Tuesday, July 10, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: All Men and Women Are NOT Necessarily Created Equa...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: All Men and Women Are NOT Necessarily Created Equa...: The British royals' list of who must defer,to whom, more properly known as Order Of Precedence Of The Royal Family To Be Observed At Court...
All Men and Women Are NOT Necessarily Created Equal
The British royals' list of who must defer,to whom, more properly known as Order Of Precedence Of The Royal Family To Be Observed At Court, has been revised to reflect the marriage of Prince William. The gist of the revision is that Kate, Prince William's bride, must curtsy to her husband's cousins, Beatrice and Eugenie. Beatrice and Eugenie, the Princesses of York, may be best known for questionable couture and hideous taste in hats at public events. Incidentally, both of the Princesses of York are younger than Kate, the Duchess of Cambridge.
It should be noted that Kate's rank in the order, as is that of Camilla, the wife of Prince Charles, is elevated when she is accompanied by her husband. The only royal spouse whose rank in the order is unaffected by the presence or absence of his spouse is Prince Philip, husband of queen Elizabeth.
Tabloid journalists are having a field day with the latest revision of the Order of Precedence. Speculation has it that the Order was a deliberate tactical move designed to make it clear to Kate that, popular though she may be with the press and with the public, she is still royal by marriage only, and, as such, is subordinate and inferior to those who are royal by blood and birth. others insist that the latest revision to the Order of Precedence is a formality and was hardly unforeseen. others say the queen is behind this prior revisions, while others suggest that the royal advisers (to whom the late Princess Diana referred as "The Firm") have too much time on their hands and must justify their positions by creating such protocol. Still others wonder who could possibly have so little going on in his or her life as to actually care about any such matters.
I personally think the entire matter is considerably silly. Furthermore, precisely what does the Queen or anyone else in power plan to do if Princess Kate chooses not to curtsy to the Bad Hat Ladies? Lock her in the tower of London? Take away her tiaras? Force her to eat nothing but British food (UGH!) for a month? One more observation: if the other consorts are so drastically affected by the presence or absence of their powerful spouses, precisely what exempts Prince Philip from the demotion in the absence of his spouse? Could it be . . . . . . . sexism?
As an American, this is neither my concern nor my business. I probably should leave it to those who know more about it or whose tax dollars support the institution of monarchy. Still, it is a matter of great curiosity to me. extending it a bit further, can anyone imagine if a similar system of deference were established in the U.S. domains of politics. What if the Romneys had to bow or curtsy to the Obamas (until, in a worst-case scenario, after the 2013 inauguration)? Our own Order of Precedence would presumably mirror the order of succession to the presidency, but where would spouses, children, and significant others fit into the picture? Then one would have the added issues related to the changing of the guard with each election. Would the shift occur during or after the lame duck period? The possibilities are virtually infinite as well as incredibly stupid.
The British are much more civilized and more easily led than are we Americans, who would never stand for such starchy protocol. This is just as well. We as a nation can barely agree to provide health care to children whose parents can't afford it, which would seem to be a no-brainer. How could we ever create and agree upon any sort of Order of Precedence?
It should be noted that Kate's rank in the order, as is that of Camilla, the wife of Prince Charles, is elevated when she is accompanied by her husband. The only royal spouse whose rank in the order is unaffected by the presence or absence of his spouse is Prince Philip, husband of queen Elizabeth.
Tabloid journalists are having a field day with the latest revision of the Order of Precedence. Speculation has it that the Order was a deliberate tactical move designed to make it clear to Kate that, popular though she may be with the press and with the public, she is still royal by marriage only, and, as such, is subordinate and inferior to those who are royal by blood and birth. others insist that the latest revision to the Order of Precedence is a formality and was hardly unforeseen. others say the queen is behind this prior revisions, while others suggest that the royal advisers (to whom the late Princess Diana referred as "The Firm") have too much time on their hands and must justify their positions by creating such protocol. Still others wonder who could possibly have so little going on in his or her life as to actually care about any such matters.
I personally think the entire matter is considerably silly. Furthermore, precisely what does the Queen or anyone else in power plan to do if Princess Kate chooses not to curtsy to the Bad Hat Ladies? Lock her in the tower of London? Take away her tiaras? Force her to eat nothing but British food (UGH!) for a month? One more observation: if the other consorts are so drastically affected by the presence or absence of their powerful spouses, precisely what exempts Prince Philip from the demotion in the absence of his spouse? Could it be . . . . . . . sexism?
As an American, this is neither my concern nor my business. I probably should leave it to those who know more about it or whose tax dollars support the institution of monarchy. Still, it is a matter of great curiosity to me. extending it a bit further, can anyone imagine if a similar system of deference were established in the U.S. domains of politics. What if the Romneys had to bow or curtsy to the Obamas (until, in a worst-case scenario, after the 2013 inauguration)? Our own Order of Precedence would presumably mirror the order of succession to the presidency, but where would spouses, children, and significant others fit into the picture? Then one would have the added issues related to the changing of the guard with each election. Would the shift occur during or after the lame duck period? The possibilities are virtually infinite as well as incredibly stupid.
The British are much more civilized and more easily led than are we Americans, who would never stand for such starchy protocol. This is just as well. We as a nation can barely agree to provide health care to children whose parents can't afford it, which would seem to be a no-brainer. How could we ever create and agree upon any sort of Order of Precedence?
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Pulling My Hair Out
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Pulling My Hair Out: Many of us experience times when we're tempted to pull our hair out. most people don't act on those temptations. I do. I have trichotilloman...
Pulling My Hair Out
Many of us experience times when we're tempted to pull our hair out. most people don't act on those temptations. I do. I have trichotillomania. I've had it since I was little. No two cases of trichotillomania are necessarily exactly alike. For me, it's something I do without thinking. If I realize I'm doing it, I can stop. I only pluck the hair on my head. Some people pluck eyebrows, eyelashes, and other hair sources.
Trichotillomania is considered on the OCD continuum, and is related to stress. Everyone has stress. There are times in our lives when it is worse than at other times. I think I started pulling when I was just a baby when my mom sometimes didn't get me up from my nap very promptly. I remember it getting worse when my mom was ill. Fortunately for me, I started out with very thick hair. The plucked version of my hair is of average thickness.
Things happening around here right now have caused me stress. I can't be totally specific, but Matt summed it up well when he quoted The Bard in saying, "The course of true love never runs smooth." The course of false love doesn't necessarily run all that smooth, either, I've come to realize. And when one's hateful extended family sets out to make things deliberately difficult, it becomes the ugliest stretch of sharp-rock-infested water imaginable.
I'm staring at the walls a lot and watching too much bad TV while waiting for my injuries to heal so that I can do something to take my mind off this sorry state of affairs.
Sweetheart, I took this part off the page for you. You'll thank me later. Love, Uncle Scott
Trichotillomania is considered on the OCD continuum, and is related to stress. Everyone has stress. There are times in our lives when it is worse than at other times. I think I started pulling when I was just a baby when my mom sometimes didn't get me up from my nap very promptly. I remember it getting worse when my mom was ill. Fortunately for me, I started out with very thick hair. The plucked version of my hair is of average thickness.
Things happening around here right now have caused me stress. I can't be totally specific, but Matt summed it up well when he quoted The Bard in saying, "The course of true love never runs smooth." The course of false love doesn't necessarily run all that smooth, either, I've come to realize. And when one's hateful extended family sets out to make things deliberately difficult, it becomes the ugliest stretch of sharp-rock-infested water imaginable.
I'm staring at the walls a lot and watching too much bad TV while waiting for my injuries to heal so that I can do something to take my mind off this sorry state of affairs.
Sweetheart, I took this part off the page for you. You'll thank me later. Love, Uncle Scott
Friday, July 6, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Politics of Age
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Politics of Age: I haven't made a secret of my general distaste for Mitt Romney. I like him neither as a person nor as a political entity. Between his virtua...
