via email.
I am convinced that were it not for my spams I would lose 25% of my spamees for good. But recently I have chosen to simply take the iniative and drop them... Interestingly they are usually female. Here is how it goes: If you don't give me a life sign ever and then when I do send you a personal email you reply how 'nice it is to get a personal email' well then go to hell! It's my spam dear that keeps the link. Don't diss' it. My male acquaintances are much better. One hears nothing for a long, long time. And then a precise and poignant one-liner comes along as if we had just been talking yesterday.
I am convinced that were it not for my spams I would lose 25% of my spamees for good. But recently I have chosen to simply take the iniative and drop them... Interestingly they are usually female. Here is how it goes: If you don't give me a life sign ever and then when I do send you a personal email you reply how 'nice it is to get a personal email' well then go to hell! It's my spam dear that keeps the link. Don't diss' it. My male acquaintances are much better. One hears nothing for a long, long time. And then a precise and poignant one-liner comes along as if we had just been talking yesterday.
Good one... from Buzzflash.com: If a Mob Boss Says to a Hit Man, "Kill Jim Smith's Wife," Can He Claim He Didn't Order the Murder Because He Didn't Mention Her Name? Apparently, That's Karl Rove's Thinking.
Monday, July 11, 2005
If by naming London twice in a week... does that potentially put me on the electronic black radar? Apparently the Japanese are preeminent in picking up patterns. And they do quite a lot of revenue-generating business for the US intelligence agencies doing just that. They trawl blogs and chat rooms. And via some mathematical algorithmic scientific esoteric, completely-beyond-me-ic way, can pick up 'conversations' and 'transactions' of interest to the national security o fX,Y,Z countries. Apropos London. Which I love (and no I am not a terrorist, guys, nor hardly do I think my mentions of London are of interest to you... .). I just mentioned it because my friend lives there and hubby just had to go there for business.... But I digress. They have more cameras in the city than, well, any other major city. So when I was considering how easy it would be to lift a few Dali paintings from the museum last summer, I guess I didn't factor in all of the hidden cameras that would have recorded every non-elegant move of me jumping out the window onto the street with two Dali watercolors stuck obviously under my rain coat... Better keep my day job.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
To London with trepidation (sort of). Hubby leaves tomorrow for London. It's remarkable how laissez-faire we have become i.e. "Oh well... So is the 21st century. Terrorism everywhere I guess." I say: "Be careful darling.... And...well, please bring home the bacon...."
Frying Pan Fracus. The twenty-year-old son and eighteen-year-old daughter have regressed ten years since being back from college. Where as they used to fight over who was breathing whose air, they now fight over the non-stick omelet pan and who has or has not cleaned it. It got so stupid that I went to Macy's and bought another one for $12 bucks so they wouldn't have to fight anymore. Which probably means that I'll now have TWO dirty pans at any given time in my sink. I told them that if they didn't work things out I'd take both pans to their heads thank you very much.
45-year-old Moments. In pajamas and a tank top (no bra), and hair every direction this morning, I walked down the driveway to haul up the empty garbage pails (yet again and always). Rick caught me 2-feet by surprise i.e. my landscaper was unbeknownst to me treating the lawn and was just coming up on my right. F***.... Eyes that lock speak volumes. Eyes that lock get to know each other real quick. OK you beautiful late-twenties young man with a business graduate degree and your own landscaping business: you are tan and for f*******-god-sake incredibly in shape with an adorable trickle of sweat coming down your forehead -- where one just wants to reach up and gently wipe the perspiration away... Yes, eyes that lock speak volumes... he sees a disheveled forty-something woman quite in shape but also quite ill-prepared for such an encounter i.e. the hair is helter-skelter, the face not-even-washed-from-waking, an eclectic outfit of orange pant pajamas, a random pink t-shirt, and hubby's grey sweatshirt. Perhaps my gleaming white teeth deflect from the haunting picture... ? Thank god for the twenty minutes between hitting the sack and actually falling asleep. Here we are master of our contrived realities...
Frying Pan Fracus. The twenty-year-old son and eighteen-year-old daughter have regressed ten years since being back from college. Where as they used to fight over who was breathing whose air, they now fight over the non-stick omelet pan and who has or has not cleaned it. It got so stupid that I went to Macy's and bought another one for $12 bucks so they wouldn't have to fight anymore. Which probably means that I'll now have TWO dirty pans at any given time in my sink. I told them that if they didn't work things out I'd take both pans to their heads thank you very much.
45-year-old Moments. In pajamas and a tank top (no bra), and hair every direction this morning, I walked down the driveway to haul up the empty garbage pails (yet again and always). Rick caught me 2-feet by surprise i.e. my landscaper was unbeknownst to me treating the lawn and was just coming up on my right. F***.... Eyes that lock speak volumes. Eyes that lock get to know each other real quick. OK you beautiful late-twenties young man with a business graduate degree and your own landscaping business: you are tan and for f*******-god-sake incredibly in shape with an adorable trickle of sweat coming down your forehead -- where one just wants to reach up and gently wipe the perspiration away... Yes, eyes that lock speak volumes... he sees a disheveled forty-something woman quite in shape but also quite ill-prepared for such an encounter i.e. the hair is helter-skelter, the face not-even-washed-from-waking, an eclectic outfit of orange pant pajamas, a random pink t-shirt, and hubby's grey sweatshirt. Perhaps my gleaming white teeth deflect from the haunting picture... ? Thank god for the twenty minutes between hitting the sack and actually falling asleep. Here we are master of our contrived realities...
