How I wish I were the type of journalist who worked on controversial material, because I'd love to sink my teeth (though not literally) into an expose regarding all the toys being recalled due to high amounts of lead.
Every time another release is sent out (like today's, courtesy of uber retailer Toys R Us), I'm forced to examine tons of my son's playthings. Is this contaminated? Is that manufactured during the period they mentioned on their website? Is this thing made in the right country?
My question is this: How hard can it be to ensure that lead isn't used in the manufacturing of kids' toys? Is quality assurance in the import/export business truly that difficult?
Of course, I shudder to think about how much lead I must have played around as a youngster.
I was born in 1971 and spent tons of time in houses with lead-based paint, I'm certain of it. That leads me to wonder whether there was any damage to my brain? (Those who don't care for me would rapidly answer that question.)
Would I be able to more effectively juggle my writing and day-to-day life if I hadn't been exposed to the toxin? I'd love to know, but the brain cells needed to answer that question probably breathed their last eons ago.
Fortunately, my son, who has tons of stuff that may or may not contain lead (who knows what tomorrow's press releases will say?), is amusing himself right now with a cardboard box that I fashioned into a house.
He's ripping off the "shutters", decorating the roof with stickers, and basically loving this bulky (but lead free!) item that's taking up part of the living room. ("Uh... honey... sorry about the mess... but it's better than having him play with lead-based crayons and paint!")
As long as box makers don't recall corrugated cardboard anytime soon, we'll probably be okay.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Got Soul?
I have always been intrigued by the notion of souls having an "age".
You know the deal--someone will point to a child and murmur, "He's an old soul." Without missing a beat, others in the room will cluck in agreement. (Are they really agreeing or just going along with the flow to sound more intellectual or knowledgeable?)
I don't know if I totally agree with the concept, and I'm not entirely comfortable with reincarnation (though it doesn't scare me), but I can say that when I look into the eyes of some individuals, I feel as though they've been on earth for a very long time.
Once, I worked with a gentleman who was, I believe, an ancient soul. Every time I talked with him, I sensed that I had known him a long time ago. And we had definitely never crossed paths in "this life." It wasn't a romantic type of connection; just a strange, indescribable relationship that felt centuries old. It almost made me uncomfortable to be around him, as if we weren't talking about something we were supposed to discuss. This was years ago, and I still find myself ruminating about it today.
I know it sounds crazy--believe me. But there's just this itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, yellow-polka-dot-bikini part of me that wants to believe it's true. (It would kind of be the ultimate in recycling; rather than dumping souls, we'd just reuse them time and again.)
Often, I feel like I don't quite belong in the generation to which I was born... could my soul be longing for a past era? Or am I simply using the idea to deal with my own fears of what lies beyond this world?
Tell me... have you ever contemplated this notion of an "old" soul (or a "new" soul)?
And now, I need more diet soda...
You know the deal--someone will point to a child and murmur, "He's an old soul." Without missing a beat, others in the room will cluck in agreement. (Are they really agreeing or just going along with the flow to sound more intellectual or knowledgeable?)
I don't know if I totally agree with the concept, and I'm not entirely comfortable with reincarnation (though it doesn't scare me), but I can say that when I look into the eyes of some individuals, I feel as though they've been on earth for a very long time.
Once, I worked with a gentleman who was, I believe, an ancient soul. Every time I talked with him, I sensed that I had known him a long time ago. And we had definitely never crossed paths in "this life." It wasn't a romantic type of connection; just a strange, indescribable relationship that felt centuries old. It almost made me uncomfortable to be around him, as if we weren't talking about something we were supposed to discuss. This was years ago, and I still find myself ruminating about it today.
I know it sounds crazy--believe me. But there's just this itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, yellow-polka-dot-bikini part of me that wants to believe it's true. (It would kind of be the ultimate in recycling; rather than dumping souls, we'd just reuse them time and again.)
Often, I feel like I don't quite belong in the generation to which I was born... could my soul be longing for a past era? Or am I simply using the idea to deal with my own fears of what lies beyond this world?
Tell me... have you ever contemplated this notion of an "old" soul (or a "new" soul)?
And now, I need more diet soda...
Monday, August 27, 2007
Snippy McBippy
I'm in a snippy, snarky, snarly kind of mood due to lack of sleep combined with too many unexpected events getting in the way of my "expected" unexpected occurrences!
My routine has been disturbed, and I feel a little like a caged bear, ready to tear open the Lightning McQueen backpacks of the first cub scouts who dare to cross my path.