The Politics of Age
I haven't made a secret of my general distaste for Mitt Romney. I like him neither as a person nor as a political entity. Between his virtual anaphylaxis in the face of truth and reality, to the incomprehensibly low arithmetical sum of his taxation in comparison to his overall wealth, to his gross inability to relate to day-to-day problems as experienced by our nation's ordinary citizens, I happen to think that it would be difficult to ferret out a poorer candidate for our nation's highest office . Individuals in possession of dissenting opinions can and will manifest their dissent in voting booths throughout our nation .
I, on the other hand, have no right or ability to manifest anything in any voting booth this year, as I will not turn eighteen until twenty-six days after the election. It discourages me to have no say in the outcome of this year's presidential slugfest, but other elections will come. *** Still, as a person who has been following presidential elections relatively closely since the 2000 Bush-Gore affront to democracy, and once again to have no recourse but to sit on the sidelines as the future of our nation for the next four years is decided by others, many of whom know and care less than I do, is to me an affront of epic proportions. While I recognize the limitations -- perhaps even the futility -- of having just one vote, still, it is one vote. Right now I can only covet that vote, but it will one day be mine.
Meanwhile, do I continue to obsess on my aversion for every aspect of Mitt Romney? The answer is no. I shall take the proverbial political high road. The blogosphere has heard from this blog its final mention of the name Mitt Romney . . . because that's not really his name. The presumptive Republican presidential nominee will heretofore be referenced in this blog by his proper name, which is Willard Romney.
P. S. This is just one entry in a long-standing blog, just as Willard Romney occupies a mere tiny fragment of my consciousness. I will not allow my obsessive dislike of the person or the candidate to overtake this blog or my thoughts.
***unless we see the dire predictions of conservative wack job harbingers of doom come to fruition when President Obama takes over the nation and the world before 2016
I, on the other hand, have no right or ability to manifest anything in any voting booth this year, as I will not turn eighteen until twenty-six days after the election. It discourages me to have no say in the outcome of this year's presidential slugfest, but other elections will come. *** Still, as a person who has been following presidential elections relatively closely since the 2000 Bush-Gore affront to democracy, and once again to have no recourse but to sit on the sidelines as the future of our nation for the next four years is decided by others, many of whom know and care less than I do, is to me an affront of epic proportions. While I recognize the limitations -- perhaps even the futility -- of having just one vote, still, it is one vote. Right now I can only covet that vote, but it will one day be mine.
Meanwhile, do I continue to obsess on my aversion for every aspect of Mitt Romney? The answer is no. I shall take the proverbial political high road. The blogosphere has heard from this blog its final mention of the name Mitt Romney . . . because that's not really his name. The presumptive Republican presidential nominee will heretofore be referenced in this blog by his proper name, which is Willard Romney.
P. S. This is just one entry in a long-standing blog, just as Willard Romney occupies a mere tiny fragment of my consciousness. I will not allow my obsessive dislike of the person or the candidate to overtake this blog or my thoughts.
***unless we see the dire predictions of conservative wack job harbingers of doom come to fruition when President Obama takes over the nation and the world before 2016
Thursday, July 5, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Superman
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Superman: Tonight when it was time for me to go to bed, my dad was engrossed in a movie and my brother wasn't home. I can't yet make it upstairs on my...
Superman
Tonight when it was time for me to go to bed, my dad was engrossed in a movie and my brother wasn't home. I can't yet make it upstairs on my own, and my mom can't carry me upstairs. I could have whined until my dad interrupted his movie carried me upstairs, but I decided for just this once to be selfless and to watch the remainder of my dad's movie with him. It was on some movie channel, so he couldn't have stopped it and restarted it when he finished transporting me up the stairs. (We have a DVR but not Tivo.)
Even though I wasn't the one who chose the movie and wasn't actually watching it with any genuine interest, I'm still slightly embarrassed to admit what the movie was, but it's hard to explain from where I'm coming without divulging the title of the movie, so I'll share. My dad was watching Superman, and I actually watched the last portion of it with him. It's hard to even concentrate on what's happening on the screen anyway with that particular movie, because it features the late Christopher Reeve. I for one cannot watch a movie with Christopher Reeve in it without becoming extremely depressed about the poor guy becoming a quadriplegic and then dying, and then his wife dying of cancer, leaving behind a little kid. Then if Christopher reeve were not depressing enough, there's poor Margo Kidder playing Lois Lane. Ms. Kidder had and possibly continues to have major mental health issues that have ravaged her quality of life.
But I digress. Depressing stories of the movie's actors notwithstanding, I must return to the original point of this post, which is that Superman was one of the most asinine movies ever made, yet my father took it all in as though he was having some sort of a religious experience. It could have been Saving Private Ryan or Dr. Zhivago when considering the intensity with which he viewed the movie. Even though no one else was present to witness the spectacle, I was positively embarrassed for my father, and by extension, for myself.
My father refuses to watch TV medical dramas or sitcoms. This is all perfectly fine. He's ensconced in the inner workings of the medical field all day long during every work day, much as I am ensconced in a rather dysfunctional family all day long when I am not in school and in an incompetent school system when I am at school. Why in hell would I want to watch TV dramas or sitcoms about dysfunctional families or incompetent educational institutions when those are what I live day after day? So it's understandable that my father would not choose as a diversion to watch a TV program about his profession. Quite frankly, I would wonder even more about his sanity than I already do if he did choose to watch medical dramas and sitcoms. It's his reason for avoiding them and complaining when anyone else chooses to watch them that utterly baffles me. My father refuses to watch TV programs in hospital settings because they're not realistic!!! Did you get that bombshell? TV dramas and sitcoms aren't true-to-life in every detail. Remember, you read it here first.
Just so the significance of my dad's issue with medical dramas and sitcom is not lost, allow me to be more specific. My dad absolutely detests House -- both the character and the program. It seems that it wasn't realistic enough for him. Let's take the premise of House for starters. A university hospital decides to have a multimillion-dollar diagnostics department in which at least four doctors (except for the time when all Dr, House's underlings quit on him and he was forced to provide diagnoses with only the assistance of a hospital janitor) and God knows how many nurses and technicians work for days at a time solving just one case involving just one patient. The title character breaks virtually every known hospital policy on almost an hourly basis. House is a consummate ass who treats almost everyone deplorably, yet his shortcomings are forgiven because he nearly always comes up with the solution to each week's patient's health crisis just in the nick of time before the patient dies. (Just to keep the show from being too formulaic, every once in awhile a patient dies, then House comes up with the solution.) He's essentially a psychopath. Bad science attempts to masquerade as bona fide medicine. (A protozoan is not a fungus. Even Jesse Spencer knows that!) Nothing about this show relates in any way to the real world of medicine. And I haven't even touched upon the season when House assembled an entire room full of doctors in a surreal reality-show like competition to determine who next could join his band of outlaw physicians. The show has (or had; it's final episode aired last spring) absolutely nothing to do with realism or with the actual world of medicine, diagnostic or otherwise. People who watched it did so because the characters were compelling, the dialogue was clever and humorous, and the plot, though incredibly far-fetched, was intriguing. Enough said.
So my father is not content simply to stay away from the TV when House is on, but rather, takes his vendetta against House, Grey's Anatomy, or even old Dr. Kildare reruns, to a level that can best be described as rabid evangelical extremism. He's like the leader of the al-Qaeda of TV Medical Programming Reality. I've seen him attempting to having a rational discussion with a two-year-old about how a resident physician would never have time for so much adulterous sex as is portrayed on Grey's Anatomy. (No one else but my ex-boyfriend's baby brother would listen to him.) He practically foams at the mouth if forced to remain in the room while an episode of Scrubs airs.
So one would be justified in assuming that my dad has an aversion to any programming whatsoever in which the subject matter is portrayed with anything but the utmost technical accuracy. I might have thought so as well, but I've seen the man sitting on the edge of the sofa, gazing at the screen in practically a hypnotic state, shoving popcorn into his mouth as Superman throws down boulders to create a makeshift dam when an earthquake destroys the existing one, or flies at the speed of light against the Earth's orbital direction in order to reverse time so that Lois Lane's death can be undone. It's truly mind-boggling and more than just a little bit scary that a man charged with decoding the mysteries of blood and lymphatic malignancies can be entertained with such mindless drivel.
