Wednesday, June 27, 2007
80 hour weeks: The American Dream
Tim has got a great wee piece in the Guardian about America's working poor. Take a look. There's some plonker who calls himself YanksWorld (I'm assuming it's a man because the writing has a masculine voice) who weighed in on the issue A LOT yesterday when the piece was posted. Apparently he thinks it's just marvellous for people to work 80 hour weeks and take on multiple jobs because it is that kind of work ethic that has made this country great. He doesn't seem to have twigged to the fact that many people are doing this out of necessity, and might prefer to spend evenings and weekends with friends and family instead of coworkers. Oh, yeah, and some health benefits wouldn't go amiss either.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I could not bring sexy back
My sampling of group exercise classes at my gym continued last night with a humiliating foray into Dance Fusion. This is advertised in the class schedule as a nice primer, appropriate for all skill levels, and less intense than the other dance classes. Lies. Damned lies. What it was was an hour of the most nauseating, cringe-inducing moves from a Britney Spears/Justin Timberlake video repeated over and over and over again. There was the hip grind, the flirty head snap, the hip hop kick, the Flashdance spin, the Michael Jackson Thriller-style groove walking, and the Flashdance super-fast running in place. She's a maniac, maniac on the floor. And she's dancing like she's never danced before. Well, that's for danged sure.
The instructor, as charming and flamboyantly sweaty as you could want, told us to "Have fun with it, ladies. Mix it up" but there was not a lot of joy to be found in that room. It felt like an audition for some terrible reality TV show, and the other dancers were determined to make the cut. They leapt and snapped and kicked their way into a frenzy. I meanwhile, hugged the back wall, half a beat behind the music and on the verge of nervous tears, my teeth drawn back over my lips like a pissy hamster.
And they call this sort of activity healthy.
The instructor, as charming and flamboyantly sweaty as you could want, told us to "Have fun with it, ladies. Mix it up" but there was not a lot of joy to be found in that room. It felt like an audition for some terrible reality TV show, and the other dancers were determined to make the cut. They leapt and snapped and kicked their way into a frenzy. I meanwhile, hugged the back wall, half a beat behind the music and on the verge of nervous tears, my teeth drawn back over my lips like a pissy hamster.
And they call this sort of activity healthy.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Sunday blahs
Sunday night is always a bit of a downer. I am not loving the job just now, so I have that "going back to boarding school" sick-tummy feeling. This is a horribly familiar sensation that was particularly acute for me from 1988 to 1991, when I was actually attending boarding school, and every holiday ended with a nauseous car/plane trip back to school and a sonic-boom fight with my parents. (Let me digress for a moment and describe my reaction to entering boarding school at 13, painfully shy and woefully unprepared for life with a mob of other adolescents, their hormones, their dangerous beauty routines, and their drugs. First, I stopped eating much, and lost about a quarter of my body weight in the first term. Then, I allowed another boarder, who had an interest in hairdressing but no discernible talent, to cut my nearly waist-length hair into a bob. The ends looked like I'd got stuck in a door and had to hack my way out. When my parents turned up for swimming sports, they didn't recognise me in the crowd.)
I had another terrible round of boarding tum when I was working for a certain start-up newspaper (the biggest professional nightmare of my life, and the only time I have consciously walked away from a bad situation instead of standing and fighting), and now I have a mild case which I am attempting to quell through strength of will and renewed physical fitness. After all, this is my birthday week, and I officially hit my mid-thirties, surely a joke. I own hamsters, speak to strange dogs in the street, and still keep track of Paris Hilton. I am not really a proper adult.
To deal to the tummy, I have sucked back a mug of spicy hot chocolate, a big serving of empty carbs, and am now working my way through a glass of Riesling. I made an inspiring list of places we may visit in the next year--Alaska, Colorado, and Montana figure strongly--and I have plans to retreat to bed early with a new book, an autobiography written by a man who grew up in San Francisco high society. It's all about his evil stepmother who sounds like a fabulous character. Horrible but fabulous.
BTW, speaking of horrible, I saw A Mighty Heart, the film about the murder of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was abducted in Pakistan in 2002 and beheaded. It is based on the novel by his wife, Marianne, and it is really good. I was resistant because it stars Angelina Jolie, who makes me feel like biting kittens. But she manages to avoid the pouty, self-satisfied smirk which has been such a mainstay of her career and does a wonderful job of portraying an admirably strong woman in the worst possible situation.
