For my friends (READ: DIANNA) who get on my case about not posting regularly, I will have you know I've been very busy. No, not stalking my new kickboxing instructor. Although he is a sweet piece of eye candy I will not lie. I have new reason to go to kickboxing beyond imagining beating to a pulp the last guy I dated.
Where was I?
Beating to a pulp last guy I date, sweet kickboxing instructor eye candy, being busy. Right being busy.
So I've been very busy. Very very busy. Understanding google chrome and partying like a rockstar at the downtown Standard roof bar on a Tuesday night are very very taxing on little Rebs. But I've also been doing work. And no that was not well intentioned placement for my boss who may stumble across blonde memoirs. Fine, it was. But I've been doing writing too. Did you hear that Dianna? To get Dianna off my back (I love you) (like the sister I never wanted) I've put up some published articles I've written for work lately. You can read them if you want. Or not. If I were you, or my Mom, I wouldnt. She doesn't love me, never has. What's your reason?
Wow this post took an unexpected turn to the dark side.
http://swimnetwork.com/blogs/blog/20080418/usoc_chicago_media_summit_wrap_up-668.html
http://swimnetwork.com/blogs/blog/20080905/swim_star_teammates_find_fame_on_dry_land-1235.html
http://swimnetwork.com/blogs/blog/20080910/team_speedo_rings_nyse_opening_bell-1246.html
http://swimnetwork.com/blogs/blog/20080908/two_games_of_equal_splendor-1241.html
http://swimnetwork.com/blogs/blog/20080911/live_from_new_york__it_s_saturday_night_-1250.html
http://swimnetwork.com/blogs/blog/20080916/a_man_of_many_wigs-1260.html
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Tina Fey is a Better Salah Palin than Sarah Palin is a Sarah Palin
Lisa: Did you hear Sarah Palin had tanning beds installed in the governor's mansion?
Rebecca: I did not hear that.
Lisa: Great, now there's no way I'm going to convince you not to vote for her.
Rebecca: How about a compromise. Tina Fey for VP.
Lisa: Done.
Rebecca: I did not hear that.
Lisa: Great, now there's no way I'm going to convince you not to vote for her.
Rebecca: How about a compromise. Tina Fey for VP.
Lisa: Done.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Kickboxing Until I Kick the Bucket
My fascination in exercising has interesting roots.
At seven, and at eight, nine, and ten, I liked to swim the summer months away. When they'd come to a close, I'd beg my mother to continue. Discovering I wouldn't really let it go, she looked in to a year round program, to swim on a team, summer to summer and spring through fall.
I loved to swim because of it's other worldly nature to it. Water is a substance devoid of sound and chores, homework, and the domestic angst that plagued my childhood. It was a happy place, of innocent intentions where I could be as good, or as lazy as I wanted to be, where I was part of a team, but my success was internally bred. It was a source of focus and motivation, and an escape, when the dry land world was unforgiving. Success in swimming means medals and fast times, but success in swimming means more swimming. And more swimming means not a whole lot of anything else. A year short of college and a surgery to my shoulder later I hung up my Speedo to dry for the last time, and moved on.
Retired athletes all visit the same post sport issues - the what next, the change in body image, and a return to an unforgiving dry land world.
I kicked around doing something else, but I was never as good at anything as I was naturally suited for water. I got older and joined a gym with the masses to fit in to my 7 jeans. I spent years making up reasons why I was entirely too busy to go, until I realized it was time to grow up and take care of myself.
I've done spin and elliptical, rowing machines, weights and treadmills and pilates and yoga. Last week I started kickboxing.
I liked kickboxing, and for more reasons than imagining the battered face of last guy who broke up with me while punching and kicking toward the mirror. It was a lot of jumping around, but with that came coordination and choreography, which I'd somehow became really really bad at. I'd learn one move, and we'd be on to the next. I couldn't master right arm and left leg. I thought chewing gum and patting my head and tummy were next. There was a lot going on at once. I was surrounded by a lot of people not just more in shape than me, but with a lot more energy, as if that was possible. It was the best workout of my life, and I left the class half with the feeling I cant wait to do that again, and one half I think sometime before this class I decided I didn't love myself anymore to put myself through that pain. The two halves made one whole world of pain in parts of my back that made it entirely impossible to turn over in bed.
