30.6.06

oh, pickles

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Pickles!

  1. Peanuts and pickles are beans!
  2. Cats use their pickles to test whether a space is large enough for them to fit through!
  3. Pickles have a memory span of three seconds.
  4. The deepest part of pickles is over 35,000 feet deep.
  5. Pickles are 1500 years older than the pyramids.
  6. A sixteenth century mathematician lost his nose in a duel over his love for pickles, and wore a silver replacement for the rest of his life.
  7. Pickleocracy is government by pickles!
  8. Pickles are picked, sorted and packed entirely in the field.
  9. Pickles can smell some things up to six miles away!
  10. The average human spends about 30 days during their life in pickles!
I am interested in - do tell me about

29.6.06

thinking in QWERTY

I've been so heads-down writing at work these days, I started making a to-do list last night.
I typed it in my brain. Using my very own personal, imaginary QWERTY keyboard.


Yikes. Thank GOD I'll be downing pints on the Dingle Peninsula in less than 3 weeks.

26.6.06

from the ashes

it's been a couple of weeks since we said goodbye to Chyna and Neville. Part of me is already acclimated to a one-animal family... and then there's the part of me that still guards the back door while I let Fred out because I think the cat's going to get out.

So it's all a process, a journey, like anything else in life. And like anything else in life, great good comes from great sadness.

For instance: Paige has a wheat allergy. Total bummer. Except the wheat allergy prompted us to join a grocery co-op, which I have always wanted to do but never really had an impetus to do it. But now, I'm wondering why I ever delayed (except for maybe those unemployment/underemployment where money was a persuasive barrier...). Co-op grocery stores make me happy.

25.6.06

24.6.06

hope for future generations

True confession:

one of the things that sort of made me grimace about bringing a new, tiny person into my life was the fear that I would have to turn off decent music for at least 18 years -- that I would be forced to listen to cassettes of Barney and Disney on every long car ride, until I realy *d0* want to stick my head in an oven.

Literally... because when I was a kid (and let's be honest -- I'm not yet 30, so "kiddom" wasn't that long ago), kid's music sucked. Really, really sucked. And my parents checked out of the music scene when they had to be the "responsible" adult who raised me right and proper (and come on, I like Van Halen now... Dad could have listened to it in the car when I was 5 with no negative side affects... sheesh.) Point being, when it came time for me to find my musical identity... I went through a really ugly, almost unmentionable metamorphasis (it started with Mariah Carey, Michael Bolton and Boyz 2 Men... and it completely pains me to write that.)

Anyway... I have, as of late, found myself with significantly more hope for the generation I am doing my part to rear.
1) I have decided that it's real dumb to stop listening to my music when it's something I love... I'm just not going to hide part of the Essential Sarah from my kid. That's silly.

So, Paige listens to, and (miracle of miracles!) likes rock and roll.

2) Not all kid's music completely sucks these days. We regularly jam to They Might Be Giants together... and let's be real, I jammed to They Might Be Giants way... way back in the day ( I still have my original copy of Flood). And there seems to be an upswing of not-too-shabby kiddie rock .... Kindie Rock, as Salon calls it.

Cool. I'll continue to maintain that we'll be sending Paige to rock and roll camp sooner than later...

23.6.06

Score One for the Yanks

From today's Salon

From where I was sitting in the epicenter of the Ghana-fan section, three seats away from drums that never ceased beating, American defender Oguchi Onyewu's foul didn't look like much of one. Indeed, my neighbor to the left seemed as puzzled as I was. But referee Markus Merk (now the most famous retired dentist in the world) was certain Onyewu had fouled Ghana forward Razak Pimpong from behind, and awarded a penalty kick to Ghana. Ecstasy broke out around me as midfielder Stephen Appiah fired home the shot that would send the West Africans into the next round and send the United States packing.

