I simply have to share this one. I know, I know, kooky 'animal talks' video. But come on, this must be seen.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Too wrong to be right
Today we went to the dentist (joy). It was actually somewhat pleasant and uneventful, as Adelaide loves the dentist and they do both of our appointments at the same time, so it goes fairly quickly. The dental hygienist is quite taken with Adelaide, and today rewarded her with the usual toothbrush. In addition, she gave her a couple of these:
Adelaide was thrilled, as she is always asking to floss which requires my help, and with these she could do it herself. But I foolishly thought this product was something which I could re-string with new floss to re-use. After all, it's a big hunk of plastic, most likely non-recyclable, and certainly wasteful in any case even if it can be recycled. I understand the intent, as most children are not as into oral hygiene as mine is (the first job she ever expressed an interest in? Dentist.), and convincing them to floss might be a real battle. But the wastefulness of these things is over the top, as far as I'm concerned.
Tomorrow's project? Finding a kid-friendly flosser which we can string ourselves. And maybe making a diorama of colorful, plastic, toothless creatures.
Adelaide was thrilled, as she is always asking to floss which requires my help, and with these she could do it herself. But I foolishly thought this product was something which I could re-string with new floss to re-use. After all, it's a big hunk of plastic, most likely non-recyclable, and certainly wasteful in any case even if it can be recycled. I understand the intent, as most children are not as into oral hygiene as mine is (the first job she ever expressed an interest in? Dentist.), and convincing them to floss might be a real battle. But the wastefulness of these things is over the top, as far as I'm concerned.Tomorrow's project? Finding a kid-friendly flosser which we can string ourselves. And maybe making a diorama of colorful, plastic, toothless creatures.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thank you ma'am, may I have another?
If you ever have an opportunity to visit a Korean spa, I urge you to get yourself a body scrub. It is an experience which compares to no other, in my opinion. Prior to my first scrub, I had read a review describing some of the details, which pretty much gave me the idea that you would have to be crazy to do this voluntarily. But curiosity got the best of me when the opportunity arose, and I found myself nervously soaking in the hot pools awaiting my fate.
I can't speak for any other Korean spas, but the one I frequent is a very interesting mix of tranquility and warmth with an somewhat para-military level of rules and order. Upon check-in, everyone is issued a thin robe, cloth shower cap and a number. You are expected to
remove your shoes and don the regulation wear, though in the soaking and scrubbing area you wear only the cap. Signs are posted everywhere with strict rules about how many cups of water one is to drink prior to entering heated rooms, how long one is to soak and in which temperature pools prior to being scrubbed, and between which areas and events showers are required. For the novice spa-goer seeking relaxation, there is a lot to worry about.
So, after your 30 - 40 minute soak in the 97 or 104 degree pools, one of the scrub ladies comes around calling your number. You hop to and she leads you back into the not particularly private scrub area, where a long row of waterproof massage tables line up like kitchen prep stations.
On busy days, there are bodies in various states of lather all down the row. It's actually rather hard to be self-conscious looking down the line, even when you are about to be laid out like a slab of meat to be marinated and tenderized on the table, because everywhere you turn it's just more skin and every shape and size of body one could imagine. (Don't let the photo deceive you, there are not actually any privacy screens hanging between stations.)
The order is always the same. Lie on your belly, and the scrubbing starts at your right heel and works up your entire right side and down the left. Hot water from a big bowl for a rinse, 2 or 3 washes, then again, right to left. Some scrubbers are more vigorous than others, but basically it ranges from velcro through brillo pad to steel wool in intensity. Usually not to the point of pain, but always to the point of the outer 3 or 4 layers of skin sloughing off around you in dirty, shameful little piles. I thought I knew how to shower and I employ loofah and scrub brush, but you simply cannot scrub your own skin with the force and determination of a Korean scrub lady.
Next you turn to one side, 2 scrubs, 2 rinses, then the other side, repeat. Then on your back, 2 scrubs, 2 rinses, and you are into the recovery phase. A gentle scrub for the face followed by steaming towels. A fresh steaming towel over your face while the sudsy massage takes a spin through. More hot water rinses and steaming towels on shoulders. Then a return to your belly, more sudsy massage, more steaming towels with a final squeeze. Sit up, more rinsing, more steaming towels, then boom, you're left to stagger out while the scrub lady gets her station ready for the next lucky customer.