Good night, all, and remember that it's only one-hundred-twenty-three days until election day.
Even though I wasn't the one who chose the movie and wasn't actually watching it with any genuine interest, I'm still slightly embarrassed to admit what the movie was, but it's hard to explain from where I'm coming without divulging the title of the movie, so I'll share. My dad was watching Superman, and I actually watched the last portion of it with him. It's hard to even concentrate on what's happening on the screen anyway with that particular movie, because it features the late Christopher Reeve. I for one cannot watch a movie with Christopher Reeve in it without becoming extremely depressed about the poor guy becoming a quadriplegic and then dying, and then his wife dying of cancer, leaving behind a little kid. Then if Christopher reeve were not depressing enough, there's poor Margo Kidder playing Lois Lane. Ms. Kidder had and possibly continues to have major mental health issues that have ravaged her quality of life.
But I digress. Depressing stories of the movie's actors notwithstanding, I must return to the original point of this post, which is that Superman was one of the most asinine movies ever made, yet my father took it all in as though he was having some sort of a religious experience. It could have been Saving Private Ryan or Dr. Zhivago when considering the intensity with which he viewed the movie. Even though no one else was present to witness the spectacle, I was positively embarrassed for my father, and by extension, for myself.
My father refuses to watch TV medical dramas or sitcoms. This is all perfectly fine. He's ensconced in the inner workings of the medical field all day long during every work day, much as I am ensconced in a rather dysfunctional family all day long when I am not in school and in an incompetent school system when I am at school. Why in hell would I want to watch TV dramas or sitcoms about dysfunctional families or incompetent educational institutions when those are what I live day after day? So it's understandable that my father would not choose as a diversion to watch a TV program about his profession. Quite frankly, I would wonder even more about his sanity than I already do if he did choose to watch medical dramas and sitcoms. It's his reason for avoiding them and complaining when anyone else chooses to watch them that utterly baffles me. My father refuses to watch TV programs in hospital settings because they're not realistic!!! Did you get that bombshell? TV dramas and sitcoms aren't true-to-life in every detail. Remember, you read it here first.
Just so the significance of my dad's issue with medical dramas and sitcom is not lost, allow me to be more specific. My dad absolutely detests House -- both the character and the program. It seems that it wasn't realistic enough for him. Let's take the premise of House for starters. A university hospital decides to have a multimillion-dollar diagnostics department in which at least four doctors (except for the time when all Dr, House's underlings quit on him and he was forced to provide diagnoses with only the assistance of a hospital janitor) and God knows how many nurses and technicians work for days at a time solving just one case involving just one patient. The title character breaks virtually every known hospital policy on almost an hourly basis. House is a consummate ass who treats almost everyone deplorably, yet his shortcomings are forgiven because he nearly always comes up with the solution to each week's patient's health crisis just in the nick of time before the patient dies. (Just to keep the show from being too formulaic, every once in awhile a patient dies, then House comes up with the solution.) He's essentially a psychopath. Bad science attempts to masquerade as bona fide medicine. (A protozoan is not a fungus. Even Jesse Spencer knows that!) Nothing about this show relates in any way to the real world of medicine. And I haven't even touched upon the season when House assembled an entire room full of doctors in a surreal reality-show like competition to determine who next could join his band of outlaw physicians. The show has (or had; it's final episode aired last spring) absolutely nothing to do with realism or with the actual world of medicine, diagnostic or otherwise. People who watched it did so because the characters were compelling, the dialogue was clever and humorous, and the plot, though incredibly far-fetched, was intriguing. Enough said.
So my father is not content simply to stay away from the TV when House is on, but rather, takes his vendetta against House, Grey's Anatomy, or even old Dr. Kildare reruns, to a level that can best be described as rabid evangelical extremism. He's like the leader of the al-Qaeda of TV Medical Programming Reality. I've seen him attempting to having a rational discussion with a two-year-old about how a resident physician would never have time for so much adulterous sex as is portrayed on Grey's Anatomy. (No one else but my ex-boyfriend's baby brother would listen to him.) He practically foams at the mouth if forced to remain in the room while an episode of Scrubs airs.
So one would be justified in assuming that my dad has an aversion to any programming whatsoever in which the subject matter is portrayed with anything but the utmost technical accuracy. I might have thought so as well, but I've seen the man sitting on the edge of the sofa, gazing at the screen in practically a hypnotic state, shoving popcorn into his mouth as Superman throws down boulders to create a makeshift dam when an earthquake destroys the existing one, or flies at the speed of light against the Earth's orbital direction in order to reverse time so that Lois Lane's death can be undone. It's truly mind-boggling and more than just a little bit scary that a man charged with decoding the mysteries of blood and lymphatic malignancies can be entertained with such mindless drivel.
Good night, all, and remember that it's only one-hundred-twenty-three days until election day.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Last One In Is a Romney
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Last One In Is a Romney: For the first time since my auto accident I'm going swimming today. Actually, to say that i will swim is a bit of a Romneyization [lie]. I ...
The Last One In Is a Romney
For the first time since my auto accident I'm going swimming. Actually, to say that I will swim is a bit of a Romneyization [ read lie]. I will unwrap my various wrappings designed to protect my now-healing broken bones and will very gingerly make my way down the pool steps into the water, where I will stand in the shallow end and hope that no one bothers me.
This is a sharp contrast to the period following my bone-breaking track and field accident of two or so odd years ago. Following that accident, my entire leg, from hip to toe, was encasted in a hideous preponderance of plaster. The only time I was allowed within falling distance of a pool was the day before any given cast was to be removed and replaced. Even then, the cast-encrusted leg had to be secured in multiple layers of protective plastic.
I haven't yet been allowed into the pool because of my surgery, necessitated by rib #12, which, when fractured in the auto collision, decided to exact its own revenge by attacking nearest entity, which happened to be my right kidney. Yesterday my surgeon said that there's no good reason I can't immerse myself in the pool as long as I don't actually do anything while I'm in there. Today I'm going in.
Respite from the heat isn't nearly the issue that it was two yeas ago when I lived in the Sacramento Valley, which is hotter than hell itself on a day when God is especially pissed off at the Sons of Perdition. Here on California's central coast, temperatures are normally in the mild range. Still, in California, swimming in summer is a right, not a privilege, denied only to penal system inmates and Mormon missionaries. Since I'm neither, I will swim today. The last one in's a Romney!
This is a sharp contrast to the period following my bone-breaking track and field accident of two or so odd years ago. Following that accident, my entire leg, from hip to toe, was encasted in a hideous preponderance of plaster. The only time I was allowed within falling distance of a pool was the day before any given cast was to be removed and replaced. Even then, the cast-encrusted leg had to be secured in multiple layers of protective plastic.
I haven't yet been allowed into the pool because of my surgery, necessitated by rib #12, which, when fractured in the auto collision, decided to exact its own revenge by attacking nearest entity, which happened to be my right kidney. Yesterday my surgeon said that there's no good reason I can't immerse myself in the pool as long as I don't actually do anything while I'm in there. Today I'm going in.
Respite from the heat isn't nearly the issue that it was two yeas ago when I lived in the Sacramento Valley, which is hotter than hell itself on a day when God is especially pissed off at the Sons of Perdition. Here on California's central coast, temperatures are normally in the mild range. Still, in California, swimming in summer is a right, not a privilege, denied only to penal system inmates and Mormon missionaries. Since I'm neither, I will swim today. The last one in's a Romney!
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Got Rhythm?
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Got Rhythm?: I'm not sure how to express what I'm trying to say in a way that is entirely politically correct, so I'll dispense with PC considerations fo...
Got Rhythm?
I'm not sure how to express what I'm trying to say in a way that is entirely politically correct, so I'll dispense with PC considerations for the moment and just say it. My brother and I dance much the way black people do. It's a bit odd that we both do, as we're obviously not identical twins. My dad says maybe Irish genes can match up perfectly with French Canadian genes to produce this ability. My mom says she has no idea from where it came.
