May 18, 2011 § 1 Comment
Some more from Betty:
Ok, last week’s posting got me inspired to write my own list, even though I realize a list is not a man. I have to be my significant other’s first priority, it’s what I give when I am committed, I deserve the same in return.
Dear Future Husband,
You must have the following qualities:
1. Absolute faithfulness, I don’t share
2. Deep kindness
3. Not afraid to show physical affection (not making out in public, but hand holding please)
5. Great sense of humor
7. A love of reading, especially together in bed
8. Movie buff, also an HBO buff would be nice
9. Must love dogs, especially big dogs and big animals in general
10. Must know without a doubt that he wants to be in a healthy, happy marriage
11. Wants to have children
12. Will give me the princess treatment, I’ll pull my own weight but make me feel like I don’t have to
13. Financially stable and responsible, I don’t mean rich, just be responsible
14. Manly (there are all types of manly, but I’m a girly girl, I want a MAN)
15. A healthy libido please, satisfy my needs and wants
16. Must have a balance between being healthy and active while also enjoys being home and relaxing
17. Not only want to be with me, but have the time to be with me
18. Most important, he must make me his number one priority and I will do the same for him
19. Unconditionally supportive
20. Comfortable dressing up for occasions but really a jeans and t-shirt guy
21. Confident in his dancing abilities even if he has no rhythm
22. Handy around the house, perhaps roofing or fixing cars
23. Willing to travel to the Midwest to visit family
24. Gentlemanly, like his parents raised him right and he still has a good relationship with them
May 11, 2011 § Leave a comment
As you may have noticed I’m trying to keep you hungry while I’m taking a brief hiatus. Unfortunately this isn’t for pleasure. I wish I was sending you half-assed posts from the Caribbean, but I’m not. Working hard for the man and trying to get somethings going for myself. Damn, I need a vacation. But I digress. @twenty-six’s list reminded of my own list I wrote out not too long ago. What scary is how much of it I’m checking off for Mister Red. He certainly fits the bill. Oooo, that’s kinda scary. Lies… that’s really scary, I had to stop reading it.
Enjoy the repeat! Dear Future Husband
May 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
This is a girl after my own heart. I thought these exact same things when I was 10. She’s going to be a bright, independent, successful modern woman one day with forward thinking like this. You go girl!
There is just one thing I have to say before I go on. STOP BEING SO STEREOTYPICAL! . The reason I have to let this is out of my system I am yet to tell you. So today I was reading a Mini Boden magazine ( some place in Sweden), and the magazine people asked questions to the kids who were modeling. The one question that ticked me off was this question: “What is the biggest difference between Boys ( That means you Boys) and Girls?” Here are some answers that were in this “magazine”. Kian, age 6, “Girls Like dolls, and Boys don’t”. Oh okay I know what you’re thinking “Oh he’s just six!”. Well you better listen to this. Stefano, age 7, “Girls wear pink, and Boys wear blue and green.” Okay you’re probably thinking the same thing. “Oh he is just 7. Well here is another one. Aiden, 6, “Girls like nail polish; Boys like Soccer Balls.’ Yeah I know he is six too. But getting closer to the older ones. Asha, age 8, “Boys are rougher and stronger.” Yeah he’s eight. Not six, or seven. He’s eight. He’s got a brain. He’s smarter than six and seven yr olds. It’s kind of old to me, because I am turning 11 this year. Okay so now that I have listed those Boys’ opinions, I am going to list the reasons why I think they are stereotypical.
#1 Hey I’m a Girl, and I HATE dolls! I also hate Barbies, pink, my little ponies, and glitter is okay I guess. But I don’t love it like boys think all girls do. But that’s just my opinion. Well let me give you a quick lesson. Not all Girls like prissy stuff including me…Give it a ponder.
#2 Like I said I HATE pink. I despise it. HACK See I spat on it. That’s how much I hate pink. Hey guess what Stefano, age 7, I wear blue, green, orange, and white about everyday like every other kid in America ( and for this kid in Sweden). I like just about every other color in the rainbow. Except for Pink ( the color not the singer). and purple. So Stefano, I think you have learned an important fact that not all Girls like pink.
#3 For one thing though I do like nail polish, but not just Boys like soccer. For example my friend Heidi is a master soccer player. You mess with her, she kicks you in the shins, or maybe just trips you on the field. Seriously I think you should stay away. For reals. And finally
#4 Okay one thing is that I could beat many boys in a wrestling competition that is up to my grade. Like at lunch today, I was an arm wrestling my friend that happens to be a boy. I beat him. Finally I took my hand off , because I knew he had enough. And also Jillian Michaels, or at least I think it is Jillian Michaels, she’s really strong. Probably the strongest woman I’ve ever heard of. So Asha, 8, give it a ponder.
