The Crosswalk Man and Me

So first let me lay something out there. I don't like the terms "Feminist" and "Feminism". I find them to be divisive and aggressive, which is great if you want attention but less great if you want to solve problems.

That being said, I also don't believe that we have these huge insurmountable problems in America regarding women's rights and gender equality.

Let's be completely honest: we have come a long way, things ARE getting better, and the forefront of the fight isn't at the male and female divide anymore- the new bleeding edge of civil rights discussion is on gender identities/ sexuality. Gender identities! Something that people actually have to share openly in order to be discriminated against because of. I am sorry, but I really feel like society is in a place where the average Jolene has it way better than she used to- to the point where she isn't even the new hotness in civil rights anymore.

As a female, who identifies as a woman, who likes men, I speak from a place of hope. Hope and also determination that we as a society do not stop our progress toward gender equality.

I am a woman. That should not surprise anyone who might read this, because statistically, females make up more than half for the US population. We always have. We are a numerical majority. The reason I bring this up is because, thanks to seemingly infinite generations of Androcentric thought, our society is used to and complacent about the male normative.

It sounds so harmless, so superficial: Male normative. But it is the last vestige of a time long past when only men were allowed to be educated, to write, to make laws. It is a scar on our language, our art, our mindsets.

Androcentrism is the last line to cross toward gender equality.  As long as the resting point for Normal is Male, anything outside of male, anything that deviates from that norm, is at a mental disadvantage. Not male means less than normal. Imperfect. Not as good. Conversely, it holds those born with a mis-matching set of chromosomes to a higher standard- it places an imbalanced level of expectation on them. Equality is a math term, and where there is a greater than or a less than, there is- definitively- no equality.

A male reading this argument might find the idea of Androcentrism absurd, overblown, even. Heck, even some of you ladies out there might feel that way. That is fine, I would rather show than tell, anyway.

All I ask is that you pay attention when you look at the world around you. Who are the lead roles in movies and television series? Who are the supporting characters? When you see advertisements, how are men portrayed vs. women? Is the man in the center of the full page ad with a woman off to the side? Is she in the ad as a window dressing or a trophy or is she the focal point? Who is more appropriately dressed for the weather? Men in ads tend to dress for autumn while women are dressed for summer. Why is that? When you see books and toys targeting children, who are the protagonists? What are they doing? What are the children learning from them?

Who is the little person on the crosswalk sign? Isn't that the same guy on the Men's room door? Do only men cross streets? If all the people in the country crossed the street at once, there would be more lady crossers, and yet- there he is, a little crosswalk man.

I am not pushing some man hating agenda. I love men. They are often excellent humans. They mean well, and the ones who's opinions really matter are good people. I will say that men are often unaware of the constant state of gender bias- they will disbelievingly shake their heads and say "Nooooo, you are exaggerating. So what if the crosswalk guy is a guy? He has to be something! " 

The big picture is that the crosswalk guy is a signal- a message boiled down to the simplest possible terms. A single picture with a light behind it. And that single picture, naturally, was drawn in the "default" gender of our society.

The default is male. It just is. And the cross walk man is proof.

I am a woman. When I write or say that phrase, it probably comes with a flood of preconceptions and heuristics that are processed in your brain faster than you could even control.

But what if you could?

My suggestion is a little one. It is a petition to be conscious of your own thoughts.

If we all think: "Hm, interesting that I thought that; is it fair? Is it constructive?" when we encounter gender, then we can become conscious of our own trained in-bias and *hopefully* such a humbling experience can blossom into a rewiring of our brains where we think of each other as humans with unique traits rather than as "others" that may or may not succeed in fulfilling our societally proscribed expectations based on the internal or external location of their sex organs.

Here is a fun(?) exercise!

Rebecca is a woman.
From that statement, can you deduce any of the following:
A) Rebecca is sensitive.
B) Rebecca is bad at math.
C) Rebecca has breasts and/or a uterus.
D) None of the above.

Joshua is a man.
From that statement, can you deduce any of the following:
A) Joshua is physically stronger than most women.
B) Joshua hates shopping.
C) Joshua is the breadwinner in his household.
D) None of the above.

