The Beautiful Sheeple

Yesterday, I headed to Target and Toys R Us to do some shopping for my nieces and nephew after determining it's cheaper for me to buy locally and ship their gifts via the good ol' USPS. (Plus, Aunt Angie loves to wrap the gifts in festive metallic paper with equally-fetching tags. What kid wants to see dull Amazon giftwrap?)

Of course, on a Friday night, everyone else had the same idea of shopping after work. So, all roads leading to and from Portland resembled a string of lights on a Christmas tree - beads of headlights equidistant from one vehicle to the next. Having worked retail from my senior year of high school to the end of my college days, I expected long lines and was aptly prepared - I park the farthest away all of the time to get "extra steps" in when I shop anyway, so I was not raising my fist to the high heavens if someone nabbed "my" parking spot because no one wants to walk more than 100 feet to the mall and my space is always a helluva farther than that.

Pulling into the parking lot at Toys R Us, I realized that not everyone understands the basic concept of patience - flashing your high beams at people to hurry it up, or speeding into a space to ensure that "other fellow" doesn't get it, or doing the "parking lot stalker" routine (where you follow someone holding keys).

Driving in a parking lot becomes an Olympic sport around the holidays.

Inside the store, toys are strewn everywhere - as if Godzilla took a detour from downtown Tokyo and decided to visit Geoffrey and his pals. Harried associates answer questions, grip walkie talkies, and patiently walk people to their destination. The aftermath of a day of holiday shopping for these employees is like afterbirth - it comes out after you think the pain is gone and it's a bloody mess.

Two frazzled parents, each gripping their obligatory Starbucks coffees while the mom fingered a massive Coach bag, demanded to know where the Wii was and wanted to know now as her son "had to have one." A group of shoppers knocked toys off the shelf and showed no desire to pick up the mess they left in the wake of their shopping tsunami.

However, most of the people I encountered in my quest for a Leapster game for my niece, Tonka truck for my nephew, and Melissa and Doug puzzle for my other niece, were rude and downright idiotic. Elbows reaching in front of people's faces without thinking they might hit someone in the face; an Accord speeding in the parking lot to nab a space with children and elderly walking in plain sight; couples arguing over the "best" PS3 game at a level deemed appropriate for talking at a concert; and customers telling cashiers to "hurry it up."

After making my purchase, I got into my car, drove the speed limit (yes, even in my car), and settled home to a quiet evening of Thelonius Monk and Auto Week with some Pad Kee Mao for dinner.

Sure, I was one of the sheeple for the night, but this gal knows when to say, "Baaah" and be the black sheep by actually respecting people and not doing "what everyone else is doing (i.e., being rude and disrespectful)" simply because it's expected this time of year.

Dial "A" for Asshole

Every day, it takes me an hour to drive 25 miles to my job in Hillsboro. It's not a bad commute most of the time, but with a lot of tech companies planted firmly in the tech corridor, I have to contend with bumper-to-bumper traffic with far too many BMWs and SUVs.

However, that's not the issue. Perhaps it's because I've never embraced a cellphone like my compatriots or maybe it's because I realize that ADD really means "adult driving disorder" because one human cannot possibly drive, shift, eat, text, and talk in this traffic...

It's not enough that technology has invaded every corner of my life. From the time I get up to the time I go to bed, there is not one gadget or software application that has its tentacles wrapped firmly around my life.

Compared to my friends, I have a basic cellphone. I rarely, if ever, send pictures. I do send an occasional text message, but, frankly, Rhett - I don't give a damn. The cellphone could be gone with the wind, and I could care less.

Why?

This plastic piece of technology that retails for over $100 (made in another country for under $5) could save my life or make it richer.

I could be stranded in Montana and dial a hot highway officer that looks like Gerard Butler, or I could help some young couple deliver their firstborn in a conversation with a paramedic via 911.

Definitely not - but what a dream, nope.

I hate the cellphone because it seems that people are throwing their manners out the door whenever that ringtone shakes and shimmies into that person's respective eardrum.

I was at Fred Meyer, which is a combination grocery store, Target, garden center, and hardware store. I was returning shower curtain hooks (yes, my life is so exciting) when the woman was giving a play-by-play to her friend on the phone about how long the line was, which customer was doing what and the average breakdown of time it took the service representative to resolve the issue. She groaned on and on about how this store is so inefficient, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I wanted to turn around and ask Howard Cosell what did she expect? It was 5:30 p.m., and everyone is getting out of work to go grocery shopping before they head home. Secondly, each person was doing their job as fast (and as pleasantly) as they could. Prior to me taking my place at the counter, the gal told her friend she was next and hung up. I guess that was the end of their conversation.