There was no ill will in either direction, though, not from Americans who felt they had been robbed, nor from triumphant Ghanaians gloating over their toppling of a superpower. A political superpower, that is. Despite its corniness, the motto for the 2006 World Cup -- "a time to make friends" -- was alive and well in Section 1b of the Nuremburg Frankenstadion on Thursday. I felt it throughout Germany in all the bars, trains and super-populated public viewing spaces I visited during the first two weeks of the world's most popular sporting event.

Despite the disappointment, all was not lost for the Americans in Germany. Large contingents of fans from Virginia, California, Pennsylvania and Texas -- no doubt inspired by midfielder, neophyte rapper and Texan Clint Dempsey (aka "Deuce") -- traveled to Nuremburg in support of their team. (No slight to residents of other states; these were the only contingents I could identify.) Allow me to pause for a minute to underline the importance of the words "their team." Perhaps for the first time at a World Cup not played in the States, Americans were out in full, spirited and gregarious force. Even four Brits -- two from Leicester City and two from Nottingham, diehard soccer fans because only the brave admit supporting those sides -- told me they were impressed by the Yanks. America, the world's football fans are proud of you!

Save the self-congratulatory pats on the back, though. There are four long years to consider this quick (and unnecessary) exit from the World Cup. Obviously there is still a long way to go in both footballing prowess and fan support, but that's taking nothing away from the great turnout by Americans, who seemed to just about outnumber the Ghana supporters in the Frankenstadion. Sitting in the Ghana section, however, it was hard not to switch allegiances. Chants of "U-S-A!" are little match for rhythmic drumming, ultra-charismatic fan support and what I'm pretty sure was some low-grade marijuana, brought out just as the final five minutes of injury time was announced to the crowd.

Despondency looks the same whether it's caked in red, white and blue makeup or worn as a frown by a tiny blond 10-year-old American girl who sits across from you on the train ride back from the stadium. The news that Italy had beaten the Czech Republic was more salt rubbed into the fresh wound. Had the U.S. managed to win, it would have been its flags waving on the long walk past the old Zeppelinfeld -- the massive meadow surrounded by rows of columns facing a large tribune constructed from plans drawn by Nazi architect Albert Speer. It didn't help that on this day, the Ghana side seemed eminently beatable. But baby steps, America, baby steps.

While culture critics feasted on the fascinating contradictions in Germany, there was some great football played in the first round of games, and highlights of public spectatorship were many. I spent the tournament's first, absurdly sunny Saturday afternoon at an outdoor bar/club/lounge/pool/wonderland called, rather inexplicably, Platoon, replete with a massive screen and two-tiered stands to boot in (east) Berlin's young and artsy Mitte district. The very fact that such a venue exists, and in total dedication to extracting maximum pleasure from a few football matches, is a testament to how saturated the country is in all things Weltmeisterschaft.

While not surprising, it is impressive to note that nary an advertisement on TV, in a magazine or newspaper, on a bus or on the metro does not have something to do with football. Halftime at matches is torturously rote: 15 minutes of what I'm convinced are the same commercials broadcast in exactly the same order. Even late-night television ads for phone sex lines feature pouting frauleins clad, momentarily, in full team kits, cavorting between studiobound goalposts, all the while daring you to, ahem, "score." But, football fanatic that I am, and lascivious or not, such excess feels like paradise.

And paradise apparently serves grilled chicken Caesar salads and Alsterwasser (a mixture of lager and lemonade that, despite how that may sound, is perfectly refreshing on a hot afternoon) with a view of Hamburg's famous harbor. Accuse me of Monday-morning quarterbacking (or centerbacking, as the case may be), but I wasn't expecting the U.S. to upset the Czechs as easily as they did the Portuguese in their first match at the 2002 World Cup. The Czechs were the strongest team at the 2004 European Tournament until their captain, Pavel Nedved (whom many have rightly noted is a dead ringer for a "Roadhouse"-era Patrick Swayze), fell to injury. To shield myself from possible shame, I wanted to watch the match in as comfortable a public setting as possible -- to ensconce myself in comfort to make the inevitable jibes and catcalls directed at yours truly less hurtful. Enter the phenomenon of the German beach club.