Alex is a person.
From that statement can you deduce any of the following:
A) Alex is a man.
B) Alex is a woman.
C) Alex is a highly intelligent shade of blue.
D) You can't really tell anything about Alex without knowing that person/ shade of blue.

In case you didn't figure it out with my heavy handed tricks, gender doesn't really tell you anything about a person. You have to know the person. So let's try to stop letting our preconceptions of gender roles and the pressure of an androcentric culture control our feelings about other humans. 

Let's respect men who are sensitive and warm.
Let's not call women with tough exteriors derogatory names.
Let's make an effort to be neutral in our assumptions and expectations.

Men can raise babies! Women can be power-hungry executives! Men are not inherently rapists and women are not asking to be raped when they dress sexy.

This isn't new copy, y'all.

We have seen it a million times just this year. I am hoping that maybe my perspective will be the one that makes sense to people who haven't quite gotten it yet.

Gender equality is a shared responsibility. Yes, it is an uphill battle, but if we all start by changing our minds, we can continue to change our lives.

Thanks for reading. I hope you have a great day.

Har-ween: My favorite childhood holiday

I grew up in Okinawa,  Japan.  Not on base,  not just for a couple of years.  I was there from before the start of First Grade until halfway through my Junior year of high school.  I lived out "on the economy"  and attended off-base schools.  I loved it. 

My favorite holiday was ALWAYS Halloween,  and not because of the candy.  I usually ended up eating my Reeses Peanut Butter cups and Almond Joys,  trading the rest away for gum,  and then squirreling the gum away for years until it turned into amorphous, pinkish, fossils. 

I loved Halloween for the morbidness, the dark festivity,  the costumes,  the nocturnalness,  and the Scandal. 

By Scandal I mean that I went to private school and there was always much hullabaloo over whether "practicing"  Halloween was Satanic or not.  Well, Jurassic Park and pokemon cards were possible Satan tools as well,  and so far my head still doesn't spin all the way around. 

My sisters and I did not trick-or-treat off-base.  We may have attempted it once,  but it was such a disappointment compared to the efficiency of on-base trick-or-treating.  Plus we got to see all of the Americans in their natural habitats. Many of them were very creative,  turning their drab base housing and yards into near theme park quality spooky zones. I mean,  smoke machines,  sound effects,  strobe lights,  and full-on architecture to make witch huts and devil dens and the like.  It was great.  It was also fun to go up to houses with their lights on to find notes on the door about the people inside praying for our damned souls.  I don't think they meant for the notes to be spooky,  but to little private school girls,  that was one of the scariest tricks going.

Just because we didn't trick-or-treat off base,  doesn't mean that we didn't get more than our fair share of trick-or-treaters.  On the contrary,  being one of only a handful of "Yankee Plate"  houses in the neighborhood meant that we got tons.

They never wore costumes,  not in the 90's. It was always play clothes or their school uniforms.  They came in packs of 4 to 12,  for the most part unsupervised by any sort of adult.

At the first house we lived in,  we had a gated driveway.  Nothing fancy mind you- think large enough to fit a small minivan and naught else,  with a swinging gate made of silver painted re-bar,  theoretically to keep the van from gaining autonomy and getting away.  Theft is still nearly unheard of there, much like not locking up your belongings is nearly unheard of here. 

The children,  ranging in age from "barely walking"  to "old enough to vote"  did not presume to open the unlocked gate to approach our door.  This was a conundrum because our van said "Y for Yankees Live Here"  on the plates so we must have hordes of junk food just inside waiting to be distributed. 

The solution was to gently (kind of)  jiggle the gate and make a ruckus by hollering "Hoppee Har-ween!"  and "Cheek-o-cheee"  until a surprised and confused little blonde child came out to see what was going on. 

Upon inspection of their pantomimes,  I detected that the children wanted candy,  and went in to tell my parents. 

I spoke loftily that they were uncostumed, they had the wrong date,  and furthermore,  it was 10 AM.  My parents did not find validity in my complaint and sent me back to them with fruit roll-ups or something ridiculous from the pantry. 

Big mistake.  I could have been distributing legal tender or unicorns and recieved the same response. 

They returned for weeks.  We gave them Ritz crackers, beef jerky,  and whatever else we had. 

These kids were not starving.  They probably had more food at home than we did.  But our food was American,  and they were enthralled. 