So I cried.
Like the zen masters before me, I would conquer kickboxing class. I returned Thursday for kickboxing class PART TWO (insert Jean Claude accent for flare). After improperly warming up, and getting yelled at for doing just about everything wrong, the music two beats ahead of anything I was doing, a spinning room and a whole lot of sweat, I made this solemn vow. I will, if it's the very last thing I do, master kickboxing class. And look hot for my 20 year reunion.
At seven, and at eight, nine, and ten, I liked to swim the summer months away. When they'd come to a close, I'd beg my mother to continue. Discovering I wouldn't really let it go, she looked in to a year round program, to swim on a team, summer to summer and spring through fall.
I loved to swim because of it's other worldly nature to it. Water is a substance devoid of sound and chores, homework, and the domestic angst that plagued my childhood. It was a happy place, of innocent intentions where I could be as good, or as lazy as I wanted to be, where I was part of a team, but my success was internally bred. It was a source of focus and motivation, and an escape, when the dry land world was unforgiving. Success in swimming means medals and fast times, but success in swimming means more swimming. And more swimming means not a whole lot of anything else. A year short of college and a surgery to my shoulder later I hung up my Speedo to dry for the last time, and moved on.
Retired athletes all visit the same post sport issues - the what next, the change in body image, and a return to an unforgiving dry land world.
I kicked around doing something else, but I was never as good at anything as I was naturally suited for water. I got older and joined a gym with the masses to fit in to my 7 jeans. I spent years making up reasons why I was entirely too busy to go, until I realized it was time to grow up and take care of myself.
I've done spin and elliptical, rowing machines, weights and treadmills and pilates and yoga. Last week I started kickboxing.
I liked kickboxing, and for more reasons than imagining the battered face of last guy who broke up with me while punching and kicking toward the mirror. It was a lot of jumping around, but with that came coordination and choreography, which I'd somehow became really really bad at. I'd learn one move, and we'd be on to the next. I couldn't master right arm and left leg. I thought chewing gum and patting my head and tummy were next. There was a lot going on at once. I was surrounded by a lot of people not just more in shape than me, but with a lot more energy, as if that was possible. It was the best workout of my life, and I left the class half with the feeling I cant wait to do that again, and one half I think sometime before this class I decided I didn't love myself anymore to put myself through that pain. The two halves made one whole world of pain in parts of my back that made it entirely impossible to turn over in bed.
So I cried.
Like the zen masters before me, I would conquer kickboxing class. I returned Thursday for kickboxing class PART TWO (insert Jean Claude accent for flare). After improperly warming up, and getting yelled at for doing just about everything wrong, the music two beats ahead of anything I was doing, a spinning room and a whole lot of sweat, I made this solemn vow. I will, if it's the very last thing I do, master kickboxing class. And look hot for my 20 year reunion.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Ah, touché, touché Mr. Senators
There are many things I’ve learned about adulthood.
1. The taxes and bills, are, quite simply, necessary tradeoffs for staying up as late as you want and wearing high heels.
2. Whether or not it’s a good idea, you can eat donuts for dinner, if it suits your fancy.
3. As much as they despise it, you can dance with your cats when you can’t sleep and there’s simply a song that moves you.
4. Above all, of the most consequential things I’ve learned about adulthood - the truth lies somewhere in between just about every extreme my parents taught me.
For the hippies that they were, my parents, they were very black and white people. Their paradigm binoculars saw very little color. I recall upon a trip to the mechanic.
“Rebecca you don’t have to bring your car in every week like your mother, but more than once every 5 years for an oil change would be nice.” (Insert adorable Israeli accent where applicable).
My mother sees her doctor every week, in sickness and in health. I don’t believe my father has been to one in his entire adult life.
There’s very little moderation, very little balance, to my parents life and consequently, to their marriage.
It’s little surprise, they would create such a pact with one another.
I recall my first election as a newly minted adult. This guy in one of my classes asked me in the hallway which candidate I would vote for. I was a political science major, and in hindsight, given how much I now know, it wasn’t a completely crazy, completely unreasonable question. But I was shocked, I was appalled, and I most certainly was not going to answer that question. Ho hum. He was confused how he had offended me, and I didn’t see where he got off. I asked a panel of experts.
