Representin'

When I heard the Phillies had made it to the World Series this year I was floored.  When did they...become good again (apologies to those diehard fans who I've just offended)?  I was shocked, but happy for our hometown.  Then Soeur received a news blip on her Blackberry yesterday night with the amazing news that

 

THE PHILLIES HAD ACTUALLY WON THE WORLD SERIES.

 

Say what?!

 

For a hot second, I counted my lucky stars that last night, for that one single night, I was not a Center City resident.  And then I quickly moved on and sent some love to Philly from New York wondering why, as a proper Philadelphian, I didn't own a single piece of clothing with a Philly team logo on it.  I felt the rare urge to hug a Philly Fanatic plush doll, or at the very least don a bright red sweatshirt with a hoodie and take a brisk jog around the block in the 35-degree weather.  Weird.

 

It's no secret that I miss Philadelphia.  But what I don't miss?  The uncontrollable nature of its passionate residents.  When we won the Stanley Cup, fans started their celebrations with horn honking, screaming, drinking.  The next morning showed just how much trash and litter the fans had dragged through the streets.  So there was always a little part of me that wished that we wouldn't actually win another tournament, title, or trophy; because it brings out the unclassiest of the city's residents.  As much as I had hoped the fans would behave last night, it looks like Philly celebrated as per usual destroying property, rolling over people's feet with their cars, and participating in general mass mayhem.

 

Congratulations, Philadelphia!

Switcharoo: A Perspective on Race in the 2008 Presidential Campaign

Let us hypothetically apply McCain's credentials and facts to Obama and vice versa.  Would the election numbers be as close as they are?  I think not!

 

What if the Obamas had paraded five children across the stage, including a three month old infant and an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter?  

 

What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his graduating class?

 

What if Obama had met his second wife in a bar and had a long affair while he was still married?

 

What if Obama was the candidate who left his first wife after a severe disfiguring car accident, when she no longer measured up to his standards?

 

What if Michelle Obama was the wife who not only became addicted to pain killers but also acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?

 

What if Obama had been a member of the Keating Five? (The Keating Five were five United States Senators accused of corruption in 1989, igniting a major political scandal as part of the larger Savings and Loan crisis of the late 1980s and early 1990s.)

 

What if Obama couldn't read from a TelePrompTer?

 

What if Obama was the one who had military experience that included discipline problems and a record of crashing seven planes?

 

What if Obama was the one who was known to display publicly, on many occasions, a serious anger management problem?

 

What if Michelle Obama's family had made their money from beer distribution?

 

What if the Obamas had adopted a white child?

 

What if Michelle Obama was a member (until her husband ran for the Senate) of the Illinois Secessionist Party?

 

What if Obama didn't know what the Vice President's job was?

 

What if Obama's education history consisted of the following: 

United States Naval Academy - Class rank: 894 of 899

 

What if Obama's VP running mate's education history consisted of the following:

Hawaii Pacific University - 1 semester

North Idaho College - 2 semesters – General Study

University of Idaho - 2 semesters - Journalism

Matanuska-Susitna College - 1 semester

University of Idaho - 3 semesters - B.A. in Journalism

 

What if McCain's education history consisted of the following:

Columbia University - B.A. Political Science with a Specialization in International Relations.

Harvard - Juris Doctor (J.D.) Magna Cum Laude

 

What if McCain's VP running mate's education history consisted of the following:

University of Delaware - B.A. in History and B.A. in Political Science.  

Syracuse University College of Law – Juris Doctor (J.D.)

 

What if McCain had only married once and Obama was a divorcee?

 

What if McCain was a former president of the Harvard Law Review?

 

What if Cindy McCain graduated from Harvard?

 

What if McCain was a charismatic eloquent speaker (I know this one is not based on fact, but opinion)?

 

-Excerpt from an e-mail chain received 10/29/2008.

There's just something about rainbow sprinkles that makes you happy. 

"The mood in New York has been alarmingly dark and oppressive.  As the hub of the country's financial sector, everyone's losing their jobs and I can sense it in the air.  Every day there is news of some company falling or other or a friend of a friend getting laid off without severance pay.  Couple with my unhappy state of affairs at work and the shorter daylight hours, I am definitely not having fun these days.  I feel like we skipped over the beautiful fall season that is my favorite and went right into cold morose weather.  What happened to the foliage and the crisp days of autumn?  What the frick."

 

- Excerpt from a private e-mail from Julia to a friend earlier this week.

