Some People Just Love the Sound of Their Own Voices

Hey, I'll admit that I've never been much of a joiner. It's partly because I'm lazy, and partly because I've never wanted to be "that girl." You know, the one who always raises her hand in class, who spends hours on a paper maiche extra credit project, who has bumper stickers on her car. But now I'm an adult, and with a really important presidential race just a couple of months away, I decided to get in the ring and volunteer for the Obama campaign. 

I'll be honest: I voted for Hillary in the primary. I believed in her, I liked her, and I liked her message of taking back our America and reestablishing our place in the world as true leaders, not bulldozers. Of course, Obama's message was almost identical, just wrapped up in a different package. But his packaging was my concern--say what you will, but racism is still very much alive in this country, and I felt like too many people weren't ready to see an African-American man as President. But the people spoke and clearly his message of change, his charisma, his pragmatic thinking, convinced all of us that he is the best possible choice to be our leader.

What I've always felt though is that the only way he can win is if people actually get out there and vote for him. Sounds simple enough, but people don't vote. Period. They participate in polls, tell you they like this candidate or that one, and when it comes time to cast that vote, they're at work, at home, just don't have the time. Sometimes the lines are long, sometimes registering feels like more trouble than it's worth, and sometimes people feel like, "Why the hell should I? It's not like my vote counts." But as the last two presidential elections have proven, every single freaking vote counts, especially in the battleground states like Ohio, Florida, Pennsylvania. And rather than sit around with my fingers crossed, hoping that Obama can rally the troops, mobilize the young voters and African-American community to support their leader and hero, I decided I wanted to be part of that effort. I also think that if anyone can inspire people, it's Obama.

So, I signed up for Camp Obama, a two-day "seminar" designed to teach volunteers how to be effective members of the campaign. At first, I was excited, not only to get involved and to do my part, but to meet like-minded people. Having never worked on a campaign, I assumed they'd all be passionate political peeps, empathetic and fair-minded, educated and intellectual men and women who understood that to win this election, we'd have to be able to reach out to those outside of our socio-economic and cultural sphere, and relate to them.

But what became clear after just two hours, is that this was just a group of people who loved hearing themselves speak. Older, liberal, NYC-types who wore crocs and regaled us with stories of how they marched for civil rights and protested the Vietnam War. They'd stand up to ask a question, and rather than actually ask a question, they'd instead take that opportunity to talk about what effective volunteers they were. "Oh well, when I worked on the Kerry campaign, I did phone banking, and I was so very good at it. The other volunteers gathered around me to hear just how good I was, and I was an inspiration to them. So, my question, will you be assigning people like me to train those who are not as experienced?" Um, okay. Or how about this one? "When I did neighborhood canvassing, I managed to convince a large number of people to get out and vote, which I attribute to my background in sales. So, my question is, how can you best utilize me?" Really, I was wondering if CAA had a division of agents to represent the talented phone bankers and canvassers of the world.

So thanks to all of these Chatty Cathys and self-congratulatory pains in my asses, what could have been an educational and informative couple of days turned into slow, painful torture. Every person was more annoying and irritating than the next. Not one question was relevant or necessary, or had any bearing on what we were doing there. It was just a bunch of self-congratulatory folks, patting themselves on the back for being experienced volunteers.

The most irritating thing for me though, was realizing that these people just weren't listening. Sure, I've done my fair share of tuning out in class, but I found a lot of what they were talking about to be very interesting. I mean, come on, if I'm going to spend my weekend doing this, I wanted to at least take something away from it. So, we'd listen and then a handful of shmos would stand up and ask questions that one of the campaign staffers had already referenced. Pay attention, people! 

The staffers made two main points to us as volunteers, which both alleviated some of our concerns and reminded us of why we were so damn important. First off, on day one, they told us that we did not have to be policy experts. We aren't there to convince people to vote for Obama over McCain--we're there to encourage people who are already leaning towards Obama to take the plunge. And to do that, they emphasized telling our "Story of Self," making our own vote and support of Obama personal, relatable, so that a voter can see in our own story why Obama might be the right candidate for them.