I asked my friends.
"Friends, where does this guy, and his failed pick up lines, get off asking me who I'm voting for." Ho Hum.
(Start tender moment music)
“Rebecca. Sweetheart. Love of our life. Politics, it’s one of those subjects, maybe you don’t bring up in job interviews and with your mother in law, but it doesn’t have to be a secret. Who told you that?”
I would investigate.
I eventually came to learn, my parents had a massive early marital feud over politics. It was the age of communism and Ronald Regan, and after a heated spat, they agreed to not discuss it anymore. One would reason that particular topic, for the rest of the night, perhaps until the election was over. But no, they decided, they would never speak of politics again. Case closed. End of story. They would no longer share who they would vote for. They wouldn’t discuss “the issues.”
Off limits like a ham on the Sabbath.
My parents voted often, but never together, and never did they share. They subsequently passed down to my sister and I a lesson, without the relevant marital spat background, you don't ever discuss your political views. Ever.
EVER.
Like a courtroom gavel ringing through chambers. Ever.
It was such a relief, I must reveal, to learn this was just another 'weird thing your parents do.' There are just so many.
This will now be presidential election number three I’ve been of voting age. My parents weren’t completely wrong, people get very worked up in pursuit of the little sticker at the end of the proverbial political rainbow. Up until this point, I believe I thought in order to hold my ground among the intense emotional appeal and political spin, I needed to decide early who would be “my guy” and in this year, “my gal.”
"This year, I'm just waiting it out. I'm not going to make a decision yet. I just want to read a lot, and watch the conventions, hear the debates, doing my own investigating, appreciate it. I really just, I mean, I don't know how to explain it, I..."
"You want to make your mind up for yourself?"
"YES."
"How novel."
My friends really are very gifted people.
My search for more political information has led abound, but with frequent ice cream breaks.
High heels or flats. Gucci or Pucci. Tote or clutch. Life is about choices. Decisions. Issues. But never any more so than picking a presidential election, and a lovely scooping of ice cream. Just never did I think those worlds would collide.
It would all unwind at a trip to Baskin Robbins.
Baskin Robbins has two special new ice cream flavors for the election, I see through the glass plating. "The Flavor of Change," the democratic pick, loaded with peanut brittle and toffee. An equally interesting one for the republican pick. Both had desirable features. Both undesirable. I asked for a sample of both. But was I ready to make a choice? Was I ready to settle? Was I ready to pick? No, No. No I was not. It was too much. What would one say about me. What about the other. I'm not ready to decide.
I picked chocolate peanut butter, because it said nothing more about me than I like chocolate and I like peanut butter, and they taste really quite delicious together in an ice cream on top of a sugar cone. I licked that ice cream quickly, as to not let it melt down that cone on the warm fleeting end of summer day. And I thought about the choice I get to make. The awesome ability to make that choice. About the so many people who are excited and passionate about taking care of other people via government in one fashion or another. Whether it be a well-spoke black man to be the first nominated candidate, or a weathered one with a female running mate.
And I thought only as I tasted my last taste of chocolatey peanut butter, ah, touche', touche' Mr. Senators.
1. The taxes and bills, are, quite simply, necessary tradeoffs for staying up as late as you want and wearing high heels.
2. Whether or not it’s a good idea, you can eat donuts for dinner, if it suits your fancy.
3. As much as they despise it, you can dance with your cats when you can’t sleep and there’s simply a song that moves you.
4. Above all, of the most consequential things I’ve learned about adulthood - the truth lies somewhere in between just about every extreme my parents taught me.
For the hippies that they were, my parents, they were very black and white people. Their paradigm binoculars saw very little color. I recall upon a trip to the mechanic.
“Rebecca you don’t have to bring your car in every week like your mother, but more than once every 5 years for an oil change would be nice.” (Insert adorable Israeli accent where applicable).
My mother sees her doctor every week, in sickness and in health. I don’t believe my father has been to one in his entire adult life.
There’s very little moderation, very little balance, to my parents life and consequently, to their marriage.
It’s little surprise, they would create such a pact with one another.