It might not sound like your cup of tea, and it's certainly not for the faint of heart. There is no part of you left unscrubbed. This is no American-style massage, with careful draping and the pretense that your naked body is not really being handled all over by a stranger. You are out there, bright lights, big city, Korean lady. But when you run your fingers over your skin, you cannot recognize yourself, because it feels like a baby's cheek. You keep feeling it because it is such a strange sensation to touch your own skin and have it feel like it belongs to someone else, someone much younger who takes much better care of themselves.
And while the rules and the robes feel a little like prison, they are also oddly freeing. I guess the donning of the shower cap is kind of a great equalizer -- you are just another big bag of skin to be scrubbed up and shipped off, and there's not a lot of room to worry about what anyone else thinks.
I can't speak for any other Korean spas, but the one I frequent is a very interesting mix of tranquility and warmth with an somewhat para-military level of rules and order. Upon check-in, everyone is issued a thin robe, cloth shower cap and a number. You are expected to
remove your shoes and don the regulation wear, though in the soaking and scrubbing area you wear only the cap. Signs are posted everywhere with strict rules about how many cups of water one is to drink prior to entering heated rooms, how long one is to soak and in which temperature pools prior to being scrubbed, and between which areas and events showers are required. For the novice spa-goer seeking relaxation, there is a lot to worry about.So, after your 30 - 40 minute soak in the 97 or 104 degree pools, one of the scrub ladies comes around calling your number. You hop to and she leads you back into the not particularly private scrub area, where a long row of waterproof massage tables line up like kitchen prep stations.
On busy days, there are bodies in various states of lather all down the row. It's actually rather hard to be self-conscious looking down the line, even when you are about to be laid out like a slab of meat to be marinated and tenderized on the table, because everywhere you turn it's just more skin and every shape and size of body one could imagine. (Don't let the photo deceive you, there are not actually any privacy screens hanging between stations.)The order is always the same. Lie on your belly, and the scrubbing starts at your right heel and works up your entire right side and down the left. Hot water from a big bowl for a rinse, 2 or 3 washes, then again, right to left. Some scrubbers are more vigorous than others, but basically it ranges from velcro through brillo pad to steel wool in intensity. Usually not to the point of pain, but always to the point of the outer 3 or 4 layers of skin sloughing off around you in dirty, shameful little piles. I thought I knew how to shower and I employ loofah and scrub brush, but you simply cannot scrub your own skin with the force and determination of a Korean scrub lady.
Next you turn to one side, 2 scrubs, 2 rinses, then the other side, repeat. Then on your back, 2 scrubs, 2 rinses, and you are into the recovery phase. A gentle scrub for the face followed by steaming towels. A fresh steaming towel over your face while the sudsy massage takes a spin through. More hot water rinses and steaming towels on shoulders. Then a return to your belly, more sudsy massage, more steaming towels with a final squeeze. Sit up, more rinsing, more steaming towels, then boom, you're left to stagger out while the scrub lady gets her station ready for the next lucky customer.
It might not sound like your cup of tea, and it's certainly not for the faint of heart. There is no part of you left unscrubbed. This is no American-style massage, with careful draping and the pretense that your naked body is not really being handled all over by a stranger. You are out there, bright lights, big city, Korean lady. But when you run your fingers over your skin, you cannot recognize yourself, because it feels like a baby's cheek. You keep feeling it because it is such a strange sensation to touch your own skin and have it feel like it belongs to someone else, someone much younger who takes much better care of themselves.
And while the rules and the robes feel a little like prison, they are also oddly freeing. I guess the donning of the shower cap is kind of a great equalizer -- you are just another big bag of skin to be scrubbed up and shipped off, and there's not a lot of room to worry about what anyone else thinks.
Friday, February 13, 2009
I'll Be Your Server Today
This morning I had the rare and lovely opportunity to go to a yoga class on a Friday. At my studio you sign in on a sheet and check off a box to say you have a pass. On the top of the sheet, for the office staff and accounting, it has the date and time along with the instructor's name.
This morning the regular Friday teacher's name was crossed out and the name of the former office manager was written in its place. I noticed, but wasn't really sure how that was going to work, as the woman was not a yoga instructor as far as I knew. But I was just happy to be there, and not really concerned, since I had taken many of the same classes as this woman and have a respect for her practice and for her as a person.