Often miles away from an open body of water, consisting of a boatload of sand dropped in the middle of open space in the middle of a city, beach clubs have become quite the rage in Germany. Uniting the beach and football is nothing new -- just ask the Brazilians -- but for the neutral spectator, the idea is tinged with genius. No doubt we have some Bauhaus-influenced brilliant mind to thank for this blessing. And though it pained me to see the U.S. so thoroughly beaten by the irresistible Czech attack, I cannot deny that the blow wasn't cushioned by a comfortable deck chair and a cold Beck's.

The other side of paradise can be found at Hamburg's Fan Fest, held in a massive open field called Heilingengeistfeld, capable of hosting upward of 50,000 people, all in the shadow of an equally massive flak bunker, which, after the Second World War, was scheduled for demolition; it survived all attempts at its destruction. How's that for German engineering? Four public seater stands (and one private one) face a gigantic LED flat screen, while smaller concourses snake around behind the stands, featuring tents dedicated to the cuisines of each of the 32 nations represented in the tournament. This is the province of both the diehard fan and the dilettante, equally welcoming to families and fanatics alike.

One of the things you notice very quickly about the World Cup's propensity to bring people together from various countries who might never cross paths is that the smallest measures of shared cultural understanding can make for fast friends. In the wake of Iran's 3-1 loss to Mexico, it's entirely fine for the German Fan Fest emcee to sing "La Cucaracha" in Spanish and both Mexican and Iranian fans alike will dance around in a huge conga line, loving every second. Perhaps I'm discounting alcohol as a contributing factor, but I do think that soccer has a lot to do with it.

"Vaya Con Dios" sang the Argentine to a clutch of Serbian (or Montenegrin) fans as they walked down the pedestrian-only concourse leading from the Gelsenkirchen Hauptbanhof (train station). It was a fitting, and perhaps necessary, blessing given what was to transpire between the footballing representatives of these two (recently three) countries later in the day.

I took a 5:40 a.m. train from Hamburg to Gelsenkirchen, a ride besmirched not merely by drunken German fans who boarded in Bremen (how they were drunk by 6:40 a.m. I've no idea) but also by the weather. A smattering of rain dampened the journey, but let up by the time I heard that sweet Argentine serenade. Skies remained gray, but the mood in the streets and subways was spirited. It looked to be a grim day for football, yet in the minutes before the gates to the Arena auf Schalke were unlocked -- and the cynical will not believe this -- a chasm of bright blue and sunshine broke through the clouds directly over the stadium. It appeared that God had, once again, a hand in matters concerning Argentine football.

Wearing large, dark sunglasses, I felt free to gawk at the spectacle before me. You could lose yourself in color: Serbian navy blue, the albiceleste of the Argentines. Four inexplicable Poles wore their country's red as if merely to complete the spectrum.

Beyond my comprehension, the doors opened three hours before game time. And despite plenty of evidence to the contrary -- namely, the throngs of people entering on all sides of me -- I couldn't help feeling special, as if World Cup president Sepp Blatter had an eye out for me. To be seated alone in the giant stadium could be described as peaceful if not for the German pop blasting over the loudspeaker.

The game, alas, was over before it began. Maxi Rodriguez scored in the fifth minute as the Argentines pinged the ball about with single touches, between and behind the vaunted Serbian defense. But even so fluid an attack could not prepare the crowd for what will be regarded as "the Goal." I'm almost certain countless babies were conceived in the moments after Esteban Cambiasso expertly finished Hernan Crespo's cheeky back-heeled pass into the top left half of the net. It's the kind of goal that creates football fans for life.