* Snarl. *
Funny thing is, I was feeling much worse before I finally gave in to my bad mood. Now that I'm joking about it, a grin is trying to make its way onto my pursed lips.
In retrospect, I think my real problem has been trying to swim against the tide of a sour humor. Instead of acknowledging it, I was building a wall against it... only to become seven times as irritated every time the wall came crashing down.
When I stopped resisting and embraced the truth of the matter, I felt much freer. I could actually float on top of my darkness instead of becoming submerged beneath it.
Ultimately, I'm not quite as biting any longer, which is fortunate for those in my life.
(But if I were a cub scout with a Disney-themed backpack, I'd still be wary of running into me.)
My routine has been disturbed, and I feel a little like a caged bear, ready to tear open the Lightning McQueen backpacks of the first cub scouts who dare to cross my path.
* Snarl. *
Funny thing is, I was feeling much worse before I finally gave in to my bad mood. Now that I'm joking about it, a grin is trying to make its way onto my pursed lips.
In retrospect, I think my real problem has been trying to swim against the tide of a sour humor. Instead of acknowledging it, I was building a wall against it... only to become seven times as irritated every time the wall came crashing down.
When I stopped resisting and embraced the truth of the matter, I felt much freer. I could actually float on top of my darkness instead of becoming submerged beneath it.
Ultimately, I'm not quite as biting any longer, which is fortunate for those in my life.
(But if I were a cub scout with a Disney-themed backpack, I'd still be wary of running into me.)
Saturday, August 25, 2007
It's not too late
"It's not too late!"
That's the phrase I desperately hope that my students hear.
As a modeling/acting instructor, I run across so very many who are struggling with low self-esteem. The result? Drug abuse. Self-mutilation. Eating disorders.
These are just kids by my standards as a thirty-five year old. Thirteen. Eighteen. Twenty-two. And though I want to remain professional, detached, I find it tough to do.
I want to shake them, explain: "You have years ahead of you! These times will pass... and you will survive unless you lose the will to live."
Unfortunately, I think a few of the kids I've encountered have lost that will. They just don't know it yet.
They are killing themselves... slowly... achingly slowly... with anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, cigarettes, illegal (and legal) substances, poor decisions.
When I muse about this too long, a little piece of me dies... and cries for the world.
That's the phrase I desperately hope that my students hear.
As a modeling/acting instructor, I run across so very many who are struggling with low self-esteem. The result? Drug abuse. Self-mutilation. Eating disorders.
These are just kids by my standards as a thirty-five year old. Thirteen. Eighteen. Twenty-two. And though I want to remain professional, detached, I find it tough to do.
I want to shake them, explain: "You have years ahead of you! These times will pass... and you will survive unless you lose the will to live."
Unfortunately, I think a few of the kids I've encountered have lost that will. They just don't know it yet.
They are killing themselves... slowly... achingly slowly... with anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, cigarettes, illegal (and legal) substances, poor decisions.
When I muse about this too long, a little piece of me dies... and cries for the world.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Exercise for the mind
I work out at a local gym about five times a week.
It keeps me somewhat sane and I know it has been invaluable to me as a writer.
I used to be a real couch potato until I realized in my mid-twenties that gym life was actually kind of cool. I don't take classes because I'm too stubborn and a bit of a non-conformist ("No one tells me when to kick! I'll kick when I like!"), but I love burning calories by working out (in a self-directed way) on machines. Afterwards, I pig out and don't feel too guilty about it.
I truly wish more literary artists took the time to care for their bodies as well as they care for their creations. I know many authors who lament that they sit all day; would that they could allow themselves the pleasure of daily walking or jogging breaks.
Not only does regular aerobic exercise increase your stamina (so you can handle a few nights of writing until 2:00 a.m. and then getting up five short hours later ), it also provides your mind with "free association" time. I often mentally "escape" during physical activity and when I return to my computer, I'm much more relaxed, inspired and refreshed.
And there's another upshot to staying healthy, especially for those of us who routinely hear some variation of: "No, your work isn't good enough." When you're super-duper-pooper-scooper pissed off, running and/or lifting weights gets out your aggression in a productive manner that you're not likely to regret.
If you aren't accustomed to treating yourself to the luxury of a little exercise, I invite you to start now.
Even if you hate the concept of "formally" working out, you probably like some type of heart-pumping activity, whether it's hiking, cycling or even kissing. (I read once that "heavy petting" sessions can burn calories... what an awesome excuse for some late-night necking! Back seat sex optional.)