The second thing they reiterated is the idea of GOTV: Get Out The Vote. The fundamental problem for most Democratic campaigns is that too many people stay home and don't vote. We've stopped believing that our vote counts, we've stopped caring about a government that clearly doesn't care about us. You can have 75% of the country rooting for Obama, but if only half of those people actually get into the voting booth on election day, he has lost. THAT is what the volunteers are for, that is the point they made strongly, that is why I'm even doing this to begin with.

But, of course, on the last day, when they asked small groups to get together and discuss what they've learned, what they will take away from all of this, I once again was ready to take my volunteer pamphlet and smack them all across the face. One woman kept talking about Obama's tax policy, and how important it is that we were all up on that. Then, with her "financial background" she decided to enlighten all of us on how exactly his tax policies work. Yeah, no one asked. 

Another woman talked about leadership and how she has exhibited leadership in the past in other campaigns. But really, it was 8 people all talking over each other, to the point I couldn't even get a word in. That was another thing they had taught us: to listen to voters. How could they possibly convince ANYONE to hit the voting booth on election day when they clearly aren't capable of hearing where other people are coming from?

Finally, the man sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Hey, I'm listening, go ahead." So I explained that I had never worked on a campaign, but that what I was hearing over and over the last two days was that it didn't matter what we knew about Obama's policies, it didn't matter how much we knew about politics. Our roles were to talk to voters and convince them that their vote counts, that it's their America, that it's their right and their privilege to be part of the political process and be heard. To assure them that if they vote for Obama, they will be one step closer to the American dream they've always wanted for themselves and for their children. But, we can't get there without each and every vote. When I was done, most of them kind of like "yeah, yeah"-d me. As we were getting up to leave though, the man who had been sitting next to me said, "I really appreciated and enjoyed your comments. You were so right." 

So, I will go where I am asked, and I will listen to voters, and I will try to help them understand how necessary their one vote is, that their voice can be heard. All I can do is my part, and hope that I can convince people of just how important they really are to the process. 

Hallelujah, I Can See!

Doctors, benevolent people though they might be, freak me out. They mean well, they're there to heal, but I get heart palpitations just picking up the phone to make an appointment. It doesn't matter if I'm going to see my internist or the dentist, I'm always convinced they're going to tell me I have some dreaded illness. You know, like gum disease, the silent killer. 

On a recent trip to Hawaii, we did this awesome bike ride down a mountain and one of the women in our group was a gastro-blah-blah-ologist, aka, stomach doctor. I felt a little distended from the plane ride the night before, and thought just maybe she was going to take one look at me and go, "Well, just by the looks of her, she clearly has an inflamed intestine, which could rupture at any moment. Thank God I brought a pocket knife and some Handi-Wipes." Luckily, that didn't happen. But like I said, doctors freak me out.

Of course it's unreasonable, I know that. I know too that one day something really will be wrong, and I'm going to feel like a total asshole for worrying about that bone spur on my hand. Until then though, I'll just continue to say the same little "let me be okay" prayer over and over, every time I go to see any man or woman whose name ends in an MD.

A couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to get laser surgery on my eyes. Although the surgery was quick, there were many follow-up visits that always threw me into a panic. Yet, every time I went, my eyes got better and better. Never 20/20, but damn close, and a freakin' miracle for someone whose vision was -11. For those who don't know, that pretty much means I was like Mr. Magoo.

Anyway, this awesome doctor was always nice when I saw him. He knew my name before even looking at my chart, and complimented me on being so cheerful. I could finally see without my contacts though, why wouldn't I be happy? I had found a doctor that I actually enjoyed going to! As my eyes improved, I felt proud of myself, as though I had willed it so.

Flash forward a year and a half. After all the required visits, they told me to come back in a few months, which I added a good year on to. But when I showed up, they told me all was well, and that both eyes had actually improved even more. Hallelujah! I should come here more often.