I've seen jerks crawl out of $85K BMWs with their Blackberries glued to their ear, pushing people out of the way to get to the shopping cart. Was it a high-stakes deal between a Portland office and an office in Shanghai? A patient in cardiac arrest? Nope, it was the Mrs. calling the Mr. to tell him to pick up dinner.

At restaurants and malls, people open up that clamshell to, I'm sure, hear pearls of wisdom as they dine on their prime rib or try on their Lucky jeans.

It seems we've attached so much self-importance and importance to a device. No one really cares. Have we become so insecure we feel the need to broadcast everything in public, including intimate conversations, to make us feel or sound important? More importantly, do we honestly think people are listening to all of our conversations?

Well, in my research, just some of them. ;^)

Armed and Sexy...and a Democrat

The recent announcement from the McCain Camp regarding his decision to select Sarah Palin for VP is causing the media to bring the rising star into the spotlight with tall tales of "I am woman, hear me roar" gusto in this jungle of chaos known as election year. Glossy pics and slick bios celebrating her ability to wrangle the Republican steer in the backcountry of Alaska to rid the state of corruption while raising a family seem like bedtime stories for future politicos.

I don't want to make this into a political column, but a lot of news outlets are praising her for being a hockey mom, fisherman (woman - to be PC???), and her belief in the right to bear arms.

With five children, Palin isn't talking babies, but ballistics and, perhaps, BFGs (big, f@#$% guns).

As a Democrat, there are some Republicans out there who foam at the mouth and say I don't support gun ownership and the NRA because I'm a Democrat. Well, sweetheart, if you believe that then I have a bridge to sell you in Alaska.

Currently, I'm in the process of getting my gun license and looking for a gun club in PDX. As the daughter of a man who served in the military, I was taught to respect guns, learn how use to them properly, and enjoy the sport (itself) of target shooting. Going to the range with my now ex-boyfriend, dad, and brother, I felt the kick of an M-1 Carbine.

If you don't know what an M-1 Carbine is, it was the standard issue firearm for the U.S. military during WWII and the Korean War. Firing that baby made me realize some doughboy held this rifle in his hand and that is more interesting than shopping at Nordie's on a Saturday.

Range or target shooting requires patience, skill, and safety, so when you're out there - it's just you and the gun. All things disappear, like work, and help you concentrate on the task at hand - hitting the target.

I continue to support gun ownership and it drives me nuts when I hear people talking about how Democrats want to rid the U.S. of guns and gun rights. Painting all Democrats (just like Democrats saying all Republicans are pro-life) with a broad brush stroke is a disservice to this country and all that it stands for.

Getting back to our gun-toting potential future VP...

In a time where we are more divided than united, it seems Palin is the playboy, er, political bunny for a lot of issues that seem to push the buttons of many voters: abortion, Alaskan oil drilling, and gun control. It doesn't hurt she is attractive, a full-time mom and full-time politician, and pro-life candidate.

Why do I mention her attractiveness?

The sad truth is both men and women perpetuate stereotypes and continue to crucify women based on their appearance. How many disparaging articles did we see about Hilary Clinton's pantsuits or her alleged homosexual tendencies? Now, we are seeing articles praising Palin's former beauty pageant background and her now-current taste for designer eye glasses and boots? If Palin didn't look good in her Jimmy Choos (and looked more like Hillary Clinton), do you think she'd be the media darling she is right now for some?

The media is just as guilty as the politicians for watering-down Palin's pool (although one might disagree how deep) of expertise into droplets. When I was in college, I thought about entering the military to go to OCS - I looked into the Navy and Army (even took the physical and tests). However, after a representative from the Army showed me a catalog with perfumes I could get at a discount, I decided it was easier to deal with sexism at the corporate level than the military.

I didn't want to turn this into a political column, but it has. Sure, I've hit a few places on the map here, but the most important point is this -

As a woman, I feel insulted (as should Palin) the Republican party thinks they can sway a female voter to select the McCain/Palin ticket based on the VP's gender. Sadly, some women will vote blindly for Palin - without researching her background or experience - simply because Palin is a mom just like them.

Or, maybe what it boils down to is women need to show politicians (both Democrat and Republican) that just because we are women doesn't mean we vote with our crotches.

I Want to Suck Your Blood...or Maybe Just Your Bone Marrow

I am the type of person who refuses to wear personal causes on my sleeve. Rubber bracelets imprinted with slogans for a good cause are, to me, more of a fashion statement than a friendly call to (braceleted) arms for support.