There were four more Argentina goals, one scored by budding genius Lionel Messi. Messi, who could be the best player at this tournament, is a stoop-shouldered kid with tousled hair who shuffles his weight gently, but perceptibly, from foot to foot, as if the tag of "the new Maradona" didn't weigh a thing. Of course, he takes off like a shot when he wants to, and was too much for the Serbs, assisting a goal and scoring one in just 15 minutes of play.

A game like this makes everyone smile, even those humbled in defeat, as I witnessed after the match, watching the Netherlands-Ivory Coast match with five smiling Serbs in a crowded bar. But really, what else can you do but smile when you lose by a touchdown in American football? A Scotsman and an Englishman squeezed between us and we were able to share predictions for next year's English premiership. They then told me about trying to buy scalped tickets from a "tout," going to the ATM to withdraw the money for the tickets and returning only to find the tout in handcuffs, pressed chest-first onto a German police van.

Looking back on my first two weeks at the World Cup, I continually smile at how easy it has been to start conversations with strangers from not-so-strange lands. Granted, it helps to be able to say the name Bastian Schweinsteiger (a young, talented German midfielder) with the verve and excitement of a 12-year-old. But you have to credit soccer -- like no other sport in the world -- for the goodwill. Sure, there's an aw-shucks quality to it, but then again, Americans are supposed to be good at this sort of thing. Now all we need is a domineering defensive center-mid and we're back in business.

Brazil!

So what if USA's out of the cup...
This was too much fun to pass up.

20.6.06

tired

Is anyone interested in hearing how tired I am?
I'm really, really tired.

I'm exhausted from the double-talk and backpedaling.
I'm done with the tiptoeing, the jockeying for position, with politicking and taking sides.
I'm so totally over misrepresentation, not saying what you mean, self-interest and two-faced interactions.

I'm spent when it comes to smiling, to playing nice, to grinning and bearing, to pretending like everything is OK.

Here's what I really want:
I want to hear people's honest opinion. Even if it's offensive. Or mean. Or selfish. Or stupid. Take a stand, be who you are. That means some people may not like you. Or that you are in the wrong relationship. Or the wrong community. Or the wrong educational system. Or the wrong job. Get over it -- that's life.
I want to see leaders, lead. And I want to see respect -- equality -- realism -- relationships -- take priority.
And I want to hear about the common good -- the end in mind -- our ultimate goal. And not about you, or me, or any one individual's petty snips and snats about another individuals' petty snips and snats.

I want to to be a part of something exhilarating -- something bigger than two people battling -- something that makes an impact, that changes our fabric, that shifts our world, even slightly.

But I cannot do that ensnared in a web of self-interest. It's sticky. It's ugly. It's a poisonous trap, and I desperately want out.

19.6.06

chronically imperfect

"The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none."
(thomas carlyle)

this quote validates me, in a way. At work recently, I have been working on a project that is not entirely within my realm of expertise (read: I have to push myself out of my comfort zone on a regular basis on this one) -- as well as working on my thesis, which requires some extra energy and definitely an acceptance of being outside my comfort zone at fairly regular intervals.

Additionally, (and I think most of my friends can attest to it,) I am constantly calling my competency -- my characteristics -- my strengths and weaknesses into question. Not work related, necessarily -- just, am I being the Sarah I want to be (the Sarah who follows the Guiding Competencies, that is...) And I think the consensus is that, those of us who truly have a stake in the self-actualized, healthy, competent world, are the ones who are actually questioning our competencies -- our level of self-actualization.

So, I have come to realize a dichotomy of sorts this weekend (mostly, as I stressed out wondering how I could balance laundry and preschooler and father's day and careerwoman... which, turns out, the laundry is still sitting there....)
1) I am chronically imperfect. And that's probably OK -- it at least gives me an ongoing project.
2) I am better off for accepting my chronic imperfection, because it seems that acknowledging my imperfection is the first step in acheiving what I can through the chronic imperfection.