So, as it turned out, she did teach the class, and did a fine job of it. Her style was a blend of some of the instructors we had shared, and she was confident and led us through a well-balanced yoga session. I had the good experience of letting go of thoughts and getting into a meditative mindset, for the most part, but I must admit to one line of thinking that I let myself pursue a bit, which was remembering a funny experience from almost five years ago. It was another case of an office manager taking on an unexpected role, only this one was not nearly so pleasant or relaxing.
I know it was about 5 years ago because I had a friend watching my then infant for me, which was one of the first babysitting experiences I had done, and it was killing me that it was happening so I could have a filling put in at the dentist. But during my pregnancy one of my fillings from childhood gave up the fight and they wanted to wait until after I had the baby to replace it, so here I was. Everything started out as usual, with the hygienist setting up the horrid little dental dam and laying out the instruments of torture for the dentist.
After she had gotten me all prepped, another woman I didn't recognize came in and got out the big needle to numb me up. I was a little confused, because this was usually the dentist's job, and as far as I knew he didn't have a partner. But I figured he must have added one, and I couldn't really talk at that point so I had to roll with it. After she finished, she explained to me that Dr. Swanson would do any drilling needed and she would be setting the filling and making any necessary adjustments. I was able at that point to say that I didn't think we had been introduced and was she another dentist?
Now comes the good part. She apologized to me, and said she assumed that I remembered her as she had been the office manager while she was attending hygienist school. She explained that her training had included all aspects of fillings except drilling (hence her wielding the giant needle) and that Dr. Swanson checked her work but she basically did the majority of it.
I didn't have a problem with this system, and she was gentle and did a good job on my tooth. But, um, hello, she assumed I recognized her as the office manager? And she didn't explain that she now had taken years of schooling so that she was capable of injecting my cranial nerve and putting amalgam in a hole in my tooth? If I had recognized her and thought that the dentist was trying to increase his practice by giving the office manager the needle full of drugs, I would have needed the apology. As it was, I was wanting to know but not fearing permanent nerve damage.
I wonder what the third case of office manager saves the day is going to be. All I can say is, if the receptionist at the ob/gyn starts to glove up, I am outta there.
This morning the regular Friday teacher's name was crossed out and the name of the former office manager was written in its place. I noticed, but wasn't really sure how that was going to work, as the woman was not a yoga instructor as far as I knew. But I was just happy to be there, and not really concerned, since I had taken many of the same classes as this woman and have a respect for her practice and for her as a person.
So, as it turned out, she did teach the class, and did a fine job of it. Her style was a blend of some of the instructors we had shared, and she was confident and led us through a well-balanced yoga session. I had the good experience of letting go of thoughts and getting into a meditative mindset, for the most part, but I must admit to one line of thinking that I let myself pursue a bit, which was remembering a funny experience from almost five years ago. It was another case of an office manager taking on an unexpected role, only this one was not nearly so pleasant or relaxing.
I know it was about 5 years ago because I had a friend watching my then infant for me, which was one of the first babysitting experiences I had done, and it was killing me that it was happening so I could have a filling put in at the dentist. But during my pregnancy one of my fillings from childhood gave up the fight and they wanted to wait until after I had the baby to replace it, so here I was. Everything started out as usual, with the hygienist setting up the horrid little dental dam and laying out the instruments of torture for the dentist.
After she had gotten me all prepped, another woman I didn't recognize came in and got out the big needle to numb me up. I was a little confused, because this was usually the dentist's job, and as far as I knew he didn't have a partner. But I figured he must have added one, and I couldn't really talk at that point so I had to roll with it. After she finished, she explained to me that Dr. Swanson would do any drilling needed and she would be setting the filling and making any necessary adjustments. I was able at that point to say that I didn't think we had been introduced and was she another dentist?
Now comes the good part. She apologized to me, and said she assumed that I remembered her as she had been the office manager while she was attending hygienist school. She explained that her training had included all aspects of fillings except drilling (hence her wielding the giant needle) and that Dr. Swanson checked her work but she basically did the majority of it.