And so to my book.
I had another terrible round of boarding tum when I was working for a certain start-up newspaper (the biggest professional nightmare of my life, and the only time I have consciously walked away from a bad situation instead of standing and fighting), and now I have a mild case which I am attempting to quell through strength of will and renewed physical fitness. After all, this is my birthday week, and I officially hit my mid-thirties, surely a joke. I own hamsters, speak to strange dogs in the street, and still keep track of Paris Hilton. I am not really a proper adult.
To deal to the tummy, I have sucked back a mug of spicy hot chocolate, a big serving of empty carbs, and am now working my way through a glass of Riesling. I made an inspiring list of places we may visit in the next year--Alaska, Colorado, and Montana figure strongly--and I have plans to retreat to bed early with a new book, an autobiography written by a man who grew up in San Francisco high society. It's all about his evil stepmother who sounds like a fabulous character. Horrible but fabulous.
BTW, speaking of horrible, I saw A Mighty Heart, the film about the murder of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was abducted in Pakistan in 2002 and beheaded. It is based on the novel by his wife, Marianne, and it is really good. I was resistant because it stars Angelina Jolie, who makes me feel like biting kittens. But she manages to avoid the pouty, self-satisfied smirk which has been such a mainstay of her career and does a wonderful job of portraying an admirably strong woman in the worst possible situation.
And so to my book.
Monday, June 18, 2007
You don't think it's, uh, you know?
So a weird thing happened on the way back from the movies last night. We went down to the Kabuki Theatre in Japan Town (five minutes from the apartment) to see Once, this cute little Irish film about a Dublin busker who falls for a girl from the Czech Republic who sells roses on the street. It was a lovely wee film; I recommend it.
But that is not the point of this story. The point is that on the way home we turned from Sutter Street into Presidio Street, just near the lot where Muni rests the city buses between shifts, and we passed this pale, long, rumpled lumpy thing lying in the road. It looked exactly like a body. It looked exactly like the body of a homeless person sleeping in a blanket in the middle lane.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I dunno. Whaddya think?" said Tim
"It doesn't look good," I said.
"No. Should we stop?"
"I think so."
"Yeah," said Tim, pulling over and parking.
A lady in a Beemer station wagon pulled up beside us. "Do you think that's, um, you know?" she asked, pointing back at the lump. "It's a bit short," she said, "for, uh, you know. But we should call someone." She pawed through her handbag and patted the passenger seat. "Do you have a phone?" she said. "I can't find mine."
"Have you got your phone on you?" Tim asked, turning towards me, possibly the least likely person in a three-block radius to have a cellphone, given my passionate loathing for them and the alacrity with which I lose mine and let the battery run down.
"Nup."
"I'll go have a look," said Tim, jumping out of the car. He walked back to the lump while the Beemer lady and I looked at each other and made worried faces.
"It looks a bit short for, uh, you know," she repeated.
"Yeah." I craned my neck to see Tim's reaction as he neared the lump. I thought I'd be able to sense if it was, uh, you know. But I couldn't. I twisted in my seat. I didn't think to remove my seat belt. It felt like 10 minutes, but it was probably two. Tim returned.
"Well?" I asked.
"I dunno. I called out, but nothing happened. There's a fire station up there." He pointed past the nose of our car, towards the corner. "I'm going to go tell them."
He took off in the dark; I watched until I couldn't see him any longer.
Two more cars passed the lump, slowed and stopped. Car doors opened. Three people gathered next to the lump. They yelled. They kicked the lump. It bounced into the air. They kicked as a group, three figures kicking in unison, and kicked it right to the curb.
Huh.
Meanwhile, Tim had returned from the fire station and jogged back to where the lump had been, to talk to the kickers. And then I heard a BLOOP emanating from the fire station. I turned and saw a red glow. BLOOP-BLOOP-GRURRRR. And then, like a bad joke, a fire engine eased out of the fire station, lights revolving, siren wailing, and drove a block towards us.
Beemer lady and I looked at each other. "I'm out of here," she said, accelerating towards the stoplight.
Tim and I watched the fire engine come to a stop near the kickers. BLOOP!
"It was a pillow," said Tim. "A big pillow."
"Nooo!" I said.
"Yeah."
And we laughed and laughed.