I then had one final visit with the doc (a graduation visit, if you will), just to check my eyes one last time and make sure they were healthy. This time, he didn't remember my name off-hand, although he did tell me my freckles were cute from the sun. Is that awkward? Well, I don't care, because he loves me and I love him. Apparently my vision is now 20/20, he praised me on how well my eyes did considering the fact that I was so blind before. And then dilated my eyes. He did the standard stuff, and me, being me, I asked him to check for glaucoma since my 83-year-old grandmother has it and inevitably, I must as well. Nope, no glaucoma, I was on my way. I thanked him for giving me perfect vision, for helping me to see, and told him it was one of the best things I'd ever done.

I walked out, eyes dilated–blind again, for old times sake...

You Just Can't Find Good Help These Days

I've confessed to being stupid, I've confessed to being lazy. Hey, let's make it a   trifecta--I'm messy too! I know, I know, you're wondering how my Hubby got so lucky. But I'm fairly good-looking, I make a mean garlic shrimp, and I brake for animals.

The one thing I don't do very well is clean. Blame it on the live-in help I grew up with, blame it on genetics, or we can just tie it back to my inherent laziness...which leaves me room to have more faults later (hooray!).

My dad is a total neat freak. He'll be sitting there having a conversation when, out of the corner of his eye, he notices a piece of lint on a chair, a picture just a little out of place. He gets up, removes the lint, straightens the picture, picks up the stray cat hair on the floor, and gets back to what he was saying. It's like he's got the human eye equivalent of dog ears. 

My mom, on the other hand, appreciates the beauty of a blazer strewn over a chair in the bedroom, the unwashed dish, still waiting patiently in the sink for its moment to shine once again. She's not a slob by any stretch of the imagination, but putting her clothes away isn't at the top of her to-do list.

I'm more like my mom. In fact, I feel that every bedroom needs a chair to throw your clothes on because, where else are you going to put them? My Hubby folds his clothes every night and puts them away. You'd think he was in the Marines with how neat and orderly his closets and drawers are. I've tried to fold neatly, I have. But then when I'm digging around for the shirt I really want to wear, it all gets messed up anyway. So really, why bother? 

In fact, many of my clothes, mostly the sweats and gym clothes, are lovingly placed in a pile hidden behind the door, next to my dresser. That way, when I need something, I can just pick up the whole pile, drop it on the bed, and sort through it that way. Then, it goes right back to the pile...where it belongs, thank you very much.

And don't get me started on dishes. Out of sight, out of mind, I say. As in, not sitting right in front of me on the coffee table, so therefore, they don't exist. Besides, who says they have to be cleaned and put away like right then? They've already been through enough, let them relax.

In fairness, I think maybe my aversion to cleaning may stem from some post-modern feminist idealogy--a sense that cleaning is degrading, below me, a 50's throwback, an affront to my "career-girl" sense of self. Feminists don't clean--they make their husbands do it! Golf claps, golf claps. Okay, not my strongest argument.

Alright, fine, let's just say it. I'm a slob. The place gets dusty, I don't always hang up my clothes, dishes sometimes sit in the sink. Plus, some of my shoes need to be re-heeled, my clothes often have small coffee stains, and my favorite jeans are two deep knee-bends away from a rip.

This is why my Hubby and I agreed to get a cleaning lady as soon as we moved in together. That way, we wouldn't be fighting about my hair in the tub or his random piles of crap everywhere. Actually, let me take this minute to sidenote. My jeans over the arm of the chair, offensive. But all the random papers in piles on every available hard surface, totally fine. What's wrong with this picture? 

Anyway, so my Hubby managed to find "Glo" for us, a little Indian woman who tends to say, "O-kay, o-kay" in slow motion. Now, I refer to "Glo" in parenthesis because her name actually isn't Glo. It's Shirley. Now, my Hubby says that Glo was the woman that started with us, and that Shirley is her sister. I think they're the same person. Maybe her name is Shirley Glo, like Mary Jo. Or really, her name is something like Shilpa and she just goes by Shirley. Who knows? We call her Glo.