Thoughts?
It keeps me somewhat sane and I know it has been invaluable to me as a writer.
I used to be a real couch potato until I realized in my mid-twenties that gym life was actually kind of cool. I don't take classes because I'm too stubborn and a bit of a non-conformist ("No one tells me when to kick! I'll kick when I like!"), but I love burning calories by working out (in a self-directed way) on machines. Afterwards, I pig out and don't feel too guilty about it.
I truly wish more literary artists took the time to care for their bodies as well as they care for their creations. I know many authors who lament that they sit all day; would that they could allow themselves the pleasure of daily walking or jogging breaks.
Not only does regular aerobic exercise increase your stamina (so you can handle a few nights of writing until 2:00 a.m. and then getting up five short hours later ), it also provides your mind with "free association" time. I often mentally "escape" during physical activity and when I return to my computer, I'm much more relaxed, inspired and refreshed.
And there's another upshot to staying healthy, especially for those of us who routinely hear some variation of: "No, your work isn't good enough." When you're super-duper-pooper-scooper pissed off, running and/or lifting weights gets out your aggression in a productive manner that you're not likely to regret.
If you aren't accustomed to treating yourself to the luxury of a little exercise, I invite you to start now.
Even if you hate the concept of "formally" working out, you probably like some type of heart-pumping activity, whether it's hiking, cycling or even kissing. (I read once that "heavy petting" sessions can burn calories... what an awesome excuse for some late-night necking! Back seat sex optional.)
Thoughts?
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Call me... we'll do lunch
There's something about this time of year that always reminds me of my back-to-school days in the Crustacean period (or thereabouts.)
Today, I starting reminiscing about the lunch boxes I had as a child. Two made such a huge impression on me as a child that I decided to seek out replicas of them online.
The first was a bright blue plastic Snoopy/Woodstock lunch box that I carried everywhere.
It was fabulous and made me feel very grown-up and sassy. Unfortunately, Todd W. dropped it (accidentally?) on the floor in fifth grade, rendering it useless from that day forward. He actually had a similar Peanuts-themed lunch box of his own, and I was furious that he didn't give me his as a replacement! I loved that lunch box. Heck, I'm still thinking about it with fondness over twenty-five years later! [insert sappy violin music]
Imagine my excitement when I found an exact replica of my long lost Snoopy lunch box on... where else?... eBay! Yes, you can purchase it here by being the highest bidder as of August 29th. Let me know if you win!
The second lunch box that stole my heart was a tacky Dukes of Hazzard model, shown here(thanks again, eBay!) Yes, it's a rotten piece of garbage with a crappy photo on the front, but I worshipped at the altar of that commercial thing and wanted so badly to become Daisy Duke so I could run around with Bo and Luke and wear short-shorts and high heels.
I don't recommend purchasing the Dukes lunch box, however; stick with Snoopy if you're going vintage.
In a related "the-more-things-change-the-more-they-stay-the-same" story, my four-year-old son has inherited from his Grandad a camouflage bag that's not really a lunch box, per se, but more of a "keep things cool/hot" storage container.
He's planning on bringing it with him to pre-K in a couple of weeks and stocking it nightly with goodies such as apples, bananas, yogurt, sandwiches and, most certainly, sugary treats.
I'm sure he'll remember his first lunch box wistfully when he's getting gray hairs and it's almost September.
Today, I starting reminiscing about the lunch boxes I had as a child. Two made such a huge impression on me as a child that I decided to seek out replicas of them online.
The first was a bright blue plastic Snoopy/Woodstock lunch box that I carried everywhere.
It was fabulous and made me feel very grown-up and sassy. Unfortunately, Todd W. dropped it (accidentally?) on the floor in fifth grade, rendering it useless from that day forward. He actually had a similar Peanuts-themed lunch box of his own, and I was furious that he didn't give me his as a replacement! I loved that lunch box. Heck, I'm still thinking about it with fondness over twenty-five years later! [insert sappy violin music]
Imagine my excitement when I found an exact replica of my long lost Snoopy lunch box on... where else?... eBay! Yes, you can purchase it here by being the highest bidder as of August 29th. Let me know if you win!
The second lunch box that stole my heart was a tacky Dukes of Hazzard model, shown here(thanks again, eBay!) Yes, it's a rotten piece of garbage with a crappy photo on the front, but I worshipped at the altar of that commercial thing and wanted so badly to become Daisy Duke so I could run around with Bo and Luke and wear short-shorts and high heels.