I toyed with the idea of distributing dog treats because the children had gotten all of my shark bites the day before.  I was probably scolded. 

This game continued almost until Thanksgiving. And for every year after. 

We moved 8 years later,  to a house several miles away.  They found us.  Or similar children practicing a tradition no doubt propagated by my family were already in place. 

Our new house had windows all around and sliding glass doors across the back.  The children in this neighborhood had no gate to deter them and they fell upon us like a team of highly trained tactical fighters.  Every door or window had a child or two at it,  and they rapped gently on the glass with giddy chants of "Cheek-o-cheee"  and "Hoppee Har-ween". 

By this time we knew the drill and started out with less than stellar snack options.  But they came anyway.  In waves.  From morning until after midnight.  They would return until each one had heard in my unfortunate Japanese that Halloween ended in October. 

They didn't have bags for their treats,  I suppose that would be presumptive and appear greedy.  They would cup their hands together into little bowls and accept whatever treat happened to be accessible; several doritos from a bag I had opened for myself,  a variety of gourmet tic-tacs,  party favors from some dumb birthday party favor bag.  They accepted the offerings with so much gratitude and excitement  it made up for the fact that it was only socially acceptable for me to celebrate my favorite holiday one day a year.

It was a strange and rather wonderful transcription of our American tradition.  "Share your foreign junk food with the neighborhood kids month". 

I miss it. 

*Disclaimer.  I typed this with some words purposefully spelled wrong to illustrate the accents of the children in the story.  I feel like this is necessary to accurately describe the events that occurred and I do not do so with the intent to mock.  These kids are probably all tri-lingual now because they attended Japanese public school where a second language fluency is compulsory and a lot of kids take a third language "for fun".

Independence Day

America and I have a complicated relationship. 

I wasn't born here,  I wasn't raised here,  but I am "from"  here. 

I guess it is like my motherland.  And sometimes I have "mommy issues". 

Don't get me wrong,  I love this country.  It is where I choose to make my home,  where I met my wonderful,  red blooded,  American husband, where my sisters and nephews were born. 

I love the foundations we were built on.  Freedom from tyranny and inalienable human rights are a couple of my personal favorites. 

But I struggle sometimes. With feeling at home here.  With feeling pride in how Americans are perceived on the world stage. With the American public and our fickle,  often ignorant,  herd mentality. 

I cringe at the failures of the public education system,  of generations of dependency and entitlement spiraling toward a nanny-state oblivion. Probably. 

Not everyone will agree with me.  Perhaps some people will be offended by what I say.  Well one of those beautiful rights that we still have is the right to freedom of speech.  So I respect the disagreement and I would never want to silence it. 

When I was a child that didn't understand "nationality"  or "cultural heritage"  I remember being confused about what made my friends Japanese,  Okinawan,  Australian,  Swiss,  Indian,  Brazilian, Philipino, Chinese, American.  We all went to the same school,  understood a couple of languages, prayed to Jesus (even the kids from Hindu and Buddhist and Shinto families did).

Everyone looked different,  there was so much variety of skin color and eye color and hair type that we looked like an ad campaign for United Colors of Benneton. 

We said the pledge of allegiance to the American flag,  the Christian flag,  and we stood for both the U. S.  national anthem and the Japanese national anthem.

But we were different,  and we were supposed to understand and know our identities.

I was American.  Everyone said so.  The other blond girl in first grade was Australian.  We looked the most alike,  so looks must not be it. 

I spoke the English at home,  but so did a Swiss girl and a Philipino girl and a bunch of "half" kids.  Language wasn't it. 

I could go on base, but I didn't live there.  And the American missionaries that worked at the school couldn't go on base,  except for one- and she lived on base.

Some kids parents were base employees, so they could go on even though they weren't American. Base privileges aren't a good way to identify an American.

My best friend is American.  She was born in California to a Brazilian mother and an Okinawan father who were here on student visas.  She speaks like four languages.  She lived off base like me and we went to church together on base. 
She isn't just American,  she is now an American hero serving in our Armed Forces.  Genetics don't make you American.

I was born in Scotland while my dad was a contractor for the Royal Air Force in the service of the Queen.  My mom was adopted out of Germany by an American family.  My parents are American,  so I am American. 