So, at first, Glo seemed to have a problem keeping things on the shelf from breaking. We'd inevitably come home to a broken picture frame, a small Chinese figurine with its head hanging off. The best was how she managed to short circuit our cable box, twice. That was awesome! Of course, my Hubby had to lay down the law with her, beg her to be more careful. She responded with something like, "I didn't do it, it wasn't me!" which at first we thought was just a lame excuse. Later, we figured out that what she probably meant was, "It wasn't me, it was the real Glo!" but at the time, we thought she was pointing the finger at one of us. Speaking of which, she once basically accused me of stealing her gold bracelet. Are you sure you didn't see it anywhere and maybe keep it? she asked. Uh, excuuuse me?

Anyway, we got through that rough patch, but inevitably, we'd find something else to complain about. Maybe it's that she didn't make the bed nicely, or left soap scum in the bathtub. But really, who are we to complain when we haven't done it ourselves?

Now that I'm working at home though, the little quirks are driving me bananas. We live in a one-bedroom apartment, so there's really nowhere to escape. And no, I'm not one of those people who can sit in Starbucks with my laptop, no way. So, on the days she's here, we have to co-exist. Me, on my computer on the couch. Her puttering around from one room to the next. There must be some system she has, some method to her madness. She'll fill the sink with water, then make the bed, then mop the entryway, then clean the top shelf of the fridge, then go back to the bedroom. I'd do one room at a time, but as we already established, I don't clean.

A couple of times, we've come this close to firing her. And by that, I mean that my Hubby and I would converse about how we were gonna give her a piece of our mind, tell her how it is, let her have it. And then, when I'd see her, it would be more like, "Um, please, I'm sorry, if you can, yes, so sorry, use Tilex in the bathroom, please, thank you?"

But yesterday, my Hubby and I got all fired up for real. She's supposed to come Wednesdays, every two weeks, but she keeps changing it up at the last minute. Then, yesterday, bitch just didn't show up. WTF? I'm IMing my hubby, "That's it, we have to fire her, what do I say?" I'm getting names from my friends of other cleaning ladies. I won't take this s^%t anymore! Although, there was a wee tiny part of me that thought it was possible she had told me she was coming on Thursday. Just maybe?

Anyway, so yesterday, we were livid, figuring out how we were going to fire her, if I might actually be able to vacuum myself until we found someone else. In the back of my head though, I knew she was going to show up today. And she did.

There the poor thing is, standing at the door, and I'm like, "Where the hell were you yesterday, woman?!" Although, it really came out more like, "Um, hi, so um, where were you yesterday, um, sorry?" Bitch said she left a message? Oh yeah?, I say, let me check. I pick up the phone which did NOT have a red light beeping, and to humor her, I call our voicemail. You have 1 new voice message.

Oh shit! All that indignance...she was telling the truth! So, I had to apologize, ask her that from now on, she agrees just to come on Wednesdays, rather than change her days on me every other week. I mean, I could be sitting her naked for all she knows! Dumb argument, but as I've already attested, not the best litigator.

Hopefully, we've come to some sort of agreement. I told her that if she can't come on Wednesdays that week, that she should call a couple of days in advance and then just come the following week instead. Who knows if that will work.

The reality is, her job is a thankless one. Immigrants come to this country with few options, rent to pay, mouths to feed. I'm sure there are other things she'd much rather be doing instead of cleaning our dirty house and babysitting some other lady's bratty kids. 

That's why we're never really going to fire her, why we don't really care if there's still soap scum in the shower, if she breaks my hubby's Great Outdoors collectible. She does a helluva better job than I would ever do, without the privilege of standing on some post-modern feminist excuses...

I Hate the Gym-orexics

While my ample thighs and noticeable jiggle might lead one to believe otherwise, I'm a regular gym-goer. I hit the treadmill, lift weights, do a little yoga. I even hop on that escalator machine, that they call a Stairmaster, but really deserves a more telling title. Maybe one with some kick-your-ass to it like, The Destroyer or The "You Want Some of This?" 