So really the only reason I wrote this editiorial was to address Boys to stop being so stereotypical and for reading that messy magazine. And the only reason I was reading the magazine was because I was bored. And I must have been really bored to be reading a Swedish magazine about clothes that strangely gets sent to my house.
A Random person in Avon Indiana
Eliza Sayers, age 10
View the complete “editorial” here.
May 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
May 4, 2011 § 1 Comment
During my Monday morning commute, courtesy of my car-radio the sounds of Jimmy Hendrix in his dazzling version of the National Anthem swam a triumphant lap through my speakers. The news broke on Sunday evening, but I learned though a text message. Upon returning to my home I promptly googled the president’s address and watched it streaming in full. This modern technology less captivating than the memories transporting me back through the past ten years. The internet is no match for the time machine of my mind.
We all remember that day, that exact moment we learned of the worm in our big apple that would surely destroy it. Second period English class, a senior in high school, fresh off my very first visit to the big city. I was just there. I was just standing in those streets weeks before, falling madly in love with the idea of metropolis. New York was greater than the greatest mountain I had ever seen, more remarkable than the Grand Canyon, a working machine more impressive than the human body, the Twin Towers vital organs. And now, system failure. Then the whole world stopped to watch it fall.
Over the next couple years, the war began. First semester of college my roommate and I dormed up in our 12×12 foot sanctuary of youth watched the coverage relentlessly. The night vision green glow of bombs exploding onto a land half a world away in the name of freedom and retaliation. What if that was happening in my world? What if that was happening to the people I knew? Is it worth the risk? My collegiate bleeding heart would eventually have enough and I would force myself to change the channel. Just one button turned off the horror, just one button in a growing world of buttons.
It wasn’t soon before the revulsion jumped directly into my backyard. A childhood friend, not even of legal drinking age in this country was being sent out to defend it. He visited us on in our save-haven of university, not wanting to discuss, but enjoy his last blissful ignorance before uncloaking the war in that far off desert before his own eyes. We partied and laughed as I chased around hockey players and made jokes about my shortcomings. What else could I say? We toasted to our young adulthood, or latent adolescents depending how you looked at it.
Thankfully, he returned to us, unable to speak about such things. Corralled in a winter’s blanket of supporting peers, we didn’t pry, we celebrated. Although, the celebration was short lived, this war was still being fought. No sooner was he safe, would he be shoved back into harms way again, and I relocated briefly to the scene of the crime.
I arrived in New York City to spend the summer discovering myself, dancing about to acquire the confidence to break out of my mid-western mitten of warmth and security. The nightmare of September 11th was still on everyone’s lips. Hearing the stories of first hand accounts, eyewitnesses, the fear and the sadness. All I could do was listen, sympathize and try to understand the tattoo of that day this city, our country, will wear forever.
The comedic propaganda began ushering in at an all time high. Before the 2004 presidential election, Team America blasted into theaters as the ultimate fight song for a new generation. A generation getting their world news from opinion blogs and satirical news shows, forming their governmental views out of jokes. It had gone on for so long now it was starting to feel like a joke. A sick joke, not one to yield laughter. From the seven minutes spent reading a children’s book to the recount in Florida on a flawed system, to the removal of shoes and foreboding of all liquids, knitting needles, and tweezers to change air travel, trading in freedoms for security. And what of the rumors about oil and misguided intentions for the war on terror, the national deficit, and Homeland security. All of it bedding pulled over the monumental reconstruction of the New York Skyline. What was going on here? Someone tell me the punch line because still, I just don’t get it.
My friend came back safely from his second tour in Iraq. And last winter, years later, in a drunken spell we finally discussed the emotional impact, the lasting impression, his luck, and his bravery. While I was growing into a modern woman, he was fighting for my right to become one. He was fighting for me, along side so many others, so many others who did not return. How can this be fair? How can this be worth it?
In the recent years, at moments, I’d forget what exactly was going on in the part of the planet that was awake while I slept. I’d be shaken by calls from friends waiting for their significant other’s deportation disturbed to the core of a detrimental outcome. I’d be shaken at the thought of the billions of dollars spent on this war while watching the economic crisis crush the country and filing my own unemployment claim. Every time, brought back to the moments of the first blast, then the second, then the panic. The moments that began to redefine my generation beyond dot coms and chat rooms.
Years after the Band-Aid has been removed, the wound will still hurt. And I can’t help but think about how much went into killing one man. Or how the death of that one man could increase the size of the target on our backs. Ten years, just months shy of that decade anniversary we are delivered with retribution. However, I beg, the sweetness of this revenge cannot repair our foreign affairs, strengthen our economy, reform our health care, decrease unemployment, or rebuild the world trade center. I suppose the question on my lips now, was this moment worth the toil of these ten years gone by? Or is it just a precursor to the next decade we must endure?