Technically,  I could be British if I wanted to. 

But my American parents made sure that I had the paperwork to be an American. 

So I am American. 

My home is here,  and when I go out to the grocery store,  I can look around and see all of the other Americans and know that they accept me as one of theirs. 

So even if we don't see eye to eye on everything,  I accept them as my people. 

MY loud, laughing, pushy, bold, unashamed,  joyful, argumentative, warm,  persistent, capitalist,  demanding,  accepting people.

Happy Independence from the British Day.

The view from my cell in Fashion Prison.

If you know me,  then you know that I have an unhealthy addiction to shoes and a rather *unique* fashion sensibility.  Ok- I know everyone thinks that their fashion sense is sooooo unique.  But when I say unique,  I mean that I have never seen anyone else that dresses the way I want to dress,  or with the inconsistency of genre that I know I reflect. Maybe my style in high school is what got me locked up in the fashion prison I live in today.

Let me start by emphasizing the phrase *I want to dress*.  I can't figure out if it was because I grew up wearing uniforms in Japan,  or because of synaesthesia, or both,  but I *want to dress* in a manner that I have found is unacceptable to the general public. 

And before you start judging me for my repression or whatever: not only is my dream style impractical for social reasons,  it would definitely see me sent home from work. Having a well paying job and not being gawked at are valuable enough to me to tone down my look. 

Ok,  disclaimer over.  Let's do this. 

Hair:
I would adore to have long black hair with some exciting colored streaks. Probably cerulean.  And maybe a couple of pretty plum streaks too.  And a pink one. 

Why I dont:
1) I do not have the self control to grow my hair out past my shoulders.  It gets to an awkward length and I HAVE to cut it. 
2) I am reasonably sure that if I put all those colors in my hair,  I would be sent home from work after an admonishment about being presentable for the more conservative customers. 

SO: I have black hair cut in a slanted bob.  Low maintenance,  non-offensive. 

Earrings:

I get away with most earrings that I try,  I don't do gauges or cartilage piercings.  I have a slightly edgier than dainty 3 holes of normal size.  Two in my right ear,  one in my left. 

I love earrings with feathers and dream catchers and long dangley threads and studs that look really heavy metal.  I also like big hoops.  Not embellished or enormous, but thin circles with a max 2 inch diameter.

I don't:
Wear earrings that touch my shoulders or big hoops or crazy studs.  I would like to,  but I am sure I would get negative attention for them in my pretty conservatively dressed office,  and they would irritate the crap out of me when I use the phone.  Which I do a lot. 

Other Jewelry:

I wear statement necklaces to work,  because with a low key top and slacks,  they help sate my desire to act out fashionably.  I don't see myself wearing necklaces outside of that scenario,  though. 

I kinda wish my eyebrow was pierced.  But I am noncommittal. And one should not be noncommittal about additional holes in one's face. 

I like some bracelets.  But they irk me and I eventually take them off.  I have 3 different spiked or studded bangles/cuffs.  I have worn them collectively one and a half times. I have a layered pearl stretchy bracelet that fares better on me, but I still rarely wear it. 

Clothes:

I would describe my style as: Buffy the Vampire Slayer seasons 1-3 plus Japanese school girl that likes rock and roll plus punk plus metal plus sometime preppy Americana/sometime pinup Americana. 

What I don't like to wear:
I'm not really a fan of the hipster/Dave Matthews girl/ bohemian look that seems to be super popular around here.  Also,  that strange way that girls that are "quirky"  in movies dress.  That's not me.  A lot of people have been confused and thought that was me.  It isn't. 

I prefer black to white,  silver to gold,  colors to earth tones,  and leather to animal prints.  I don't love floral, or most regular patterns.  I do like Gothic crosses and bejeweled things,  ooh and shiny paint,  and graphic prints that are not pop culture references.  Like a picture of a photocopy looking rose or a kabuki lady or something.  And that shit better not be centered. 

All references to Japan/UK/Cherokee Nation instantly have appeal to me.