But I digress. My point really is that I go to the gym regularly and I do my fair share of sweating and grunting and panting (oh my!). As soon as I step into one of those classes though, I feel like a "before" contestant on the Biggest Loser. Sure, I get through the warm-up just fine, but fifteen minutes in, I'm thirsty, out-of-breath, doing that little hands-on-hips, walk-in-place, gimme-a-minute kind of move that can only mean one thing, "That bitch is out of shape!" In my mind, I run through a litany of excuses: Well, clearly I just didn't have enough protein at breakfast or I must have a lower sweat threshold or Uh-oh, maybe I'm dying (see previous post for further explanation). 

Of course, you can't interrupt the class to explain why you're so embarrassingly uncoordinated and out-of-breath. So, I'll usually stop to get water since, hello, you have to keep hydrated. Or, my favorite, I'll pretend to be one of those people with an ongoing sports-related injury. You know, I suddenly stop and start bending my knee with a "Now, that's curious," look on my face. To make it more authentic, I keep the accompanying internal monologue going in my head, Is that my knee clicking? Oh WHY does that bum joint of mine have to act up now, of all times, in spin class?"

Despite my minor difficulty in fitness classes, they do work me out like no other, so I  keep going back for more. My new favorite is Resistance Rebounding, the fancy Crunch-word for Trampoline Time! We bounce around with fun music playing and an equally bouncy teacher, who I'm convinced is a former cheerleader. (Although, her outstanding rhythm and possible membership to the tribe makes her a more likely candidate for drill team). She really is a motivating teacher, and doesn't give me that, "Now what the hell is wrong with you?" look that the last rebounding teacher did when I couldn't seem to bounce and kick in unison. In fact, the last couple of times I've taken her class, she's kissing people hello, talking about her new haircut. I'm thinking just a couple more classes and she'll be calling me "hon" too!

So today, before class started, a few of us are waiting outside. These women are all fit and trim and clearly don't have day jobs, so I hate them. But there was one crazy bitch I found particularly offensive. I've seen her before...like seen her in every class I've ever taken there. She's the one who does the "extra challenge" in yoga and says "ohm" like super-loud and longer than anyone. I know, because she was next to me at the last class.

Anyway, she comes down to join the group while we're waiting, clearly all sweaty and worked-out. Oh my God, I think to myself, She's pre-cardio-ed? That's right, she did her cardio before the cardio, as though the 45-minute session that busts my butt and leaves me panting in the corner just isn't enough for her 5% body fat frame. Oh well, excuuuuse me. 

The last class lets out and I notice a couple of the women inside are hanging out to take this one as well. So Chisel followed by Rebounding? These chicks are hard-core! But I won't be intimidated, oh no. I grab my little trampoline, find a discrete spot in the back and I'm ready to bounce like I've never bounced before. Let me tell you, I kicked ASS today! I bounced and kicked at the same time, only stopped for water twice, didn't need to fake an injury. 

But just as I'm starting to feel like Jack Lalaine, I notice that Pre-cardio Bitch is putting her own twist on the routine. While we're all bouncing in place, she's scissoring her arms. We're doing jumping jacks, she's double-timing it. What's she trying to prove? Then I realize, she's not the only one. The double-feature women are also getting way more aggressive than the rest of us--like really keeping those knees high. 

I try to ignore them, instead focusing on the positive, like how the perky teacher looked at ME when she said, "Great job, ladies!" Or on the fact that either that mirror is a skinny mirror, the lighting is excellent, or I've gotten very toned. I'm here for me, not for them. I don't have some void that I fill with copious amounts of exercise (really, more like copious amounts of Brie). And I've got a bright shiny ring on my finger that reminds me again and again that I have someone in my life who loves me just the way I am, jiggle and all. I don't see any shiny thing on Pre-cardio Bitch's finger. 

After ab work and stretching and golf claps all around, I walk out feeling smug, happy, and (I daresay!) thinner. As I'm bidding the teacher a great weekend, I hear from behind me, "Bye Carol, thanks again!" Gasp! Bitch knows her by name...I'm going to have to come more often!