But that is not the point of this story. The point is that on the way home we turned from Sutter Street into Presidio Street, just near the lot where Muni rests the city buses between shifts, and we passed this pale, long, rumpled lumpy thing lying in the road. It looked exactly like a body. It looked exactly like the body of a homeless person sleeping in a blanket in the middle lane.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I dunno. Whaddya think?" said Tim
"It doesn't look good," I said.
"No. Should we stop?"
"I think so."
"Yeah," said Tim, pulling over and parking.
A lady in a Beemer station wagon pulled up beside us. "Do you think that's, um, you know?" she asked, pointing back at the lump. "It's a bit short," she said, "for, uh, you know. But we should call someone." She pawed through her handbag and patted the passenger seat. "Do you have a phone?" she said. "I can't find mine."
"Have you got your phone on you?" Tim asked, turning towards me, possibly the least likely person in a three-block radius to have a cellphone, given my passionate loathing for them and the alacrity with which I lose mine and let the battery run down.
"Nup."
"I'll go have a look," said Tim, jumping out of the car. He walked back to the lump while the Beemer lady and I looked at each other and made worried faces.
"It looks a bit short for, uh, you know," she repeated.
"Yeah." I craned my neck to see Tim's reaction as he neared the lump. I thought I'd be able to sense if it was, uh, you know. But I couldn't. I twisted in my seat. I didn't think to remove my seat belt. It felt like 10 minutes, but it was probably two. Tim returned.
"Well?" I asked.
"I dunno. I called out, but nothing happened. There's a fire station up there." He pointed past the nose of our car, towards the corner. "I'm going to go tell them."
He took off in the dark; I watched until I couldn't see him any longer.
Two more cars passed the lump, slowed and stopped. Car doors opened. Three people gathered next to the lump. They yelled. They kicked the lump. It bounced into the air. They kicked as a group, three figures kicking in unison, and kicked it right to the curb.
Huh.
Meanwhile, Tim had returned from the fire station and jogged back to where the lump had been, to talk to the kickers. And then I heard a BLOOP emanating from the fire station. I turned and saw a red glow. BLOOP-BLOOP-GRURRRR. And then, like a bad joke, a fire engine eased out of the fire station, lights revolving, siren wailing, and drove a block towards us.
Beemer lady and I looked at each other. "I'm out of here," she said, accelerating towards the stoplight.
Tim and I watched the fire engine come to a stop near the kickers. BLOOP!
"It was a pillow," said Tim. "A big pillow."
"Nooo!" I said.
"Yeah."
And we laughed and laughed.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
June 17, 2002
Today is the fifth anniversary of my father's death here in California; in NZ it was yesterday. I ordered my usual bunch of flowers to send to the facility where he spent his last two-and-a-half years, and I had my usual mope. I am grateful, truly grateful, that I was there for his last day, but that was the hardest eight hours of my life.
I always feel like a peeled onion in the anniversary week. While it's true that time is a great healer, it's also true that you don't get over the loss of a parent. You just get used to it.
I always feel like a peeled onion in the anniversary week. While it's true that time is a great healer, it's also true that you don't get over the loss of a parent. You just get used to it.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
No rest for the wicked
I can't quite believe how sore my thighs and biceps are. I am literally having to haul myself up the stairs using the banister, and on the way down I step as gingerly as a granny with a new hip. I have been gymming, folks, and it has turned me into a laughing stock. Well, Tim laughs at me, and points, and occasionally slaps the sore bits and then snatches his hand back quick-as-a-flash when I glare at him. And last night we went out for Japanese (in Japan Town--dinky) with our friends Grover and Carolyn and they laughed at me, too. Hmmph.
I joined the fancy-pants gym down the road in February in an attempt to hang on to the residual muscle definition left from my days at the AUT gym in Northcote, working out with my trainer, Sophie. What with throwing in the job and travelling in Europe and then driving across the US eating cheeseburgers and twisty fries, there wasn't a heck of a lot of definition left, but I determined to keep it. And so began my relationship with the elliptical machine, on which I spin aimlessly for half an hour at a time, while catching up on the latest from Angelina and Brad. A couple of days ago I decided to get myself moving for real--in an exercise class. As a member of the fancy-pants gym, I get into group exercise classes for free (you know, except for the astronomical monthly fee I pay for the privilege of crossing the threshold of Gym Fancypants) and I love a deal, so that was another part of my motivation. The third key factor was realising I had not set foot in an exercise class since buggering my knee at an aerobics class nine years and four knee operations ago. It was time to kill that phobia.