I don't doubt there are those who wear them to honor a loved one, and, of course, I don't begrudge them. But, a few years ago, LIVESTRONG bracelets were all the rage, and many non-profits began producing these wrist ringlets in droves with their personal messages stamped in select colors.

How many people can honestly say they still wear a LIVESTRONG bracelet?

They essentially became last year's Prada bag and were tossed aside for a Hurley t-shirt or ballet flats. Fashion drives non-profit causes, but it also fuels our desire to pick up the latest social issue and drop it when the media and its doppelgangers craft a better-fitting cause to wear.

Hurricane Katrina, anyone? Blown away by scandals and covered-up by the mud slung on the Gulf Coast shores.

Tsumani relief? Washed away in the splendor of Super Bowls, celebrity weddings, and publicity-seeking bottom feeders on reality shows.

Right now, I am in the process of moving and need to update my bone marrow donor card. This is a relatively simple, painless process unlike the painful procedures a cancer patient must undergo when battling the disease. Bone marrow donation is a multi-step process, but the initial step is simply submitting a blood sample. Your information is placed in a global registry and, if you are a suitable candidate for a patient who needs bone marrow, you are asked to become a donor.

I may never be a match, but the idea there is a possibility that I could help someone compels me to make sure my information is always current.

Maybe you don't want to ever have to make the choice to donate your marrow, but there are other choices you can make to help another human being. Donate your time - what a concept...it is also the most precious gift one can give and it will last longer than a rubber bracelet.

Privatize Your Private Lives

I have a blog. No secret there. Aside from a few posts (in particular, "A Tale of Two Undies"), I comment on issues that affect me but don't necessarily address everything about me.

For example, I won't talk about my sex life or extremely private relationship matters (although I did publish a scathing post-breakup post [detailing lies I was told and my heartbreak caused by those lies] for a few hours, which I then disassembled from this electronic gallery due to my guilt over publicly lashing him - even though what I wrote was all true), share photographs of anyone other than myself, nor will I provide personal details about family members.

That being said, the Web has entrapped itself in its own weave. It's now fashionable to make your private life public, and social networking takes nodes and structures to a new level beyond the layperson's basic comprehension. When you create a profile on Facebook, you're doing more than just posting a profile and a picture. (If you want to learn more, go have fun with words like Dunbar's number, cohesion coefficient, and so forth.)

Our elementary glee with "Googling" ourselves, friends, family, and past loves makes me wonder whether all of this public information blurs, if not obliterates, the lines of privacy and protection. Have our lives become mere bits for electronic investigation?

What would we want to see hidden from public view? Is it even possible anymore?

So, before you post that pic to MySpace, blog about your boyfriend's orange navel from his half-baked attempt at the tanning salon, and join a seemingly-innocent network on FaceBook, think about what that information can do to you, your career, and your social network - and I'm not talking about the binary friends online but the flesh and blood, breathing friends who you will have to face in the real world.

Hold the Spaghetti and Meatballs

In my last post, I talked about my very ethnic last name. This wasn't planned, but this week's blog also deals with ethnicity. Somehow, I've discovered, I am now the Giada De Laurentiis of my inner circle. Why?

Is it my gnocchi? Ravioli? Biscotti?

Nope. It's my last name. For some reason, anyone I know or come in contact with, assumes I can make a mean meatball or a flavorful fettucine at the drop of a (Gucci) hat.

I'm a pretty good cook, but only because I taught myself through trial and error; I became a cook through simple chemistry and honest feedback.

"That's pretty bland."

"Your turkey is absolutely juicy."

"Awesome peanut butter pie. Heart attack waiting to happen, but worth every bite."

(Plus, it didn't help that I managed to burn spaghetti and switch the salt and sugar measurements for a cookie recipe during my early years. I learned how to cook at the School of Hard Knocks not at the House of Ferrannini.)

I have friends of many races, creeds, and colors. They don't seem to have the same problem.

I often think, would these people who ask me about my spaghetti and meatballs ask a Ms. Jackson how good her fried chicken is? Ask a Mr. Lee for his fried rice recipe?

No, that would be insulting. So, why isn't it insulting to ask someone of Italian heritage the same question?

If you ask anyone who truly knows me, they will tell you my favorite food is not spaghetti or pasta or noodles, it's sushi. That's right, folks, if God welcomes me into his kingdom I hope there's plenty of nigiri, sashimi, and rolls waiting for me.

The truth of the matter is that in some parts of the country, ethnicity shapes how we are defined and viewed by other people. When I was growing up, people would ask, "What are you?" What they meant was, what nationality are you? More pointedly, what is the nationality of your name?

When I moved out West, it was, "Where are you from?" And "from" meant the last city you lived in, not your nationality, as some people back East would assume would be the answer to their question. Where "your people are from" would solicit Sicily, and not Silicon Valley, for example.