The Price of Stupidity

Growing up, I used to pride myself on my overall good health. Let a few sniffles keep me down? Hell no, I'm going to school! Throw up? I don't know of such things. Cavities? Not in this pristine mouth! But as soon as I got to college, I became a shell of my formerly hearty self, suddenly inflicted with eye ulcers, high blood pressure. I even wound up in the ER after too many Jello shots (and head-hitting-the-pavement kind of falls) left me with a freakish echoing sound in my head. Okay, so that last one, my fault. 

Whereas once I used to skip into the doctor's office and bravely bare my forearm to the needle-wielding nurse, now, I was terrified by the antiseptic white office. Was this the trip where he'd tell me I was dying? I'm sorry to tell you this, but that cystic zit is actually a deadly, flesh-eating fungus. Call your parents, you have 48 hours to say goodbye. Obviously, nothing serious has befallen me yet (knock on wood, please), which is comforting, sure, but hasn't made me any less fearful of tests and scopes and EKG's. Truth: if not for the fact that I need prescriptions filled, I'd probably drop into the doctor's office once every two years, if that. 

So, I was coming up on a much-needed dentist visit, and while I wasn't afraid of oral cancer  (although had I known they'd be checking for oral cancer, you can be damn sure I'd have been fretting over it), I was afraid that I might need root canal or gum surgery or ten of my teeth replaced. No, not because I had any tooth pain or problems, just cause, you know...

But I was feeling a little confident about this visit. I'd been using a Sonicare toothbrush for a couple of years now, occasionally flossed, and had been rinsing with Listerine religiously...for the last three days. Plus, I'd just been to the dentist a year ago (give or take six months). So you can imagine my surprise when the hygienist told me that I had four cavities. Uh, what?

In fairness, a couple weren't really my fault (no, really, even the doctor said), but I had a few fairly big cavities on the chewing surface of my teeth, in those grooves where all the food goes. So the hygienist, maybe after having seen this before, asks, "Do you brush the part of your teeth that you chew with?" Hahaha, oh please, lady, of course, duh! That's actually what I wanted to say, and my brain did kind of have the duh thing running through it. 

  But the reality was, since I'd been using the Sonicare, no! When I first bought the damn thing and was reading the directions, it talked about holding the brush at a 45 degree angle from your gums, gently moving from one tooth to the next, with no mention of the chewing surface. There wasn't even time in the 30 seconds allotted to every quadrant. 

At the time, I'm fairly sure that I expressed my concern to my  husband, who I think may have responded with, "Oh no, the vibrations knock all the food loose." This, of course, might mean that my husband, despite his freakishly healthy teeth, might actually be using his wrong too. (Note to self: watch him next time he brushes.) But, no matter. It's my teeth that have the cavities, it's me who had to face the hygienist and then the dentist, about why I'd choose to ignore the most essential brush-spot in this mouth of mine. It's like Brushing 101. It's like cleaning the toilet seat, but leaving crap in the bowl!

Feeling that the dentist would look upon me more favorably if I was an idiot, rather than a delinquent brusher, I explained my mistake to him, and told him that I'd misunderstood the instructions when I first started using it, and no one had ever told me otherwise. His response, "Did you only read the first page?" 

So, with four cavities and hundreds of dollars worth of dental work in front of me, I wanted to get to the root (haha, love me) of what went wrong. Even my mom, the bearer of my Sonicare gift two years ago, said, "Four cavities? But you've been so good." Again, is it better to admit to my stupidity, or admit that I have a cesspool of bacteria inside my mouth? I went with telling her that I've been "using the Sonicare wrong," and left the other details out.

Back at my computer, I decided to look up those ill-fated directions on this supposedly mouth-saving product of mine. Lo and behold, I'm not totally stupid. After explaining where to place the brush and how to use it, it's only on step #5, after all is said and done, that they suggest maybe brushing at the chewing surfaces, like an added bonus, if you have time. So I'm not totally, entirely stupid... I just maybe follow direction a little too well.