9.6.06

turn, turn, turn




I've always loved that stupid song,
To everything,
(turn, turn, turn)
There is a season...

you get it.
And while I generally speaking, prefer to not torture my blog following with personal angst (though, I have been known to do it), I have to say that I'm in the middle of the turn, turn, turn part of my life right. this. second.

turn 1: Paige was diagnosed with allergies this week. To cats, dust, wheat, and to a lesser degree, dogs. Which means I need to find new homes for Neville and Chyna. (Fred stays -- he's too old and too speecial needs for us to try and find him a new home...) It's damn hard to part with animals when you consider them members of your family. Plus I now have carpet to get rid of, wheat products to give away...like our entire existance changed with one doctor's appointment.

turn 2: I'm at the apex of school... meaning, I feel like there's 100,000 things I still need to do and yet there's so little time to get it all done. Like everything else in my life, I know that it will all come together like it's supposed to -- it always does -- but anticipating the road ahead is overwhelming.

turn 3: friends are in a state of flux... I've rekindled some old friendships, I have friends who are looking to move, I have friends who are having babies, I have friends who are getting married, I have friends who I have lost. I feel joy and loss in all of this, and those are hard emotions to reconcile, both equally valid and yet somehow diametrically opposed. I languish in the joy of setting myself free from unconstructive relationships, though I feel like I take my joy in someone else's pain; I struggle with the pain of another pregnancy that isn't mine -- even though I'm at peace with having one child.

so that's the long and short of it. Turn, turn, turn, my world ... but not so fast I cannot keep up, if you please.

5.6.06

Insult, injury

Girls and boys, this week marks the beginning of the 2006 World Cup in Germany -- for those of you not in the know, it's a 4-year event that roughly equates to the soccer-specific Olympics.

Allow me to jump on the soapbox for 10 seconds here: Soccer is cool (see previous posts), in large part because it is a global game. It's a language you can speak with anyone else on the globe (virtually, excepting the good ol' USA, where the game is followed in pockets, but certainly doesn't enjoy the rampant popularity of American Football...) With the exception of this fine nation, the world basically stops for a month every 4 years and unites under the banner of football. What else in the world does that?

This is what makes my heart beat when I think of the game. This is what gives me goosebumps. This global camaraderie is what makes the game, the beautiful game.

So when John sends me this (pardon me) completly ignorant and bigoted article our very own St. Paul Pioneer Press chose to publish, I nearly fainted. Then threw up. Then considered starting a lynch mob.

Here are some things I really just cannot get my brain around here:
1) How completely ignorant is this writer? He starts his article by essentially professing his hatred of immigrants, legal or otherwise. And I'm wondering: He's probably not 100% native amercan (though that IS an assumption on my part), so I wonder how HE got here... did some crazy alien space ship drop him off in a pod at birth? Or is it more likely that his ancestors were also immigrants who brought their own traditions and passions and culture that was eventually woven into the fabric of this nation? Dumbass.
2) So you don't like soccer. OK, well, it's America, land of free choice (and I know, free speech). But that doesn't mean that ESPN is going to stop televising the biggest sporting event ON THE GLOBE (he can't argue with me there, the most people on the planet watch this one) because this red-neck idiot would rather watch golf. This is also America, land of capitalism -- and ESPN is probably not airing World Cup for charity -- duh, you moron, they are doing it because people watch, and when people watch, advertising sells, and sold advertising means $$$. Figure it out, buddy. You're the minority here.
3) When did free speech in this country begin to equate with the right to insult anyone you do not agree with? I'm all for voicing your opinion (believe me, this blog wouldn't exist otherwise), but you don't need to slander others to do that ... do you?

I have never been so insulted that it physically took me time and effort to read an entire article. I can only hope that other soccer supporters, soccer bloggers, and maybe even the casual observers will stand up, take note, and make their voices heard on this.
I thought I lived in a society that embraced the fact that our planet was growing smaller. Maybe Tom Powers will get the hint (or at least exit using that pod he was dropped here in.)