I recall my first election as a newly minted adult. This guy in one of my classes asked me in the hallway which candidate I would vote for. I was a political science major, and in hindsight, given how much I now know, it wasn’t a completely crazy, completely unreasonable question. But I was shocked, I was appalled, and I most certainly was not going to answer that question. Ho hum. He was confused how he had offended me, and I didn’t see where he got off. I asked a panel of experts.
I asked my friends.
"Friends, where does this guy, and his failed pick up lines, get off asking me who I'm voting for." Ho Hum.
(Start tender moment music)
“Rebecca. Sweetheart. Love of our life. Politics, it’s one of those subjects, maybe you don’t bring up in job interviews and with your mother in law, but it doesn’t have to be a secret. Who told you that?”
I would investigate.
I eventually came to learn, my parents had a massive early marital feud over politics. It was the age of communism and Ronald Regan, and after a heated spat, they agreed to not discuss it anymore. One would reason that particular topic, for the rest of the night, perhaps until the election was over. But no, they decided, they would never speak of politics again. Case closed. End of story. They would no longer share who they would vote for. They wouldn’t discuss “the issues.”
Off limits like a ham on the Sabbath.
My parents voted often, but never together, and never did they share. They subsequently passed down to my sister and I a lesson, without the relevant marital spat background, you don't ever discuss your political views. Ever.
EVER.
Like a courtroom gavel ringing through chambers. Ever.
It was such a relief, I must reveal, to learn this was just another 'weird thing your parents do.' There are just so many.
This will now be presidential election number three I’ve been of voting age. My parents weren’t completely wrong, people get very worked up in pursuit of the little sticker at the end of the proverbial political rainbow. Up until this point, I believe I thought in order to hold my ground among the intense emotional appeal and political spin, I needed to decide early who would be “my guy” and in this year, “my gal.”
"This year, I'm just waiting it out. I'm not going to make a decision yet. I just want to read a lot, and watch the conventions, hear the debates, doing my own investigating, appreciate it. I really just, I mean, I don't know how to explain it, I..."
"You want to make your mind up for yourself?"
"YES."
"How novel."
My friends really are very gifted people.
My search for more political information has led abound, but with frequent ice cream breaks.
High heels or flats. Gucci or Pucci. Tote or clutch. Life is about choices. Decisions. Issues. But never any more so than picking a presidential election, and a lovely scooping of ice cream. Just never did I think those worlds would collide.
It would all unwind at a trip to Baskin Robbins.
Baskin Robbins has two special new ice cream flavors for the election, I see through the glass plating. "The Flavor of Change," the democratic pick, loaded with peanut brittle and toffee. An equally interesting one for the republican pick. Both had desirable features. Both undesirable. I asked for a sample of both. But was I ready to make a choice? Was I ready to settle? Was I ready to pick? No, No. No I was not. It was too much. What would one say about me. What about the other. I'm not ready to decide.
I picked chocolate peanut butter, because it said nothing more about me than I like chocolate and I like peanut butter, and they taste really quite delicious together in an ice cream on top of a sugar cone. I licked that ice cream quickly, as to not let it melt down that cone on the warm fleeting end of summer day. And I thought about the choice I get to make. The awesome ability to make that choice. About the so many people who are excited and passionate about taking care of other people via government in one fashion or another. Whether it be a well-spoke black man to be the first nominated candidate, or a weathered one with a female running mate.
And I thought only as I tasted my last taste of chocolatey peanut butter, ah, touche', touche' Mr. Senators.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A Once Twice Thrice Brush With Death
They say Buddhists believe in multiple lives. Buddhists say cats have 9 lives. And cats have nothing to say on the matter, because they are cats. If they could speak I'd imagine they would say one life is enough.
One can only eat so much canned garbage, lick yourself, and poop in a sand filled box.
Birthdays typically represent the unique ability to look at your life thus far and prophesize, noodle will you, over the road ahead. At 18 I looked at my life and said "wow I've managed not to kill myself for 18 years!" At 21, it was much of the same. By 28 it was the the 10 year mark of being an adult, and not killing myself. Everyday presents a series of moments, or a singular one, that runs the risk of ending the show, that's all she wrote, thank you and good night, don't forget to tip your waitress, don't let the door hit you on the way out, see ya, fuck off, peace out, end this here rodeo.