I Am *Not* Ungrateful

I received a second poorly written e-mail petition about how I should feel the obligation to contribute to my high school alma mater's annual fundraising campaign.  High school was a long time ago, and while I have written off many of the unbearable memories from that period, I still carry some of the negative ones with me.  And I am ashamed to admit that I cannot separate my personal dejected feelings about my high school social experience from what is being asked of the alumnae: to support the financial operational needs of their private institution.  

 

I first formally contributed to the annual campaign in my first year of college.  I entered my freshman year with $500 of savings from my summer job after paying my year's tuition.  I still felt I could afford a paltry $25 donation, or 5% of my net worth at the time.  And each year thereafter I increased the amount by an itty bitty amount.  At some point, they lost my contact information and I stopped giving.  To think how much I'd give if I were to give 5% of my net worth right now...

 

Fast forward seven years when I returned to campus to address Littlest Bro's problems.  I had mixed feelings about how they handled his academic case.  I took the train out to the burbs and attended half a dozen meetings.  I had lengthy phone conversations with my previous teachers.  I listened to their side of the story and learned firsthand just how cooperatively and willingly the administration and his teachers wanted to handle his case.  It probably helped that I was the oldest of what has became a mini-legacy at the school.  Littlest Bro was number four in a long line of juliaipsa blood.  But for whatever reason(s), the point is: the school was shaken, but remained committed to getting the boy through school.  That is a big deal because a lot of schools would not have gone the extra mile to work with us. 

 

And yet, I'm not ready to give again.  It's awful, I know.  I'm not ready to "put aside a certain amount each week" as my classmate's e-mail petition proposed.  One day, I will give back.  Just not today.  I am not ungrateful.  I am just not ready.

Doctor, Doctor!

Remember that Park Avenue specialist I saw for my cornea?  The one that told me to run a humidifier at work to address the redness and pain I've intermittently experienced for going on nine months?  [Sidebar: again, I could have made a baby in that time!]  I saw the doc for a combined twenty minutes or so (not including the time it took for me to sit in the waiting room until the numbing drops did their thang).  I received the explanation of benefits statement from my health insurance company this past weekend and can I just tell you that it's no wonder why people go into medicine?

Michael B. Starr, M.D. charged me $400.00 for that visit.  Four.  Hundred.  Dollars.  Of which I paid a $20 co-pay and my insurance covered $337.67.   That's $357.67 for twenty minutes.  Do the math, internet.  

Feet Blunders

Ever walk across the street and in front of you, as you watch your step, catch a glimpse of the back of some poor woman's sandaled feet pink, raw, or even bleeding?  I used to cluck my tongue at the sucker who had succumbed to the abysmal world of delightfully pretty shoes at the expense of sacrificing the only two feet God gave her.
 
And now I'm doing it.
 
Well, that's not entirely accurate.  Let's start here: those of you who know me know that I don't scrounge up the morning energy to put myself together as well as I could.  I hop out of the shower, run a brush through my wet hair (easily missing a third of it on particularly rushed days), throw on some cotton or rayon-based clothing, and head out.  Accordingly, my preferred shoe?  Anything with a rubber sole.  No high maintenance footwear for this Julia.  Comfort first.  (Holla if you know what I'm saying.)  No matter how pretty a shoe may be, I detest it because whether leather, rubber, or plastic-soled, the task of molding new shoes to the specialness that are my feet is utter torture.  In my entire life, there has only been one single type of shoe that may not cut my feet: and that is the atrociously unattractive flip-flop.  The culprit?  Wide feet.  Remember how the cruel stepsister tried to cram her monstrous foot into Cinderella's glass slipper?  It's like that.  Only in my case, I would have shattered the shoe into smithereens and the handsome prince would still be single in 2008 having lost his only chance of identifying his true love. 
 
I was delighted to find a cute - yet extremely practical - pair of black open-sided rubber-soled flats this past weekend.  To the unknowing narrow-footed female reader, I am here to tell you that soft leather and soft lining means slim chance of bleeding feet.  Sometimes.
 
By the time I hobbled off the train this morning, I had drafted a plan to make a beeline to the Duane Reade.  Well, that beeline turned into a slow, painful, and awkwardly tip-toed maneuver and, yes, I was pissed when I entered the store only to see the sign for First Aid pointing downstairs with a big fat black arrow.  Six dollars and fifteen steps descended and ascended later, I have secured thick band-aids onto the backs of my two bleeding feet and all day long have crept along the corridors of my office with about as much grace as one of Cinderella's stepsisters.