Our parents first noticed it when we were very young. Little kids sometimes spontaneously dance to music. We were our parents' first children to make it past the neonate stage; they say they thought little of it when they saw us dancing. A black colleague of my dad's saw us once and observed that it was a bit unusual.
I participated in gymnastics from the time I did the "Mommy and Me" classes as an almost-two-year-old until I was nearly eleven. No one really talked to me about it, but my mom told me that people who saw me performing my gymnastics routines used to assume out loud that I was bi-racial, presumably because I had wildly curly hair and rhythm. It doesn't really show in my profile photo, but my lips were and are are at least moderately full. My skin is fair, but when I was little I tanned to a reasonably dark shade in the summer. On the balance beam, and in floor exercises even more so, the natural ease of my movements led spectators to assume I had a racial advantage.
Matthew, on the other hand, didn't have overly curly hair. He just had rhythm. No one, to the best of my knowledge, ever assumed he was bi-racial. He looked and still looks like a northern European. (He strongly resembles our French Canadian father.) When we were tiny, we would get down to whatever music was playing on the stereo. My parents neither encouraged nor discouraged it. We just danced.
When Matthew and I were in second grade, our teacher noticed our unusual ability and entered us in the school talent show. We did some sort of Ike and Tina Turner impersonation that I suspect was incredibly culturally insensitive, but it wasn't our fault; we were just doing as we were told. I can remember the audience, including many parents, laughing hysterically at us. I certainly hope there were no black people present to be offended.
The concept of "having rhythm" is a bit vague and not terribly well understood. It's really not totally about rhythm, as a classically trained musician certainly understands rhythm, beat, and related concepts, yet often does not dance innately in the way that my brother and I do. It's not even necessarily about physical coordination either, as athletes who are also musicians don't necessarily possess innate skill at dancing. I've read research offering different theories as to what enables a person to dance in the natural and flowing way that many but certainly not all black people dance. No real consensus exists, but several researchers hypothesize that it happens at the subconscious level of brain activity and may be related to the brain's ability to disconnect from the movements the body makes. This makes sense in regard to my brother, as his brain very often seems to be disconnected.
I didn't go to lots of high school dances, but when I did go, I spent much of my time there dancing with African-American boys. I noticed that my brother danced mostly with African -American girls. (He said that they asked him to dance.) When I attended a Utah prom for the past two years, two black male students were present. When I danced with the others, I mostly danced the way they did as I did not wish to attract undue attention. When one of the two African-American males present asked me to dance, I danced a little more in the way that is natural to me because he was dancing that way as well. For the rest of the dance (except for the very last dance, which I danced with my date) I alternated between the two African-American boys and a couple of Tongan boys, who also typically "have rhythm" more than do the average Caucasians. Other prom attendees gawked a bit. The prom was much the same the next year except that the other "rhythm people" and I found each other more quickly because we already knew each other from the previous year.
My paternal grandparents and many relatives live in Utah -- some very near the school whose prom I attended. The Utah County rumor mill was operating in full force on prom night. Before long after my first Utah prom, my father received a telephone call from his father. My grandfather dispensed with pleasantries. He got right to the point of letting my father know that I had disgraced him by dancing like a black person. He didn't say "black person" when he conveyed his message to my father. My dad hung up on him because there are words he refuses to hear either on the phone or in person. This spring the scene more or less repeated itself.
What is so humiliating or scandalous about one's granddaughter dancing in a particularly rhythmic manner? I didn't grope myself or make indecent gestures or body contact with my dancing partners. I don't do that sort of thing anyway, but anyone at the dance who did have inappropriate contact was asked to leave. I wasn't even warned, because nothing I did was in any way inappropriate. My only regret is that my brother was not also in attendance at the prom. Then there could have been two of us disgracing my grandfather.
P. S. I've never seen Mitt Romney dance, but I doubt that he dances in the manner in which my brother and I dance. He's probably more into the fox trot or some similarly antiquated move.
Our parents first noticed it when we were very young. Little kids sometimes spontaneously dance to music. We were our parents' first children to make it past the neonate stage; they say they thought little of it when they saw us dancing. A black colleague of my dad's saw us once and observed that it was a bit unusual.
I participated in gymnastics from the time I did the "Mommy and Me" classes as an almost-two-year-old until I was nearly eleven. No one really talked to me about it, but my mom told me that people who saw me performing my gymnastics routines used to assume out loud that I was bi-racial, presumably because I had wildly curly hair and rhythm. It doesn't really show in my profile photo, but my lips were and are are at least moderately full. My skin is fair, but when I was little I tanned to a reasonably dark shade in the summer. On the balance beam, and in floor exercises even more so, the natural ease of my movements led spectators to assume I had a racial advantage.
Matthew, on the other hand, didn't have overly curly hair. He just had rhythm. No one, to the best of my knowledge, ever assumed he was bi-racial. He looked and still looks like a northern European. (He strongly resembles our French Canadian father.) When we were tiny, we would get down to whatever music was playing on the stereo. My parents neither encouraged nor discouraged it. We just danced.
When Matthew and I were in second grade, our teacher noticed our unusual ability and entered us in the school talent show. We did some sort of Ike and Tina Turner impersonation that I suspect was incredibly culturally insensitive, but it wasn't our fault; we were just doing as we were told. I can remember the audience, including many parents, laughing hysterically at us. I certainly hope there were no black people present to be offended.
The concept of "having rhythm" is a bit vague and not terribly well understood. It's really not totally about rhythm, as a classically trained musician certainly understands rhythm, beat, and related concepts, yet often does not dance innately in the way that my brother and I do. It's not even necessarily about physical coordination either, as athletes who are also musicians don't necessarily possess innate skill at dancing. I've read research offering different theories as to what enables a person to dance in the natural and flowing way that many but certainly not all black people dance. No real consensus exists, but several researchers hypothesize that it happens at the subconscious level of brain activity and may be related to the brain's ability to disconnect from the movements the body makes. This makes sense in regard to my brother, as his brain very often seems to be disconnected.
I didn't go to lots of high school dances, but when I did go, I spent much of my time there dancing with African-American boys. I noticed that my brother danced mostly with African -American girls. (He said that they asked him to dance.) When I attended a Utah prom for the past two years, two black male students were present. When I danced with the others, I mostly danced the way they did as I did not wish to attract undue attention. When one of the two African-American males present asked me to dance, I danced a little more in the way that is natural to me because he was dancing that way as well. For the rest of the dance (except for the very last dance, which I danced with my date) I alternated between the two African-American boys and a couple of Tongan boys, who also typically "have rhythm" more than do the average Caucasians. Other prom attendees gawked a bit. The prom was much the same the next year except that the other "rhythm people" and I found each other more quickly because we already knew each other from the previous year.
My paternal grandparents and many relatives live in Utah -- some very near the school whose prom I attended. The Utah County rumor mill was operating in full force on prom night. Before long after my first Utah prom, my father received a telephone call from his father. My grandfather dispensed with pleasantries. He got right to the point of letting my father know that I had disgraced him by dancing like a black person. He didn't say "black person" when he conveyed his message to my father. My dad hung up on him because there are words he refuses to hear either on the phone or in person. This spring the scene more or less repeated itself.
What is so humiliating or scandalous about one's granddaughter dancing in a particularly rhythmic manner? I didn't grope myself or make indecent gestures or body contact with my dancing partners. I don't do that sort of thing anyway, but anyone at the dance who did have inappropriate contact was asked to leave. I wasn't even warned, because nothing I did was in any way inappropriate. My only regret is that my brother was not also in attendance at the prom. Then there could have been two of us disgracing my grandfather.
P. S. I've never seen Mitt Romney dance, but I doubt that he dances in the manner in which my brother and I dance. He's probably more into the fox trot or some similarly antiquated move.
Monday, July 2, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Surrogate Motherhood: Another Career Options
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Surrogate Motherhood: Another Career Option: When it comes to career objectives, I admit to being more than a bit capricious. Yesterday I wanted to be a bail bondswoman with an agenda. ...