I chose a class called Strength and Sculpt, billed as a non-threatening way to tone and build core stability through the use of bands and balls. I did 15 minutes on the elliptical to warm up and arrived in the studio 5 minutes before the start of class to find all floor space claimed by aggressively beautiful people, bar a sliver of space right near the front. Of course. I found myself a step, three sets of free weights, and a squishy ball thing with a flat plastic base. While I was doing this, I noticed the deathly still of the studio and the fixed way in which most classmates were checking themselves out in the mirrors. I also noted, not for the first time, how big were the rocks adorning most women's ring fingers, and how well groomed they were for people about to sweat to excess.
So, the instructor, a sinewy button of a girl, plugged in her microphone and that terrible be-boppy tinny aerobics music that must be created solely for use in gyms began to throb. I choked back the giggle that always erupts when I hear that music and started to move it, move it. Oh, and did I mention the heavily pregnant woman who glided into place just in front of me as the be-bopping reached its first crescendo? She was mammothly pregnant and pushing those weights around like they were matchboxes. I immediately loathed her.
Thus motivated, I started my first post-knee disaster exercise class with a hiss and a roar and much waving of arms. Bicep curls, tricep dips, side-stretchy moves meant to define the abs, all of that was fine. But when the squats began, with the attendant bum-clenching and knee-grating, I wanted to take a breather. I couldn't of course, because of the pregnant lady, bouncing away like a scolding, just in front of me. By this stage, I had that weird jelly feeling in my thighs, the wibble wobble named 'fatigue' in my calves, but still I moved it, slightly off time, lagging behind the beat. I stumbled a little as we lunge-marched our way up and down the room three times, and was smart enough to slow my pace a bit, but the other exercisers ignored the instructor's invitation to take a breather if needed, so I ignored it too. Above all, I didn't want the pregnant lady to win.
Happily, I can report that I made it to the end of the 50-minute class without incident--knee intact, dignity intact, amen. I took one last haughty glance at the pregnant lady--like the lunatic I apparently am becoming--and strode off home, thinking, ha showed her! Showoffy soon-to-be-mother with her huge diamonds and designer gym gear. Grumble, grumble.
Smug I was. And yet, I suspect she is able to climb and descend stairs without support today, belly and all.
I joined the fancy-pants gym down the road in February in an attempt to hang on to the residual muscle definition left from my days at the AUT gym in Northcote, working out with my trainer, Sophie. What with throwing in the job and travelling in Europe and then driving across the US eating cheeseburgers and twisty fries, there wasn't a heck of a lot of definition left, but I determined to keep it. And so began my relationship with the elliptical machine, on which I spin aimlessly for half an hour at a time, while catching up on the latest from Angelina and Brad. A couple of days ago I decided to get myself moving for real--in an exercise class. As a member of the fancy-pants gym, I get into group exercise classes for free (you know, except for the astronomical monthly fee I pay for the privilege of crossing the threshold of Gym Fancypants) and I love a deal, so that was another part of my motivation. The third key factor was realising I had not set foot in an exercise class since buggering my knee at an aerobics class nine years and four knee operations ago. It was time to kill that phobia.
I chose a class called Strength and Sculpt, billed as a non-threatening way to tone and build core stability through the use of bands and balls. I did 15 minutes on the elliptical to warm up and arrived in the studio 5 minutes before the start of class to find all floor space claimed by aggressively beautiful people, bar a sliver of space right near the front. Of course. I found myself a step, three sets of free weights, and a squishy ball thing with a flat plastic base. While I was doing this, I noticed the deathly still of the studio and the fixed way in which most classmates were checking themselves out in the mirrors. I also noted, not for the first time, how big were the rocks adorning most women's ring fingers, and how well groomed they were for people about to sweat to excess.
So, the instructor, a sinewy button of a girl, plugged in her microphone and that terrible be-boppy tinny aerobics music that must be created solely for use in gyms began to throb. I choked back the giggle that always erupts when I hear that music and started to move it, move it. Oh, and did I mention the heavily pregnant woman who glided into place just in front of me as the be-bopping reached its first crescendo? She was mammothly pregnant and pushing those weights around like they were matchboxes. I immediately loathed her.