I've been tasked with a power as I like to call it, the uncanny ability to know, "oh yes I can die doing this." Skydiving, for example, too unsafe for me. A first date with a guy I don't know much about, driving in the back roads of the Angeles National Forest. Death eminent. A shady apartment in Soho.
Even with my power, death has been a factor to be reckoned with more often than I'd like.
My stomach turned with hunger. A hunger that usually doesn't present itself so early in one that doesn't eat breakfast. The air was cracked up one notch just enough to tousle my updo, and ventilate the car, but not enough to cool skin clothed in a light summer dress, begging for the overcast sky to clear the way for just another Los Angeles end of summer early morning day. Busy bodies abound. In cars and on streets, jamming freeways and Starbucks, canyon roads and daycares. Life moving fastly, ever swiftly, but unnoticed, in a car who's passenger had thoughts of hunger and bills, replayed conversations, anxiety and regrets. And so my head wasn't in the busy bodies of today, but somewhere else. Where it was, when it entered an intersection, on a wholly green light, with no thoughts of "you could die doing this", or an "abort mission" but a merrily going about the business of the mundane, when by a cat's whisker, smaller than a Buddhists wants, a speeding car thou a red light missed me, my car, my life, and allowed me to someday be 29, but today be 28, to appreciate the significance of something so nearly missing, to be. To not be in a place far far away of worry of things, but here, still. To just be.
Multiple times or 9 times over, just being - me, for another day.
One can only eat so much canned garbage, lick yourself, and poop in a sand filled box.
Birthdays typically represent the unique ability to look at your life thus far and prophesize, noodle will you, over the road ahead. At 18 I looked at my life and said "wow I've managed not to kill myself for 18 years!" At 21, it was much of the same. By 28 it was the the 10 year mark of being an adult, and not killing myself. Everyday presents a series of moments, or a singular one, that runs the risk of ending the show, that's all she wrote, thank you and good night, don't forget to tip your waitress, don't let the door hit you on the way out, see ya, fuck off, peace out, end this here rodeo.
I've been tasked with a power as I like to call it, the uncanny ability to know, "oh yes I can die doing this." Skydiving, for example, too unsafe for me. A first date with a guy I don't know much about, driving in the back roads of the Angeles National Forest. Death eminent. A shady apartment in Soho.
Even with my power, death has been a factor to be reckoned with more often than I'd like.
My stomach turned with hunger. A hunger that usually doesn't present itself so early in one that doesn't eat breakfast. The air was cracked up one notch just enough to tousle my updo, and ventilate the car, but not enough to cool skin clothed in a light summer dress, begging for the overcast sky to clear the way for just another Los Angeles end of summer early morning day. Busy bodies abound. In cars and on streets, jamming freeways and Starbucks, canyon roads and daycares. Life moving fastly, ever swiftly, but unnoticed, in a car who's passenger had thoughts of hunger and bills, replayed conversations, anxiety and regrets. And so my head wasn't in the busy bodies of today, but somewhere else. Where it was, when it entered an intersection, on a wholly green light, with no thoughts of "you could die doing this", or an "abort mission" but a merrily going about the business of the mundane, when by a cat's whisker, smaller than a Buddhists wants, a speeding car thou a red light missed me, my car, my life, and allowed me to someday be 29, but today be 28, to appreciate the significance of something so nearly missing, to be. To not be in a place far far away of worry of things, but here, still. To just be.
Multiple times or 9 times over, just being - me, for another day.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Most Enjoyable Way To Engage In American Politics
I was in Colorado Springs for a work meeting in early August - and as I took a taxi from the airport to my hotel, I made dialogue with the cabbie, like I do.
I'd been before, but this time I got to stay for longer, like a whole night! I asked the cab driver what the weather had been like, what was walking distance from my hotel, where he was from, how long he'd been driving a cab, where he got his shirt (what it was a nice shirt), and the who's who and the what what of the Springs. It was days before the Olympics so the competing Olympians had left the training center, leaving just kids who'd come there for camps - and a senior golf tour outside the city. Aside from a Chipotle within walking distance, a whole lot of altitude and clean air, and an asphalt convention at the Hilton, there wasn't a lot rocking a town more known for it's winter months. "Besides the convention, it will be a slow summer here."