Shoes:
My most powerful and wallet crippling addiction is also my most impractical.  I have a penchant for skinny high heels.  There was a time when I wouldn't even consider a heel shorter than 3 inches.  I just like the look of them. I am 5'8.5".  Yeah, I need that half inch on there to illustrate the point that in my most beloved heels,  I tower an Amazonian 6'1.5". It is too tall. I'm afraid of heights and I feel like a godzilla.  I own shoes that I haven't worn.  I bought those shoes imagining some fantastical world where I attend red carpet events.  I see them on my feet and for some reason I am 5'4" in this world and I can wear these one-off shoes with jeans or a cute sun dress.  Inaccurate. 

My pinterest account is slowly acquiring a sampling of stuff I think looks awesome.  Stuff that I will never wear to work because at my most restrained I am already pushing the boundaries on dress code.  Oh well,  story of my life. 

Delta and Me; a not so good trip.

In recent years,  Delta airlines merged with Northwest, incurring the absorption of my remaining frequent flyer miles into the Delta Skymiles Program. Unfortunately for me,  they add up to about one intercontinental flight I probably won't be using. 

On our trip to California this year,  we tried Delta.  I had a negative perception of them left over from my father cursing them during my many childhood flights, but they had the cheapest tickets. 

So... you know. 

Well,  this comedy of errors has not come to curtain,  and yet,  I am rather compelled to share my experience so far with my readership of web crawling bots.  I am starting this entry from the seat of a 757 waiting to take off from Atlanta.

We started out with a surprise, before even getting ready to pack: enter an email from Delta informing us that a layover has been added to our itinerary.  Our flight out of DC was supposed to stop over in Minneapolis/St. Paul before going on to San Jose.

Delta felt that we should enjoy the scenic vistas of Salt Lake City as well,  but only for such a brief time as to take pictures during take- off and landing; stealthily attempting to hide the use of the cell phone camera from the stewardesses.  Even though this additional layover was barely long enough to get from one gate to another,  it added on two hours to our travel time. 

Thanks,  Delta. 

But I digress. 

So with new itineraries in hand,  we arrive at Reagan National during the wee hours of the morning.  We board our little plane and take off for Minneapolis /St. Paul.  Everything went smoothly until we landed at the sprawling twin cities airport.  
We disembark the plane  with all of our luggage (we avoid checking because it costs more,  duh.)

The board at our gate directs us to our next gate (of course it isn't listed on our tickets) and we trek a solid 25 minute hike at a brisk pace to find our flight to Salt Lake. 

We relax at the gate then start to wonder why we haven't begun boarding.  We waddle over to another board and see that our flight has been bumped to a gate on the other end of the airport. 

It has started boarding.  There was no announcement. 

So now, we haul ass 25 minutes back to right near where we landed, arriving out of breath and sweaty.  We made it.  My feet/arms/lungs hurt.

Thanks,  Delta.

At Salt Lake City,  as I have already mentioned,  we have a miniscule layover,  but of course our next gate is about as distant as possible from our arriving gate.  We hustle on,  passing up a few photo ops of the beautiful snow capped rockies. Our flight to San Jose had started boarding as we landed.

We get to our new gate and are informed that the flight is full and we will need to check our carry-ons. 

Whatever.  Fine.  Take them. 

The man takes our bags,  affixes pink tickets and throws them on a cart to be taken to cargo. Pretty seamless,  this time,  though it was rather a rush. 

We are finally in San Jose.  The pilot makes an announcement about our checked bags being at the gate when we arrive. 

We wander down the jet bridge to the gate and look around for bags.  No sign.  I speak to the man at the counter,  asking where our luggage will go of it was checked at the gate.  He asks what color my receipt is.  There is no receipt. 

People are flooding off of our plane,  and none of them seem to be down a bag or two. 

He says we probably should go to the carousel.  I don't feel good about it.  We hang out at the gate some more and  see our bags get loaded onto an elevator to the bridge. I go back and ask the man if we can go back down the connecty thing to the part where our bags are being dumped and he says we can't go back in after getting off.  So now he has to go get our stuff.  Which is kind of funny.

Thanks, Delta.

Day one of deltified travel complete.  We made it. 

On the return trip we had some excitement.  Of course. 

First,  while we were waiting at our gate for boarding (past security)  a couple of Vietnamese dudes roll up and ask us where the they can get their tickets.  I asked "Your tickets? You have to ALREADY have tickets to be back here. " 
They clarify that they mean boarding passes.  And we point them toward security.  HOW DID THEY GET TO THE GATES WITHOUT BOARDING PASSES?  In the world of today,  the thought is a little terrifying. 