I don't recommend purchasing the Dukes lunch box, however; stick with Snoopy if you're going vintage.
In a related "the-more-things-change-the-more-they-stay-the-same" story, my four-year-old son has inherited from his Grandad a camouflage bag that's not really a lunch box, per se, but more of a "keep things cool/hot" storage container.
He's planning on bringing it with him to pre-K in a couple of weeks and stocking it nightly with goodies such as apples, bananas, yogurt, sandwiches and, most certainly, sugary treats.
I'm sure he'll remember his first lunch box wistfully when he's getting gray hairs and it's almost September.
Niceland, USA
Guess what?
I'm nice.
No, that's not me earnestly telling you about myself... that's me sarcastically reiterating what I'm told day after day. I'm nice. I'm "nice" to work with. I'm a "nice" person. I have a "nice" sense of style. My humor is "nice". My writing is "nice". I'm "nice" to be around.
Nice.
Blechh. That's about as interesting as a bowl of warm, unflavored gelatin.
I should be flattered, I suppose. I mean, at least the majority of people aren't calling me a Soul-Shredding She-Devil. (Wouldn't that be a cool blog name? Perhaps the title of a poem or short story? But I digress...)
There's just something about "nice" that's not... well... nice.
I think the problem is that the word "nice" doesn't intrinsically say anything. It's not exactly descriptive, is it?
Can you imagine how deflated your ego would be if, after what you considered a passionate lovemaking session, your partner smiled condescendingly and made the comment, "Oh. That was so... nice." Yeah. That would feel awesome.
On the other hand, I've been called worse. Much worse. And it felt crappy.
At those times, I would have given anything to hear, "You're nice," rather than some of the names that were hurled my way. (Incidentally, I'm too nice to repeat them here... just use your imagination and you'll probably come up with one or two.)
I suppose my real problem is that I don't believe I'm "nice" at all.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not evil. I'm not particularly nasty. I don't attack small animals for pleasure. But I'm not "nice". Certainly, I'm pleasant... I'm friendly... I'm understanding. Those are traits I've honed after living and working with humans (as opposed to aliens or fauna) for over 35 years.
At the same time, though, I'm extremely self-centered. I'm passive-aggressive. I'm sometimes even rude. Those monikers don't exactly shout "nice", do they?
Perhaps I unintentionally wear a "nice" masque? Or maybe people are just being nice when they tell me I'm nice, but they're really thinking, "My goodness--she's not nice at all!"
Who knows?
Nice.
Hrumph.
I'm nice.
No, that's not me earnestly telling you about myself... that's me sarcastically reiterating what I'm told day after day. I'm nice. I'm "nice" to work with. I'm a "nice" person. I have a "nice" sense of style. My humor is "nice". My writing is "nice". I'm "nice" to be around.
Nice.
Blechh. That's about as interesting as a bowl of warm, unflavored gelatin.
I should be flattered, I suppose. I mean, at least the majority of people aren't calling me a Soul-Shredding She-Devil. (Wouldn't that be a cool blog name? Perhaps the title of a poem or short story? But I digress...)
There's just something about "nice" that's not... well... nice.
I think the problem is that the word "nice" doesn't intrinsically say anything. It's not exactly descriptive, is it?
Can you imagine how deflated your ego would be if, after what you considered a passionate lovemaking session, your partner smiled condescendingly and made the comment, "Oh. That was so... nice." Yeah. That would feel awesome.
On the other hand, I've been called worse. Much worse. And it felt crappy.
At those times, I would have given anything to hear, "You're nice," rather than some of the names that were hurled my way. (Incidentally, I'm too nice to repeat them here... just use your imagination and you'll probably come up with one or two.)
I suppose my real problem is that I don't believe I'm "nice" at all.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not evil. I'm not particularly nasty. I don't attack small animals for pleasure. But I'm not "nice". Certainly, I'm pleasant... I'm friendly... I'm understanding. Those are traits I've honed after living and working with humans (as opposed to aliens or fauna) for over 35 years.
At the same time, though, I'm extremely self-centered. I'm passive-aggressive. I'm sometimes even rude. Those monikers don't exactly shout "nice", do they?
Perhaps I unintentionally wear a "nice" masque? Or maybe people are just being nice when they tell me I'm nice, but they're really thinking, "My goodness--she's not nice at all!"
Who knows?
Nice.
Hrumph.
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