Thursday, July 07, 2005
To London With Love. Thank god you're ok dear Heather. Heather, my best friend from grammar school. Heather, queen of public transportation. You walked over an hour to get home from your office in the city this morning. And then paced your apartment as you waited for your boys to arrive home safely. The fact that just last week we complained of the self-centered, slovenly ways of our boys seems rather irrelevant now doesn't it? Strange how that works.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Oh My... This is I guess what happens when one becomes the cross-generational confessional for relationship woes; one neglects one's blogs. Global warming seems less important when people's hearts are ripping at the seams. Heart Rip 1:
Dear Anna Bloviation's: He seemed a rising star in college.... Smart. Athletic. Everyone in his family whoppingly successful. But since marrying him, I've realized he is a turtle. He has no ambition. His parents have just given him everything his whole life....
Dear Friend: Yes but he just finished grad school didn't he?
Dear AB: But he still hasn't found a job.
Dear Friend: He graduated in May.
Dear AB: He is annoying and I don't want to sleep with him.
Dear Friend: Are you in for the long haul?
Dear AB: Yes.
Dear Friend: OK... Well let's figure out our options if we are to stay in a possibly perpetual state of annoyance... Hmmm. Better to be in a kick-ass nice house the wealthy in-laws have helped you buy because they want their darling grandchildren to have the very best than take the high rode and slog it out as your hubby tries to make his turtle way. No brainer girl.
Heart Rip 2: Dear Anna Bloviation's (Mom): As you know I broke up with my boyfriend before going off to college. We loved each other but things were getting hard at the end. It was an amenable break. Or so I thought. But he did what all my 'guy friends' have done so far. He claimed we could just be friends. And heh, I really like to hang out with him. But apparently he had a different agenda. I said 'sorry that's not what I want'. He flipped. Called me heartless. Then he surreptiously dropped off my graduation present on the porch -- the one I had given to him last year. A leather box filled with fond mementos. I am so angry. So hurt.
Dear Friend (daughter): It is understandable that he is so hurt. You are after all a wonderful, smart, gorgeous, sexy human being (ok I am very subjective on this matter). People who love people so hard it hurts are people who have a very difficult time when they find out the other person doesn't feel the same way. Desperate for the other's affections, they will enter a pact of 'friendship' just to keep the relationship going. But sooner or later the love-struck agenda comes through. Once rebuffed, the only way to deal with their hurt is to hurt the other. To demonize the relationship. The good news is that you are master of your memories. You had a wonderful relationship with him. Hold that dear and remember that. You don't have to remember the self-destruct remnance of what is left of him. His loss.
And on and on. Three more heart-rips to be exact... To the point that I must impart a wise adage to my friends:
1) It is important that a man helps you around the house and has a job.
2) It is important that a man makes you laugh.
3) It is important that a man loves you and spoils you.
4) It is important to find a man you can count on and who doesn't lie to you. It's important that these four men don't know each other...
Dear Anna Bloviation's: He seemed a rising star in college.... Smart. Athletic. Everyone in his family whoppingly successful. But since marrying him, I've realized he is a turtle. He has no ambition. His parents have just given him everything his whole life....
Dear Friend: Yes but he just finished grad school didn't he?
Dear AB: But he still hasn't found a job.
Dear Friend: He graduated in May.
Dear AB: He is annoying and I don't want to sleep with him.
Dear Friend: Are you in for the long haul?
Dear AB: Yes.
Dear Friend: OK... Well let's figure out our options if we are to stay in a possibly perpetual state of annoyance... Hmmm. Better to be in a kick-ass nice house the wealthy in-laws have helped you buy because they want their darling grandchildren to have the very best than take the high rode and slog it out as your hubby tries to make his turtle way. No brainer girl.
Heart Rip 2: Dear Anna Bloviation's (Mom): As you know I broke up with my boyfriend before going off to college. We loved each other but things were getting hard at the end. It was an amenable break. Or so I thought. But he did what all my 'guy friends' have done so far. He claimed we could just be friends. And heh, I really like to hang out with him. But apparently he had a different agenda. I said 'sorry that's not what I want'. He flipped. Called me heartless. Then he surreptiously dropped off my graduation present on the porch -- the one I had given to him last year. A leather box filled with fond mementos. I am so angry. So hurt.
Dear Friend (daughter): It is understandable that he is so hurt. You are after all a wonderful, smart, gorgeous, sexy human being (ok I am very subjective on this matter). People who love people so hard it hurts are people who have a very difficult time when they find out the other person doesn't feel the same way. Desperate for the other's affections, they will enter a pact of 'friendship' just to keep the relationship going. But sooner or later the love-struck agenda comes through. Once rebuffed, the only way to deal with their hurt is to hurt the other. To demonize the relationship. The good news is that you are master of your memories. You had a wonderful relationship with him. Hold that dear and remember that. You don't have to remember the self-destruct remnance of what is left of him. His loss.
And on and on. Three more heart-rips to be exact... To the point that I must impart a wise adage to my friends:
1) It is important that a man helps you around the house and has a job.
2) It is important that a man makes you laugh.
3) It is important that a man loves you and spoils you.
4) It is important to find a man you can count on and who doesn't lie to you. It's important that these four men don't know each other...