Finally, the time to board arrives.  Oh dear.  The flight is overbooked.  Shocking.

Who volunteers to wait for a later flight?  They only need two or three people. Not a lot of takers.  OR any. 

Whatever,  not my problem. 

The gate keepers jump on the speakers again to inform us,  and I quote, 

"Um,  so,  this flight may experience a delay in boarding.  There is something wrong with the plane,  but we don't know what it is yet." 

Restless mumbles and some sardonic laughter from the passengers.  The lady gets on again,  perhaps hoping to assuage some fears.

"What they sayin' is: the pilots' instruments isn't workin' right,  but don't worry,  we'll have you on this plane tonight."  Her insight falls a little flat. 

I realize that I am off on Thursday all day,  and go up to ask if the need volunteers to switch flights.  The guy looks at the girl and asks do they need more volunteers.  She says "naw..."
He turns to me and says "naw."
Great. 

Eventually,  they fix the plane,  or give up on it,  or whatever,  and we board,  about 45 minutes behind schedule.

Aboard,  the pilot comes on to tell us that Delta is sorry about the delay,  and that the big problem was a sticky cargo bay door that they had a hard time opening and closing.  But it's all better now. 

Oh yeah and there was a weird light on in the instrument panel.  Seems fine now though! 
Up, up, and away! 

As we taxi toward Atlanta,  the little TVs pop open to show us Delta's new,  slightly humorous, safety video.  About a quarter of the way through, during take-off, power in the cabin flickers hard, and there is a strange crackling sound, but everyone's TVs reopen to resume their spiel 

Well,  except ours,  which has a black screen and is seizing open and closed at us menacingly.  After it has its fun,  and we are sufficiently unnerved,  it reopens on its own and picks back up into the video.

Good thing I know all about placing the bag over my own nose and mouth before assisting others.

Thanks for the fancy plane,  Delta.

Atlanta finds its way below us after a night of turbulence and our inability to turn off the Billy Crystal movie that makes one sort of wish the power in the cabin would go back out.  Also, there is a baby on the flight.  Did I mention that the TVs are for everyone to enjoy,  so even if they are right above your seat on a red eye flight,  you can't turn them off?  Did I mention that?

Thanks Delta.

And Billy Crystal. 

And Woman with Baby.

As we taxi in Atlanta,  it becomes apparent that our next flight is already boarding. And we have to ride a tram to get to it.

We won't be on that plane.  But our luggage will!  They made us check it again,  what with their chronic "booked-to-the-gills-itis". 

The captain comes on to let us know that no one will be missing their connections. 

Hurrah! A success story. 

I doubt it.  I say so to Josh. We load up our itinerary on our phones and rebook for the next flight into DC which leaves in an hour. 

As we truck through massive Atlanta, we see the gate for the flight we should be on.  The screen next to it says the stand-by passengers have been cleared to fly, it then switches to closed as we approach.  Josh says we should try to get on. 

I ask the man at the gate if we can board even though we just rebooked. He says if we do,  we will have to wait for our luggage to arrive an hour behind us.   Nope.  We go on to the gate for the next flight.

The next couple of hours are pretty uneventful,  thank goodness,  and we get to DC only about 45 minutes later than originally expected.

We go down to the baggage claim,  watch the carrousel run dry,  and then seek out the Delta lost luggage claim desk.

There is our stuff!  It came in on the earlier flight. That we could probably have gotten on. Had anyone anywhere known anything. 

We put our receipts (made sure to get some this time.)  on the counter, skip the line, and grab our bags. 

Ordeal over. 

Thanks, Delta. 

I think you will be keeping my sky miles as a memento to remind you of me in my upcoming absence.

List Blog 1: 5 things I really love.

Before we head out on our trip to California (and I have inspiring events to write about),  I figured I ought to write an obligatory list blog. 
I am doing this blog thing as an exercise to force me to write more.  So, even though I am not incredibly inspired at the moment,  I am going to do this. 

It won't be pretty.  I am sorry. 