Race, creed, and culture are made from such rich recipes of good and bad ingredients; good for the lessons we learn from that which is unfamiliar but bad for the stereotypes we bake into the mix.

For example, I have dark eye and dark eyes. I guess it's because I'm "Italian", right? Well, last time I checked, I was actually born in Troy, NY not Italy. And last time I checked, Italians can have blond hair, too.

While it doesn't bother me like it used to when I was younger, I still get hung-up in the hang-ups of how much a word means (specifically, a name). So, before you dial me to complain about this blog, I admit that I have learned to take the Italian jokes and references in stride. Just don't ask if I'm in the mob.

Oh, and for the record, I've never seen the Godfather in its entirety.

Ms. Pronunciation

The phone rang. I picked it up from its cradle and said hello. It was a telemarketer.

I don't begrudge them or their job; I would list it as one of the most thankless, deplorable, if not horrible, job to have (next to gutting fish). No one likes telemarketers and certainly no one wants to talk to them, so I try to be polite when they call and quickly close the conversation (albeit in a Martha Stewart meets Mario Andretti way). They don't earn a high salary nor do they earn respect from the people on the receiving line of their script.

The man said, "Good evening, Miss Fer-ni-ni."

I can tell you, with obvious reason, that many people rarely pronounce my name correctly. It doesn't bother or offend me; however, if you know you are going to butcher it, why even try? Put away the vernacular knives and simply ask (how).

Fair-a-knee-knee.

If your parents were suckered into purchasing Hooked on Phonics (from a telemarketer, I'm sure) for you or you were lucky enough to borrow a copy from your local library and read it in bed instead of watching cartoons (yeah right), you could easily determine its pronunciation.

I must admit my goal in life is to marry a Smith. My former manager explained it means "little iron" in Italian, which, I'm sure, most people could easily read if surnames were translated for them every time.

However, I'm not going to complain. It could be worse...a professor at my undergraduate school had 26 letters in his name and people still attempted to digest his alphabet soup. Unfortunately, though, he can't marry a Smith.

Me and Chuck Woolery

For some odd reason, when I was younger, I loved watching Love Connection.

Chuck Woolery with his slick pompadour and sharp suits could have been crooning to the ladies (and gentlemen) in the audience, but it was the contestants crammed into the upholstered chairs who commandeered the stage with their tales of dreadfully-bad blind dates and deaf audience members who would vote for another savory dinner at the Sizzler despite the obvious doozy just described.

When a long-term relationship ends, you either go hog wild and feast on the slop at bars, or you discreetly enter the dating pool with a bathing suit down to your knees. Neither option suited me, so I decided to mosey down the electronic path (of least resistance).

Profile? Easy. Single, educated, cute, and fit gal looking for...

Well, I doubt you want to read my drivel (by the way, I didn't use any of the latter text), so I'll just skip to the date part. When you're on Love Connection, who wants to hear about the guy coming to your door and ringing the freaking doorbell? Unless you're Joe from Home Depot trying to sell the latest Heath Zenith doorbell, cutting to the chase is more interesting.

Give me the Cliffs Notes version, Dr. Huxtable.

Hooked up at Pizzeria Uno for drinks. He had shaved his beard and I was wearing glasses (having left a year's supply of contacts in a storage unit in Belgrade, MT); so, neither of us recognized each other at first.

For the next two hours, we had a nice, casual conversation with the occasional touch, but there was no spark. (And GE is less than 1,000 feet away, and I thought they brought all good things to life?) Two glasses of white to his beer, and both of us knew that it wasn't a love connection. We said good night.

I'm not back in the saddle again, but at least this cowgirl put her boots back on.

Ticket to Ride

Some people buy regional knick-knacks (aka: crap that gathers dust on the shelf) when they move to a new city. I collect traffic tickets. Burlington is no different.

However, this experience was less stressful than when a Bozeman police officer pulled me over and questioned me for a record 45 minutes. Mayor McCheese didn't grill me and Andy Griffith wasn't whistling dixie when I got my first ticket in Burlington. Nope, it was just me, my windshield, and an orange envelope.

Ten dollars. My crime?

Apparently, I didn't pump enough change into the parking meter. My biceps did work OT at the gym the night before and, perhaps, weren't up to the challenge as my game of quarters ended years ago (so lack of change was not a problem, although lack of change is a good reason, sometimes, to make some change :^P). I couldn't come up with even a lame excuse.

Traffic cop beat me to the doughnut shop and scored the glaze when he saw Little Stevie sitting on the asphalt. I should've known better.