Surrogate Motherhood: Another Career Option
When it comes to career objectives, I admit to being more than a bit capricious. Yesterday I wanted to be a bail bondswoman with an agenda. I haven't entirely given up on that plan in the sixteen or so hours since I hatched it, but I do have another scheme in the works just in case being the bail bondswoman of the people, by the people, and for the people does not pan out for me. I made it a point to get up in time to have breakfast with my dad so I could share my thoughts with him before he went to work. Getting his day off to a nice start seemed like the very least I could do for the man who does so much for me.
My new plan, in case you have not already deduced it, is to become a surrogate mother. Most of my plans have ways to utilize the law degree I plan to earn in addition to performing the public service that I feel so strongly compelled to provide. I cannot help it. I was born with an altruistic streak, and serving my fellow human beings is akin to breathing for me. Some of us are just inherently good in that regard.
I haven't thoroughly investigated all the laws pertaining to surrogacy. That is another thing I plan to save for law school. If I learn everything there is to know right now, I'll have to twiddle my thumbs and daydream for my entire three years of law school attendance. Such would be a colossal waste of time.
I am up on one aspect of the law as it pertains to surrogacy in nearly all if not all states of the U. S. Surrogacy contracts, it seems, are null and void if a child is conceived through intercourse. That presents a huge problem for me, as I plan to conceive virtually every one of my surrogacy products through the tried-and-true method, otherwise known as sexual intercourse. Test tubes, petri dishes, turkey basters, and all the other paraphernalia related to surrogacy whether through artificial insemination or in vitro fertilization just seems somehow wrong to me. In some cases, it seems too sterile. In other cases, it doesn't seem quite sterile enough. In either case, I want no part of it. These little projects of mine are all going to be conceived the way God intended them to be. Even the Holy Roman Catholic Church, of which I am a member, backs me up on this one.
I have a slight problem with natural conception if I want to start any time soon. Inasmuch (Great word, huh? My LDS relatives have difficulty falling asleep at night unless they work it into their conversations at least four times each day) as this falls under the broad category of too much information, There's no delicate yet clear way of sharing this, so I'll just come out with it: I have not yet reached the physical developmental milestones that would allow me to conceive offspring naturally. With hormone supplementation, can a female sustain and carry an implanted embryo to term? I certainly hope so, because time is of the essence here. I may not be able to wait until all of this is a physical feasibility for me.
As you can imagine, my most recetly hatched plans made for some rather fascinating breakfast conversation this morning. In any discussion of my future plans, my father always starts out breathing slowly and closing his eyes. He's practicing some sort of self-hypnosis technique that he learned a couple of years ago in a blood pressure seminar. It never works. He next opens his mouth and explodes. This morning was no exception.
"Alexis, why must you waste my time with such nonsense?" my dad roared. "I'm working with Bcl11b tumor suppresor alleles this morning. I don't need to be thinking about your foolishness!"
"Bcl11b tumor suppresor alleles! Why didn't you just say so in the first place? Never mind. You sit there and think about Bcl11b tumor suppressor alleles. I'll talk to Uncle Michael." I turned to my Uncle Michael, who was attempting to suppress a grin.
Meanwhile, in wandered my twin brother, in his usual persistent vegetative state, awakened by my father's shouting, and motivated to get out of bed by the smell of food. The rest of the world could be fighting over who gets to occupy the limited space in underground shelters designed to protect inhabitants from devastation of the planet by meteors. Matthew would still be more concerned about his next meal. He shoved a handful of bacon into his mouth and sat down at the table.
I turned to Uncle Michael , who is, like my father, an MD. Even if his specialty is far removed from fertility, he must have learned something in medical school. "So, " I asked my uncle, "Is it physiologically possible for a female who has not yet experienced menarche to be successfully implanted with an embryo and to carry the embryo, fetus, or whatever you want to call it, to term?"
"Hmm," he replied, demonstarting the articulacy for which my dad's side of the family is known. (When in doubt, say, "Hmm.".) He pondered, resting his chin in his hand. "I'm not exactly sure why anyone would want to, but with hormone supplementation, it can be done."
"Hitler did it," my brother added. For some inexplicable reason, my brother knows more about Adolf Hitler than would normally be considered healthy. Why this is so is anyone's guess, as my brother neither admires nor hates Hitler any more than does the average person.
"Who cares what Hitler did!" my dad shouted. "Alexis, you're not having in vitro fertilization and you're not getting involved in surrogacy. Now shut the hell up!"
"Dad, I don't have to have sex with anyone until I turn eighteen, if that's what you're worried about," I said in my most placating manner.
"That's the least of my concerns," he muttered.
I gave him my biggest, brightest smile. "Thank you, Daddy!" I exclaimed as my mother entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. My father stared straight ahead, dumbfounded.
"What are you so happy about at this hour?" my mom asked, eyes still half-closed, as she stuck a piece of raisin bread into the toaster.
"Dad said I don't have to wait until I'm eighteen to have sex!" I answered.
"John!" my mother said reprovingly, suddenly awake.
"That's not what I said," my dad stated flatly, holding his forehead in his hands as he stared at the now-congealed fried eggs on his plate.
"I wouldn't worry about it anyway," my brother chimed in. "She doesn't even have a boyfriend anymore."
My brother has a way of saying incredibly thoughtless things without the remotest intention of being unkind.
My recent breakup was and continues to be a sensitive issue.
"Thank you so effing much, Matthew," I spat, tossing a grape at him as I got up from the table. Matthew caught the grape and shoved it into his mouth. All roads lead to eating for Matthew.
"I'm going to type up my contracts now," I announced, walking into the living room. It would have been more climactic to retreat to my bedroom, but I can't make it upstairs on my own yet, and asking for a lift would have killed the dramatic irony of the moment. Uncle Michael winked at me as I walked past him.
"What contracts? " my mom asked as she spread cream cheese on her toasted raisin bread.
"She wants to be a surrogate mother," my brother told her.
"Alexis, you are so full of b. s. that it hurts," my mom hollered out to me.
Thanks so much to Ambyland for the career advice.
A note to readers: I was seriously considering making this blog a Mitt Romney-free zone, but there is just so much to be said and so little time in which to say it. After this post, I will endeavor to find a way to include Mitt Romney in every blog, if feasible, until the election. Lest we forget. (In this particular sense, I have no clue what that means, but I really like the way it sounds.)
My new plan, in case you have not already deduced it, is to become a surrogate mother. Most of my plans have ways to utilize the law degree I plan to earn in addition to performing the public service that I feel so strongly compelled to provide. I cannot help it. I was born with an altruistic streak, and serving my fellow human beings is akin to breathing for me. Some of us are just inherently good in that regard.
I haven't thoroughly investigated all the laws pertaining to surrogacy. That is another thing I plan to save for law school. If I learn everything there is to know right now, I'll have to twiddle my thumbs and daydream for my entire three years of law school attendance. Such would be a colossal waste of time.
I am up on one aspect of the law as it pertains to surrogacy in nearly all if not all states of the U. S. Surrogacy contracts, it seems, are null and void if a child is conceived through intercourse. That presents a huge problem for me, as I plan to conceive virtually every one of my surrogacy products through the tried-and-true method, otherwise known as sexual intercourse. Test tubes, petri dishes, turkey basters, and all the other paraphernalia related to surrogacy whether through artificial insemination or in vitro fertilization just seems somehow wrong to me. In some cases, it seems too sterile. In other cases, it doesn't seem quite sterile enough. In either case, I want no part of it. These little projects of mine are all going to be conceived the way God intended them to be. Even the Holy Roman Catholic Church, of which I am a member, backs me up on this one.
I have a slight problem with natural conception if I want to start any time soon. Inasmuch (Great word, huh? My LDS relatives have difficulty falling asleep at night unless they work it into their conversations at least four times each day) as this falls under the broad category of too much information, There's no delicate yet clear way of sharing this, so I'll just come out with it: I have not yet reached the physical developmental milestones that would allow me to conceive offspring naturally. With hormone supplementation, can a female sustain and carry an implanted embryo to term? I certainly hope so, because time is of the essence here. I may not be able to wait until all of this is a physical feasibility for me.