Here goes :

1: I am a Japanophile- specifically an Okinawaphile.
I generally like all things Japanese (within reason).  I loathe the idea of being considered an Otaku.  I'm not that.  I really care about the culture,  history,  geography, architecture, geology,  environment, classical literature,  art, politics, economics, and folk music of my beloved island: Okinawa. It is a passion for me. Part of my identity.  If I could,  I would get a graduate degree in Ryukyu Studies.  I don't care about Anime or Manga or J-pop.  I don't cosplay.  I don't eat tons of sushi,  or whatever those Otaku kids eat.  I do like video games and Japanese fashion design.

2: The freaking ocean.  I love that thing.  I love the water,  the creatures,  the flora,  undersea volcanoes.  I sometimes wonder if I was a mermaid in a past life.  I have always had conflicting emotions about Disney's The Little Mermaid.  I want to hate her because I am one of those competitive females that instinctively dislikes any other skinny white girls,  especially if their dad is rich and they have a nice singing voice.  Also,  she doesn't appreciate her beautiful undersea home. Running away with prince Eric is only a sacrifice for her because she loses her voice,  which she eventually gets back. Why isn't losing automatic Scuba abilities and fish communication abilities the sacrifice they focus on.  Dumb ho.

3: I really love things that peek.  When critters or people or cartoon characters sneakily peek out from behind anything,  I cannot contain my mirth.  When that weird dude in the wedding singer peeked out from behind the curtain while Adam Sandler was playing his guitar and singing... I almost peed I was laughing so hard.  When Baxter tries to climb up the end of my bed and his little head peers over the edge, full of hope and determination, my heart is warmed with glee.  Basically, if a burglar peeked in a playful manner into my house,  I would probably give him some stuff just for the performance. 

4: Historical romance novels- sometimes called "bodice rippers"  in the pornish literature industry.  Hey,  I read high quality literature all the time.And smart stuff like National Geographic and Science Magazine.  And I really don't watch that much TV.  So stop yer judging.  I love to pick up a $2 trashy novel,  read it over the course of a few hours,  and then sit on my high horse and judge the author and her editors for the hackneyed style,  redundant, repeated phrases and clichés,  minor spelling errors and plot holes and whatever else I see fit to scoff snobbily over.  I sit in pedantic judgement every time I voraciously read crap about maidens in distress finding forbidden love with rogues and rakes. It is like brain junk food.  My name is Rebecca and I'm a trashy novel addict.

5: Metal.  Like the music.  I honestly do listen to all kinds of music,  but I am really enamored with heavy metal.  Well,  more specifically: epic metal,  viking metal,  symphonic metal,  speed metal,  folk metal,  the list goes on...I like most metal, from Bathory to Haggard to Hammerfall to Ensiferum.  I am even starting to listen to Japanese metal. I like reading about the history of metal,  the culture around it.  I have even been thinking about learning Swedish or Dutch or German.  Just because.  The only variations I don't really dig,  for purely synaesthetic reasons,  are black metal and a fair amount of death metal. Although,  I will take them any day of the week over Justin Bieber.  Just sayin.

Well, this is probably not my funniest work or most beautiful prose; but I wrote it.  At least it is honest.  Don't give up on me.
Kthx bye.

People Driving in Circles: I opine on NASCAR.

Before I moved to Virginia from Okinawa, Japan, professional grade race cars and their sports held only the faintest space in my worldview. I knew of their existence, however, if asked to describe the racing of motor cars, I might mumble about Formula One and the patriots of the Confederacy that I thought might watch it. I was so out of the loop, the tragic demise of Dale Earnhardt was yet unknown to me, and I thought he must have been a local hero after seeing his name and number emblazoned on the commuting vehicles that choke I-95.

A decade later, I have been well educated on the subject- thanks in no small part (actually in one large, entirety-shaped part)  to my darling husband and his fervor for NASCAR racing. He comes by it honestly, a hand-me-down from his dear grandmother (a faithful Mark Martin fan). When I was first being introduced to the races, I politely resisted. How could anyone watch cars that all look the same, drive in a perpetual left hand turn for LITERAL hours? Why would one even bother??

It wasn't until my begrudged attendance to a live event that I started to see the appeal. For several seasons we ventured out to Busch Cup races, as the tickets were slightly cheaper and the stands were less crowded. Each time, I gained a new appreciation for what we were watching, culminating in the last race we attended a couple of seasons ago, at which we purchased my very own memorabilia- an exorbitantly overpriced, white tank top with a tasteful Mark Martin 6 on the bottom corner.