The asphalt convention, I presumed.
I continued to engage my cab driver (it was a long drive and I was paying him - he had to talk to me). From what I gathered there were 2 years he wasn't living in Colorado and to which he couldn't explain. Jail I thought securely - but I didn't press it. He was nice enough and was driving me to where I needed to go so I made due pleasantries.
As we drove and spoke, I had to ask, how big was this convention? Were there that many people in the business of asphalt and concrete? Over cocktails at the pool just weeks ago my friends and I discussed just how many conventions there are. There's a convention for everything. Just this morning I heard an advertisement for the North American Reptile Breeders convention. I can't keep all these conventions straight. But I just didn't think based upon the number of people he said were coming in to town, we were talking about an assembly of asphalt men.
What convention is this in late August?
Um, the Democratic National Convention.
Right. That little one. That would bring in a fair share of who's who and what's what.
Unlike the asphalt convention at my hotel, the Democratic National Convention is televised live. Unfortunately at the gym, it's live with no sound. So last night I worked out and watched, watched and worked out, breathed and drank water, and just imagined who people were and what they could be saying.
I discovered by end of highly productive workout this really could be the most enjoyable way to engage in American politics.
I gathered notes after watching night one of the Democratic National convention on mute. Obama may get my vote based solely on his wife's incredible taste in the color blue and a stunning broach. I was mildly confused why the guest of honor was there via video. I came to find out that this was night one of three, which made a lot more sense than my make believe reasons. NBC has really nailed the close-ups of minorities and women about to cry. People wear really weird hats. And political speakers make as much sense on mute as they do when you read the the actual transcripts the next day.
Also, I now want to appear by video screen at all my social engagements if that's at all possible.
On to night two.
I'd been before, but this time I got to stay for longer, like a whole night! I asked the cab driver what the weather had been like, what was walking distance from my hotel, where he was from, how long he'd been driving a cab, where he got his shirt (what it was a nice shirt), and the who's who and the what what of the Springs. It was days before the Olympics so the competing Olympians had left the training center, leaving just kids who'd come there for camps - and a senior golf tour outside the city. Aside from a Chipotle within walking distance, a whole lot of altitude and clean air, and an asphalt convention at the Hilton, there wasn't a lot rocking a town more known for it's winter months. "Besides the convention, it will be a slow summer here."
The asphalt convention, I presumed.
I continued to engage my cab driver (it was a long drive and I was paying him - he had to talk to me). From what I gathered there were 2 years he wasn't living in Colorado and to which he couldn't explain. Jail I thought securely - but I didn't press it. He was nice enough and was driving me to where I needed to go so I made due pleasantries.
As we drove and spoke, I had to ask, how big was this convention? Were there that many people in the business of asphalt and concrete? Over cocktails at the pool just weeks ago my friends and I discussed just how many conventions there are. There's a convention for everything. Just this morning I heard an advertisement for the North American Reptile Breeders convention. I can't keep all these conventions straight. But I just didn't think based upon the number of people he said were coming in to town, we were talking about an assembly of asphalt men.
What convention is this in late August?
Um, the Democratic National Convention.
Right. That little one. That would bring in a fair share of who's who and what's what.
Unlike the asphalt convention at my hotel, the Democratic National Convention is televised live. Unfortunately at the gym, it's live with no sound. So last night I worked out and watched, watched and worked out, breathed and drank water, and just imagined who people were and what they could be saying.
I discovered by end of highly productive workout this really could be the most enjoyable way to engage in American politics.
I gathered notes after watching night one of the Democratic National convention on mute. Obama may get my vote based solely on his wife's incredible taste in the color blue and a stunning broach. I was mildly confused why the guest of honor was there via video. I came to find out that this was night one of three, which made a lot more sense than my make believe reasons. NBC has really nailed the close-ups of minorities and women about to cry. People wear really weird hats. And political speakers make as much sense on mute as they do when you read the the actual transcripts the next day.
Also, I now want to appear by video screen at all my social engagements if that's at all possible.
On to night two.
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