As you can imagine, my most recetly hatched plans made for some rather fascinating breakfast conversation this morning. In any discussion of my future plans, my father always starts out breathing slowly and closing his eyes. He's practicing some sort of self-hypnosis technique that he learned a couple of years ago in a blood pressure seminar. It never works. He next opens his mouth and explodes. This morning was no exception.
"Alexis, why must you waste my time with such nonsense?" my dad roared. "I'm working with Bcl11b tumor suppresor alleles this morning. I don't need to be thinking about your foolishness!"
"Bcl11b tumor suppresor alleles! Why didn't you just say so in the first place? Never mind. You sit there and think about Bcl11b tumor suppressor alleles. I'll talk to Uncle Michael." I turned to my Uncle Michael, who was attempting to suppress a grin.
Meanwhile, in wandered my twin brother, in his usual persistent vegetative state, awakened by my father's shouting, and motivated to get out of bed by the smell of food. The rest of the world could be fighting over who gets to occupy the limited space in underground shelters designed to protect inhabitants from devastation of the planet by meteors. Matthew would still be more concerned about his next meal. He shoved a handful of bacon into his mouth and sat down at the table.
I turned to Uncle Michael , who is, like my father, an MD. Even if his specialty is far removed from fertility, he must have learned something in medical school. "So, " I asked my uncle, "Is it physiologically possible for a female who has not yet experienced menarche to be successfully implanted with an embryo and to carry the embryo, fetus, or whatever you want to call it, to term?"
"Hmm," he replied, demonstarting the articulacy for which my dad's side of the family is known. (When in doubt, say, "Hmm.".) He pondered, resting his chin in his hand. "I'm not exactly sure why anyone would want to, but with hormone supplementation, it can be done."
"Hitler did it," my brother added. For some inexplicable reason, my brother knows more about Adolf Hitler than would normally be considered healthy. Why this is so is anyone's guess, as my brother neither admires nor hates Hitler any more than does the average person.
"Who cares what Hitler did!" my dad shouted. "Alexis, you're not having in vitro fertilization and you're not getting involved in surrogacy. Now shut the hell up!"
"Dad, I don't have to have sex with anyone until I turn eighteen, if that's what you're worried about," I said in my most placating manner.
"That's the least of my concerns," he muttered.
I gave him my biggest, brightest smile. "Thank you, Daddy!" I exclaimed as my mother entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. My father stared straight ahead, dumbfounded.
"What are you so happy about at this hour?" my mom asked, eyes still half-closed, as she stuck a piece of raisin bread into the toaster.
"Dad said I don't have to wait until I'm eighteen to have sex!" I answered.
"John!" my mother said reprovingly, suddenly awake.
"That's not what I said," my dad stated flatly, holding his forehead in his hands as he stared at the now-congealed fried eggs on his plate.
"I wouldn't worry about it anyway," my brother chimed in. "She doesn't even have a boyfriend anymore."
My brother has a way of saying incredibly thoughtless things without the remotest intention of being unkind.
My recent breakup was and continues to be a sensitive issue.
"Thank you so effing much, Matthew," I spat, tossing a grape at him as I got up from the table. Matthew caught the grape and shoved it into his mouth. All roads lead to eating for Matthew.
"I'm going to type up my contracts now," I announced, walking into the living room. It would have been more climactic to retreat to my bedroom, but I can't make it upstairs on my own yet, and asking for a lift would have killed the dramatic irony of the moment. Uncle Michael winked at me as I walked past him.
"What contracts? " my mom asked as she spread cream cheese on her toasted raisin bread.
"She wants to be a surrogate mother," my brother told her.
"Alexis, you are so full of b. s. that it hurts," my mom hollered out to me.
Thanks so much to Ambyland for the career advice.
A note to readers: I was seriously considering making this blog a Mitt Romney-free zone, but there is just so much to be said and so little time in which to say it. After this post, I will endeavor to find a way to include Mitt Romney in every blog, if feasible, until the election. Lest we forget. (In this particular sense, I have no clue what that means, but I really like the way it sounds.)
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Inspired by Dog the Bounty Hunter, His Lovely Wif...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Inspired by Dog the Bounty Hunter, His Lovely Wif...: I have an idea about what I want to do with my life. It involves being a bail bondswoman, but there's more. My plan is this: I will bail c...
Inspired by Dog the Bounty Hunter, His Lovely Wife Beth, and Baby Lyssa: My New Career
I have an idea about what I want to do with my life. It involves being a bail bondswoman, but there's more.
My plan is this: I will bail criminals out of jail only if I think they're innocent. I'll use my law degree to defend them if I think they can get a fair trial. If I think the system is stacked against them, I'll help them escape to a nation from which they will not be extradited back to the U.S. Amnesty International may choose to be involved in my cause. I don't yet know which countries do not have extradition treaties with the U. S. I'll learn that in law school. It will be the first thing I've ever learned in school that had any practical value.
Then again, maybe i'll just look it up on Wikipedia.
One obvious complication to my plan is that it's going to be pretty damned expensive to post bail for these people then forfeit it when they go on the lam. I simply don't have that kind of money. I'm going to need a benefactor -- someone incredibly wealthy who believes in my cause. If I could work in cooperation with a church, my benefactor could give the money to the church, which could then hand it over to me. Then the benefactor could get, in addition to the feeling of doing a really good deed, a massive tax write-off. Any wealthy takers out there? Mitt Romney has a lot of money. Perhaps, generous soul that he is who always wants to help the underdog, Mitt will want to join forces with me.
Predictably, my dad thinks this is a terrible idea. He's very upset about it to the point that he's threatening not to pay my law school tuition. Everyone else just laughs about it.
Until I'm allowed to do something fun, I'm going to keep coming up with ideas every bit as brilliant as this one.
My plan is this: I will bail criminals out of jail only if I think they're innocent. I'll use my law degree to defend them if I think they can get a fair trial. If I think the system is stacked against them, I'll help them escape to a nation from which they will not be extradited back to the U.S. Amnesty International may choose to be involved in my cause. I don't yet know which countries do not have extradition treaties with the U. S. I'll learn that in law school. It will be the first thing I've ever learned in school that had any practical value.
Then again, maybe i'll just look it up on Wikipedia.
One obvious complication to my plan is that it's going to be pretty damned expensive to post bail for these people then forfeit it when they go on the lam. I simply don't have that kind of money. I'm going to need a benefactor -- someone incredibly wealthy who believes in my cause. If I could work in cooperation with a church, my benefactor could give the money to the church, which could then hand it over to me. Then the benefactor could get, in addition to the feeling of doing a really good deed, a massive tax write-off. Any wealthy takers out there? Mitt Romney has a lot of money. Perhaps, generous soul that he is who always wants to help the underdog, Mitt will want to join forces with me.
Predictably, my dad thinks this is a terrible idea. He's very upset about it to the point that he's threatening not to pay my law school tuition. Everyone else just laughs about it.
Until I'm allowed to do something fun, I'm going to keep coming up with ideas every bit as brilliant as this one.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Pageant Crack vs. Go Go Juice, and Miscellaneous C...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Pageant Crack vs. Go Go Juice, and Miscellaneous C...: Yesterday when my mother was chronicling her reasons why she didn't enter me (or my brother; let's not leave him out of this discussion sinc...
Pageant Crack vs. Go Go Juice, and Miscellaneous Continued Honey Boo Boo Child Discussion
Yesterday when my mother was chronicling her reasons why she didn't enter me (or my brother; let's not leave him out of this discussion since little boys are apparently not immune from the particular form of child abuse know as baby beauty pageant participation), I didn't share every single personal vendetta against the baby pageant system that she mentioned. My reasons for cutting her diatribe short are somewhat obvious: I would have been typing continuously since then and still be typing had I taken down every word she said. At one point last night I got sleepy, and my dad piggybacked me upstairs to my room. When I came back downstairs this morning, my mom was still ranting about the topic. I assume she, too, went to sleep somewhere along the line (she is wearing different clothing than what she was wearing yesterday )and hasn't been ranting continuously even though no one was here to listen, but I cannot be 100% certain.