Saturday night, we attended our very first Sprint Cup race. The major-league, if you will, of National Stock Car Racing. It was a most memorable experience, even causing me to wax poetic in the constant internal narration of my own life.

We parked in the yard of some good-natured neighbors to the Richmond International Raceway. We paid them a very competitive fifteen dollars for their promise not to tow us or block us in with other attendees. Their yard parking was very festive, with plenty of lights and even a live band, starring a Willie Nelson looking fellow. I have yet to see a better back-yard-temporary-parking-lot performance. To top it all off, the homeowners even kept their word and we left that night without a hitch.

Upon arriving to the raceway complex, one is immersed in a skirt of booths and trailers forming a happily humming market. We stopped at one of the merchandise-tractor-trailer-things, and got Josh a hat from a cheerful Rubenesque woman who made it a point to question everyone's size choices, to a comical effect. Then we entered the colosseum and walked about a quarter of the way around the building before realizing we had entered near our section. A quick return jaunt and several flights of climbing later, we found our seats; bleachers with numbers stickered on, overlooking a pretty good view of the whole 3/4 mile track.

Next is the part I really like.

The race is about to be underway, and the opening ceremonies begin. Sky divers are parachuting down and one of them is maneuvering a massive American Flag banner. We stand for the pledge of allegiance, and then thank the armed forces for existing. The national anthem always instills a sense of reverence in me, perhaps because of my semi-military upbringing, and I blink back the patriotic warmth that fills my eyes near the end. With a searing whoosh, three prop planes from a local aerial acrobatics troupe fly over in a streak of red, white and blue. There is a prayer for safety and a nice time for all. Then the gentlemen (and one lady) start their engines.

To say that "the engines roar" is not only cliched- but also understates the force of the sound and heat ballooning from the track. I feel like I could lean forward in our bleachers and stay upright, supported only by the forceful noise. The smell makes me think of a busy commercial airport on a summer day. Tarmac, jet fuel, heat-softened tires, red-hot brake dust. It is not altogether unpleasant, and the experience would be severely stunted without it.

The train of cars shoots by with alarming speed, blurring the 40-some contenders together. I can't help but feel concern at the danger of such a pace, on such a small track with such tight corners. And yet, I envy the drivers, drafting and speeding for a living. Drivers in the bottom of the pack tug at my heart- no one likes to be last place, especially when the stakes are so high. I silently root for the slow cars to at least spend a few laps in the middle, I think I might be one of the only fans that does.

Oh no! SMOKE... a wreck!  A couple of drivers have been playing rough and one spins upward on the track; the advancing traffic scatters in attempt to avoid damage. The spinning driver has hit the wall, but appears to be functional. Dragging sheet metal in a fountain of orange sparks, he maneuvers, frustrated, down to the pit where crews rush to provide E.R. to the ailing vehicle. The caution flag waves and half of the field takes this opportunity to gingerly line-up for service; a bit of air here, a wedge there, some tires on one side. Big street sweepers mosey out of their waiting area to clean bits of stock car up off of the track and one dumps bright stripes of quick-dry on places where fluids have leaked. The second sweeper follows behind, vigorously dusting a plume of tan into the stands.

I will leave the play by play of the racing to ESPN- if anyone really wants to know the outcome of our visit, it is publicly recorded and I am probably not allowed to disseminate it.

Let's leave it at this:

Our driver of choice worked his way up to the front of the line, led several laps, got in trouble for a pit road violation, had his penalty redacted- because it seemed borderline and unintentional- and then promptly got caught up in a wreck belonging to some big name drivers. We chose that opportunity to leave, in order to beat traffic out of Richmond. I sort of regret leaving, as the end of the race was rather eventful, but at the same time it was very cold and we were both hungry for not fried-bologna-sandwiches.

Even though at 17 I knew more about illegal drifting and street racing than professional motor sports, at 27 the tables have turned and I am quite knowledgeable on stock cars and race rules and drivers and rivalries and tracks. 17 year old me would probably scoff at the thought of 27 year old me as a NASCAR fan, but 17 year old me was kind of a closed-minded idiot.