Thus motivated, I started my first post-knee disaster exercise class with a hiss and a roar and much waving of arms. Bicep curls, tricep dips, side-stretchy moves meant to define the abs, all of that was fine. But when the squats began, with the attendant bum-clenching and knee-grating, I wanted to take a breather. I couldn't of course, because of the pregnant lady, bouncing away like a scolding, just in front of me. By this stage, I had that weird jelly feeling in my thighs, the wibble wobble named 'fatigue' in my calves, but still I moved it, slightly off time, lagging behind the beat. I stumbled a little as we lunge-marched our way up and down the room three times, and was smart enough to slow my pace a bit, but the other exercisers ignored the instructor's invitation to take a breather if needed, so I ignored it too. Above all, I didn't want the pregnant lady to win.
Happily, I can report that I made it to the end of the 50-minute class without incident--knee intact, dignity intact, amen. I took one last haughty glance at the pregnant lady--like the lunatic I apparently am becoming--and strode off home, thinking, ha showed her! Showoffy soon-to-be-mother with her huge diamonds and designer gym gear. Grumble, grumble.
Smug I was. And yet, I suspect she is able to climb and descend stairs without support today, belly and all.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Oh, dear, I feel faint
I’m back at work, slugging it out with the tissue box and my own squeaky sinuses. My mystery illness has been a real time-sucker, not to mention being generally uncomfortable and inconvenient. I just about fell asleep on the train to work this morning—and that’s after more than eight hours sleep last night, a nap yesterday afternoon, and two sick days last week. What more does my body want? Revenge for too many years eating crackers and cheese for dinner, methinks.
Anyway, it was a nice weekend, mostly, except for when I was in bed with a headache. We went to the SF Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning and rubbed shoulders with the organic, wealthy set and their color-coordinated adora-tots. The market is quite the trendy spot to grab a coffee and wander around getting a tan—yes, the sun was out and it was gooood.
The food is beautiful, eminently displayable, the sort of thing that you’d see in a still life by one of the Dutch masters, capturing every drop of dew on a pear leaf, the glassy texture of the fresh cheese. Most of it we couldn’t really afford. I mean, we could buy cheese for $27 a slab and cured salmon for $75 a shrink-wrapped packet, but then how would we pay the rent? (And wouldn’t you know it, in the middle of my mystery illness the rent check was due and I forgot all about it; the landlords’ suspicions about us have now been confirmed.) So we were a bit choosy, plumping for a sourdough loaf that cost just a bit more than it would at Trader Joe’s, our kinda pirate-themed supermarket, and cherries for a mere $5 a pound, and peaches for $3.75 a pound. And doughnut muffins, which were a deal, actually, at $1.15 a piece, and an innovation I can get behind. Basically, they are doughnut dough rolled in sugar and baked in a muffin pan to avoid the deep fry fat of a traditional doughnut. And yet, they still taste exactly as doughnut-y as you’d want. It’s a neat trick.
And with that, I’m all tired and schlumpy. Damn mystery illness.
Anyway, it was a nice weekend, mostly, except for when I was in bed with a headache. We went to the SF Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning and rubbed shoulders with the organic, wealthy set and their color-coordinated adora-tots. The market is quite the trendy spot to grab a coffee and wander around getting a tan—yes, the sun was out and it was gooood.
The food is beautiful, eminently displayable, the sort of thing that you’d see in a still life by one of the Dutch masters, capturing every drop of dew on a pear leaf, the glassy texture of the fresh cheese. Most of it we couldn’t really afford. I mean, we could buy cheese for $27 a slab and cured salmon for $75 a shrink-wrapped packet, but then how would we pay the rent? (And wouldn’t you know it, in the middle of my mystery illness the rent check was due and I forgot all about it; the landlords’ suspicions about us have now been confirmed.) So we were a bit choosy, plumping for a sourdough loaf that cost just a bit more than it would at Trader Joe’s, our kinda pirate-themed supermarket, and cherries for a mere $5 a pound, and peaches for $3.75 a pound. And doughnut muffins, which were a deal, actually, at $1.15 a piece, and an innovation I can get behind. Basically, they are doughnut dough rolled in sugar and baked in a muffin pan to avoid the deep fry fat of a traditional doughnut. And yet, they still taste exactly as doughnut-y as you’d want. It’s a neat trick.
And with that, I’m all tired and schlumpy. Damn mystery illness.
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