Another sub-topic my mom addressed was the substances with which pageant parents, usually mothers, dope their children in order to ensure that the little angels are sufficiently energetic to be their generally precious selves, or at least to remain conscious throughout the long day of a typical baby beauty pageant.Trial and error have produced a few formulas for success. Hint to parents: If an activity lasts too long for your child to make it through the activity without a parent resorting to tactics he or she would otherwise deem not beneficial to a child's health, perhaps it is unwise to engage in said activity on anything resembling a regular basis.
The first substance is simple and to-the point: Exhibit A,otherwise known as the Pixie Stick. This retro-confectionary artifact, which consists of a paper straw (Pixie Stix are also sold, often in places like Little League concession stands, in larger plastic tubes) filled with a granulated fruit-flavored substance.This, ladies and gentlemen, is what is known as pageant crack. Essentially sugar in a relatively unadulterated form, a pinch of flavoring and a few preservatives are thrown into the mix. It has the advantage of being able to be poured into a child's mouth relatively neatly, with little mess either to a child's makeup or clothing. (Imagine the potential disaster of a kid eating a Snickers bar in full pageant regalia.) Pixie Stix would probably be a worthwhile addition to the medicine cabinet of anyone with a diabetic immediate family member, as the practically pure glucose could be ingested quickly in the event of insulin reaction or similar low blood sugar crisis. What a close family member of a diabetic also knows, however, is that with the ingestion of essentially pure table sugar, blood sugar levels plummet almost as rapidly as they spike. To avoid the crash following the sugar high, pageant crack must be consumed all day long. The only clear winner in such a scenario, in addition to the manufacturer and stockholders of Pixie Stix, is the child's dentist.
The second nutritional/pharmacological supplement has come to be known as Go Go Juice. The term Go Go Juice was actually coined by Honey Boo Boo Child's mother, who likewise developed her own unique formula or recipe, but other drinks consumed by pageant contestants for the same purpose have come to be called by the same name. Go Go Juice as prepared by June, the mother of Honey Boo Boo Child, consists of a twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew (minus a few sips from June to allow the concoction to fit in its container) combined with a can of Red Bull. The kid is getting massive doses of primarily sugar and caffeine.When Honey Boo Boo Child sips the concoction, she instantly begins to behave even more bizarrely than her ordinarily bizarre behaviour, spinning on her stomach, running in circles, and spouting gibberish. Her blood glucose levels cannot possibly have been so quickly elevated to the degree that physiological changes could account for such drastic behavior changes. A placebo effect is in play. Honey Boo Boo Child believes she is expected to react in such a way to the vile concoction.
My mom, who holds a doctorate in psychology and is a licensed school psychologist, questions the degree to which sugar causes extreme hyperactivity in most children. She's read a lot of research on the topic, and maintains that almost all of us would be dead if the human body didn't have a greater ability to deal with sugar intake than is supposed by many people. She's not advocating massive sugar intake; sugar provides lots of calories and not much else, and it's terrible for one's teeth. She's merely saying that it doesn't cause a kid to behave the way Honey Boo Boo Child child acts seconds after downing her mom's energy formula.
My mom likes to use the example of the time she provided sugarless snack foods for a kindergarten class's Valentine's Day party. (She didn't give them apple wedges and wheat germ, because then they would have known they weren't being fed sugar, which would have ruined the experiment and ruined their party as well. She paid big bucks for fancy sugarless sweets that looked and tasted for all intents and purposes, at least to the immature palates of five-year-olds, just like the real thing.) The children, my mom said, were highly energized from the second the parents dropped them off that morning. The mere suggestion of a change in routine causes increased activity in many children. The high energy level continued throughout the day. Once the children began eating the party food in the afternoon, they could barely contain themselves. Their teacher tried containing them, but there was only one of her. The parents who attended the party did little to attempt to curb their own children's out-of-control behavior. They instead looked at each other and shook their heads knowingly. Children always bounce off the walls when they consume sugar was the consensus. Then my mom told them about the sugarless drinks and the sugar-free, gluten-free baked products.
My mom says her point was not that one shouldn't be concerned about children's sugar intake. Instead, her point was that inappropriate behavior should not be accepted because of the belief that it is caused by sugar.
I would very much like to be a fly on the wall of Honey Boo Boo Child's classroom. I would love to be wrong in this regard, but my instincts tell me that it's unlikely Honey Boo Boo Child is an especially attentive and compliant student. I hope I'm wrong, but I doubt it. The kid probably takes Little Debbie's snack cakes in her lunch, then bounces off the walls of the lunchroom. I wonder if she drinks Go Go Juice on school days. Perhaps we'll find out in Honey Boo Boo Child's new reality series, slated to debut in August.
I've rambled quite a bit here to the point that even I'm not totally sure anymore what my point was supposed to have been. If I have to sum it up, I suppose I'll go with the idea that baby beauty pageants are bad enough in and of themselves. .Add sugar and caffeine to them, and they're worse. If parents then excuse bad behavior, which is rampant in the pageants aired on Toddlers & Tiaras, for whatever reason they choose to excuse it, pageant participation becomes a prescription for disaster.
I don't often thank my parents, but I do wish to express my appreciation to them, regardless of their reasons, for not entering me in baby beauty pageants. God knows I'm screwed up enough as it is.
Another sub-topic my mom addressed was the substances with which pageant parents, usually mothers, dope their children in order to ensure that the little angels are sufficiently energetic to be their generally precious selves, or at least to remain conscious throughout the long day of a typical baby beauty pageant.Trial and error have produced a few formulas for success. Hint to parents: If an activity lasts too long for your child to make it through the activity without a parent resorting to tactics he or she would otherwise deem not beneficial to a child's health, perhaps it is unwise to engage in said activity on anything resembling a regular basis.
The first substance is simple and to-the point: Exhibit A,otherwise known as the Pixie Stick. This retro-confectionary artifact, which consists of a paper straw (Pixie Stix are also sold, often in places like Little League concession stands, in larger plastic tubes) filled with a granulated fruit-flavored substance.This, ladies and gentlemen, is what is known as pageant crack. Essentially sugar in a relatively unadulterated form, a pinch of flavoring and a few preservatives are thrown into the mix. It has the advantage of being able to be poured into a child's mouth relatively neatly, with little mess either to a child's makeup or clothing. (Imagine the potential disaster of a kid eating a Snickers bar in full pageant regalia.) Pixie Stix would probably be a worthwhile addition to the medicine cabinet of anyone with a diabetic immediate family member, as the practically pure glucose could be ingested quickly in the event of insulin reaction or similar low blood sugar crisis. What a close family member of a diabetic also knows, however, is that with the ingestion of essentially pure table sugar, blood sugar levels plummet almost as rapidly as they spike. To avoid the crash following the sugar high, pageant crack must be consumed all day long. The only clear winner in such a scenario, in addition to the manufacturer and stockholders of Pixie Stix, is the child's dentist.
The second nutritional/pharmacological supplement has come to be known as Go Go Juice. The term Go Go Juice was actually coined by Honey Boo Boo Child's mother, who likewise developed her own unique formula or recipe, but other drinks consumed by pageant contestants for the same purpose have come to be called by the same name. Go Go Juice as prepared by June, the mother of Honey Boo Boo Child, consists of a twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew (minus a few sips from June to allow the concoction to fit in its container) combined with a can of Red Bull. The kid is getting massive doses of primarily sugar and caffeine.When Honey Boo Boo Child sips the concoction, she instantly begins to behave even more bizarrely than her ordinarily bizarre behaviour, spinning on her stomach, running in circles, and spouting gibberish. Her blood glucose levels cannot possibly have been so quickly elevated to the degree that physiological changes could account for such drastic behavior changes. A placebo effect is in play. Honey Boo Boo Child believes she is expected to react in such a way to the vile concoction.