I didn't have a problem with this system, and she was gentle and did a good job on my tooth. But, um, hello, she assumed I recognized her as the office manager? And she didn't explain that she now had taken years of schooling so that she was capable of injecting my cranial nerve and putting amalgam in a hole in my tooth? If I had recognized her and thought that the dentist was trying to increase his practice by giving the office manager the needle full of drugs, I would have needed the apology. As it was, I was wanting to know but not fearing permanent nerve damage.I wonder what the third case of office manager saves the day is going to be. All I can say is, if the receptionist at the ob/gyn starts to glove up, I am outta there.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
When Google Speaks
So, this wasn't an original idea, but I typed in the following 12 phrases and here are my google search results:
1. Christine needs to know where her inventory is at all times.
2. Christine looks like she could kick my ass.
3. Christine hates this new format.
4. Christine goes low carb for Health, Promptly Drops 6 Dress Sizes in A Month
5. Christine loves dorky Erik.
6. Christine eats her cake with chop stix [sic].
7. Christine has broken the curse of Seinfeld
8. Christine works as a dedicated twenty-something coach in Los Angelos
9. Christine lives in the "land of the pathetic."
10. Christine died in Vienna.
11. Christine will see you now.
12. Christine is Introduced to the Boy Police Say is Her Son at the Train Station.
1. Christine needs to know where her inventory is at all times.
2. Christine looks like she could kick my ass.
3. Christine hates this new format.
4. Christine goes low carb for Health, Promptly Drops 6 Dress Sizes in A Month
5. Christine loves dorky Erik.
6. Christine eats her cake with chop stix [sic].
7. Christine has broken the curse of Seinfeld
8. Christine works as a dedicated twenty-something coach in Los Angelos
9. Christine lives in the "land of the pathetic."
10. Christine died in Vienna.
11. Christine will see you now.
12. Christine is Introduced to the Boy Police Say is Her Son at the Train Station.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Morning Conversation
A: Is God real? (listening to "Ginger Pye," a story in which said deity is referenced)
C: God is something some people believe in, and some people don't.
A: I believe in God.
C: Yes?
A: God is a person who died.
C: I see.
C: God is something some people believe in, and some people don't.
A: I believe in God.
C: Yes?
A: God is a person who died.
C: I see.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Real Truth
Many people I know tell me that high school was a very bad experience for them, full of painful memories and a sense of not belonging. I imagine that this is true for many others, and I suppose that shared experience is part of what draws people together later in life. I understand why people feel that way, and while I certainly have reasons to be glad to have survived my teens, I also am lucky to have mostly positive memories of high school. I was busy, had friends, had some incredible experiences, and figured out a lot about myself and what I wanted from life.
For me, the time of life I can almost not bear to remember came before high school. Much of my eighth grade year was spent lonely, confused and embarrassed. With the exception of one new friend and a few not so close ones, everything in my world turned for the worse and by the summer before high school I was probably clinically depressed.
Which may be part of why high school didn't suck for me. I entered it so incredibly determined to start fresh, to make some new friends and move on from whatever had made the year before so unbearable.
I haven't spent a lot of time pondering the reasons why I had such a low time back then. I have had them at other points in my life, and have been lucky enough to find ways out. But when I saw a photo posted on Facebook by someone from my eighth grade class, I decided that the real reason I was unhappy wasn't teenage girl trouble at all, it was fashion. This photo is from our eighth grade graduation.
Clearly, we were dressed for marriage to a 55 year-old FLDS member (all of us to the same one), and I was simply depressed over the fact that I was headed to a life of ignorance and hardship. And bearing 14 children who would be the property of some other old man some day. The only thing missing are the hairdos.
For me, the time of life I can almost not bear to remember came before high school. Much of my eighth grade year was spent lonely, confused and embarrassed. With the exception of one new friend and a few not so close ones, everything in my world turned for the worse and by the summer before high school I was probably clinically depressed.
Which may be part of why high school didn't suck for me. I entered it so incredibly determined to start fresh, to make some new friends and move on from whatever had made the year before so unbearable.
I haven't spent a lot of time pondering the reasons why I had such a low time back then. I have had them at other points in my life, and have been lucky enough to find ways out. But when I saw a photo posted on Facebook by someone from my eighth grade class, I decided that the real reason I was unhappy wasn't teenage girl trouble at all, it was fashion. This photo is from our eighth grade graduation.
Clearly, we were dressed for marriage to a 55 year-old FLDS member (all of us to the same one), and I was simply depressed over the fact that I was headed to a life of ignorance and hardship. And bearing 14 children who would be the property of some other old man some day. The only thing missing are the hairdos.
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