My mom, who holds a doctorate in psychology and is a licensed school psychologist, questions the degree to which sugar causes extreme hyperactivity in most children. She's read a lot of research on the topic, and maintains that almost all of us would be dead if the human body didn't have a greater ability to deal with sugar intake than is supposed by many people. She's not advocating massive sugar intake; sugar provides lots of calories and not much else, and it's terrible for one's teeth. She's merely saying that it doesn't cause a kid to behave the way Honey Boo Boo Child child acts seconds after downing her mom's energy formula.
My mom likes to use the example of the time she provided sugarless snack foods for a kindergarten class's Valentine's Day party. (She didn't give them apple wedges and wheat germ, because then they would have known they weren't being fed sugar, which would have ruined the experiment and ruined their party as well. She paid big bucks for fancy sugarless sweets that looked and tasted for all intents and purposes, at least to the immature palates of five-year-olds, just like the real thing.) The children, my mom said, were highly energized from the second the parents dropped them off that morning. The mere suggestion of a change in routine causes increased activity in many children. The high energy level continued throughout the day. Once the children began eating the party food in the afternoon, they could barely contain themselves. Their teacher tried containing them, but there was only one of her. The parents who attended the party did little to attempt to curb their own children's out-of-control behavior. They instead looked at each other and shook their heads knowingly. Children always bounce off the walls when they consume sugar was the consensus. Then my mom told them about the sugarless drinks and the sugar-free, gluten-free baked products.
My mom says her point was not that one shouldn't be concerned about children's sugar intake. Instead, her point was that inappropriate behavior should not be accepted because of the belief that it is caused by sugar.
I would very much like to be a fly on the wall of Honey Boo Boo Child's classroom. I would love to be wrong in this regard, but my instincts tell me that it's unlikely Honey Boo Boo Child is an especially attentive and compliant student. I hope I'm wrong, but I doubt it. The kid probably takes Little Debbie's snack cakes in her lunch, then bounces off the walls of the lunchroom. I wonder if she drinks Go Go Juice on school days. Perhaps we'll find out in Honey Boo Boo Child's new reality series, slated to debut in August.
I've rambled quite a bit here to the point that even I'm not totally sure anymore what my point was supposed to have been. If I have to sum it up, I suppose I'll go with the idea that baby beauty pageants are bad enough in and of themselves. .Add sugar and caffeine to them, and they're worse. If parents then excuse bad behavior, which is rampant in the pageants aired on Toddlers & Tiaras, for whatever reason they choose to excuse it, pageant participation becomes a prescription for disaster.
I don't often thank my parents, but I do wish to express my appreciation to them, regardless of their reasons, for not entering me in baby beauty pageants. God knows I'm screwed up enough as it is.
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Honey Boo Boo Child and Other Baby Beauty Pageant ...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Honey Boo Boo Child and Other Baby Beauty Pageant ...: Circumstances that have caused me distress in recent days have ye to be resolved in any way that would make things better for me, but I'm tr...
Honey Boo Boo Child and Other Baby Beauty Pageant Considerations
Circumstances that have caused me distress in recent days have yet to be resolved in any way that would make things better for me, but I'm trying hard not to think about unpleasant things right now. It would be easier to distract myself if I could dive or hurdle or para-sail, but those activities are frowned upon for patients recovering from kidney surgery, or for car accident victims whose broken bones have not yet healed. The only thing I really have to distract me now is television.
I've watched many truly low-brow TV programs in recent days. "Toddlers & Tiaras" is particularly riveting. Alana, the Honey Boo Boo Child, is a great source of distraction. I feel a bit guilty watching her and her unusual family, as TLC is clearly exploiting her family, but the family is the proverbial derailed train from which one can not avoid rubbernecking even though almost everyone watching knows how wrong it is to be entertained at the expense of a mother and child who don't know better than to expose their backwoods eccentricity on national television. Then again, maybe the joke's on those watching, as I understand that Honey Boo Boo Child will be featured on her own show. Alana and her mother June may be laughing their way to the nearest check-cashing business. At least with Honey Boo Boo child, I get the feeling that any really outrageous behavior on the part of either the child or the parent is as a result of lack of knowledge of a better way of conducting oneself. With other parents and children I've seen on "Toddlers & Tiaras," as stupid as some of them may be, most of them do know deep down that spending the rent money on pageants is just plain wrong; they may very well do it anyway, but they know it's wrong, just like they know it's wrong to amp their children up with mixtures heinous of caffeine and sugar, which they also do in spite of knowing better.
I asked my mom why she never entered me in a baby beauty pageant. I had to wait about five minutes for her to stop laughing before she could give me an answer. When she finally composed herself, she gave several reasons. For one thing my mother said, a successful baby beauty pageant contestant needs at least to be able to fake charm even if she doesn't actually possess it. I, according to my mother, would have walked onto the stage and stared the judges down with my signature devil child glare. (See my profile picture.) another reason my mother gave is that she refused to rot my teeth with Pixie Stix or whatever is in that odious mixture known euphemistically as Go Go juice.Furthermore, my mom said, my insistence as a child upon wearing clothing inside out because the seams irritated my sensitive skin would not have served me well as a baby beauty pageant kid. Penultimately, she said it would have cost me serious points in the competition when I corrected the pageant MC's English usage. And lastly, my mom said she was unwilling to expose either herself or me to any of the hideous epizootic pathogens that were certain to be lurking on any surface touched or even breathed upon by any of the pageant regulars. She also said she would have told me that I didn't have "the look," but she watched an episode of "Toddlers & Tiaras" recently that featured a child with dwarfism who did reasonably well in the competition. I was an undersized child, but I was conventionally proportioned. Besides, we all know that with enough fake hair and makeup, any child can have "the look."
All things considered, it's just as well not to have footage of oneself in something like a baby beauty pageant appearance stored away in a vault, potentially making its way to YouTube.
I've watched many truly low-brow TV programs in recent days. "Toddlers & Tiaras" is particularly riveting. Alana, the Honey Boo Boo Child, is a great source of distraction. I feel a bit guilty watching her and her unusual family, as TLC is clearly exploiting her family, but the family is the proverbial derailed train from which one can not avoid rubbernecking even though almost everyone watching knows how wrong it is to be entertained at the expense of a mother and child who don't know better than to expose their backwoods eccentricity on national television. Then again, maybe the joke's on those watching, as I understand that Honey Boo Boo Child will be featured on her own show. Alana and her mother June may be laughing their way to the nearest check-cashing business. At least with Honey Boo Boo child, I get the feeling that any really outrageous behavior on the part of either the child or the parent is as a result of lack of knowledge of a better way of conducting oneself. With other parents and children I've seen on "Toddlers & Tiaras," as stupid as some of them may be, most of them do know deep down that spending the rent money on pageants is just plain wrong; they may very well do it anyway, but they know it's wrong, just like they know it's wrong to amp their children up with mixtures heinous of caffeine and sugar, which they also do in spite of knowing better.
I asked my mom why she never entered me in a baby beauty pageant. I had to wait about five minutes for her to stop laughing before she could give me an answer. When she finally composed herself, she gave several reasons. For one thing my mother said, a successful baby beauty pageant contestant needs at least to be able to fake charm even if she doesn't actually possess it. I, according to my mother, would have walked onto the stage and stared the judges down with my signature devil child glare. (See my profile picture.) another reason my mother gave is that she refused to rot my teeth with Pixie Stix or whatever is in that odious mixture known euphemistically as Go Go juice.Furthermore, my mom said, my insistence as a child upon wearing clothing inside out because the seams irritated my sensitive skin would not have served me well as a baby beauty pageant kid. Penultimately, she said it would have cost me serious points in the competition when I corrected the pageant MC's English usage. And lastly, my mom said she was unwilling to expose either herself or me to any of the hideous epizootic pathogens that were certain to be lurking on any surface touched or even breathed upon by any of the pageant regulars. She also said she would have told me that I didn't have "the look," but she watched an episode of "Toddlers & Tiaras" recently that featured a child with dwarfism who did reasonably well in the competition. I was an undersized child, but I was conventionally proportioned. Besides, we all know that with enough fake hair and makeup, any child can have "the look."
All things considered, it's just as well not to have footage of oneself in something like a baby beauty pageant appearance stored away in a vault, potentially making its way to YouTube.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)