Kiss a little longer

As a child, I did some pretty inexplicable stuff. I blame this mostly on my parents who allowed me to test my freedom of expression through any medium. This included dance routines for my sister’s friends to Solid Gold (complete with costume changes during commercials), wearing a bathing suit and tutu to my kindergarten class (they thought I rocked BTW), and combining a red Coca-Cola Classic t-shirt and pink shorts, which my snobby neighbor Candace told me was a big fashion no-no (this doesn’t hurt my feelings anymore since I learned that she’s now a snobby fashion designer in New York).

While reading McSweeney’s food reviews today, I remembered the oddity of my first consumer relations call at the young age of four (I could read at the age of three). My sister was very punk rock (like real punk rock because it was the 80s). She had bangle earrings, rhinestone jackets, lace gloves and Aquanet. She was my hero.

This time period, as I remember, was sexually charged. Madonna and Cyndi Lauper were breaking out in taffeta and top 40 hits. Big Red chewing gum enabled people to kiss for extended periods of time. It was crazy for a four-year-old girl. Anyhow, my sister used a certain Close-up Toothpaste that also fit this sexually charged era. This toothpaste enabled people to kiss for a very long time - just like Big Red! So I picked up a box of the stuff and started reading the ingredients. What ingredient allowed people to kiss for so long? I wondered. Was it the sorbitol? Maybe it’s this PEG-32? But then a flag the color of the gel contents inside was raised. There’s no ADA label of approval on this tube! As a dentist’s daughter, this was serious. Serious, indeed.

In an effort to sort this obvious confusion, I decided to call the consumer hotline. This was the 80s mind you - so I had to sneak the rotary phone and hide next to our living room sofa so my parents wouldn’t find me. When the operator answered, I had prepared in my professional phone voice, my question: “I really like your toothpaste. But is this ADA approved?” There was a long silence. Was my gig up? Did she realize I was a child? After all these years, I don’t remember her response. I think I was so overwhelmed that I was making contact with the outside work world that I clammed up and hung up the phone.

After reading McSweeney’s, I decided to call again. Sure, it is 22 years later, but certainly they have an explanation for this absurdity. So I called the consumer line today with my same question. The same silence. And her response, in confidence, was this: Honestly, the ADA approval is too expensive. I thanked her for her time.

Expensive, indeed. Purchasing that label could have bought the confidence of a four-year-old girl. They can afford to have commercials wherein teenagers kiss for a very long time. And they can afford college tours to feature make out challenges. They can afford a website that features scary looking women who remind me of my first strip club experience. They can afford to have Tom Selleck! C’mon, Close-up, put your money where your mouth is (cue commercial).

Close-Up Toothpaste (cir. late-1970's)

And in less jaded news...

...another reason to expand your book collection.

Aargh!

I am a little thinned out right now. Sleep and cubicle life are slowly seeping into each other, leaving my three-cup coffee morning a lucid experience of overwhelming frustration. Something has to give. My mood changes from sweet molasses to pickle juice in about two seconds, accentuated by either screaming or crying.

Can I tell you how excited I was to meet a Potawatomie from Oklahoma last week? On the same day I spilled mayonnaise down the front of my blouse. And, ooh…wow, they’re working on a conference on Indian education, a neglected area in this very vanilla city. I was so excited to work on this project (“was” being the operative word). Until I found out how unprepared they were in less than 1 ½ months away. Honestly, I don’t expect a whole lot of preparation. But when project managers would rather tell parabolic stories of their bad inner-city relationships than strategically plan a wonderful, awesome conference…I lose all tact. And as much as I want to be on this project, I’m just going to have to let it go. Because I’m tired of being on sinking ships. I’m tired of my name being attached to failed projects just because people don’t listen to me and worship my every piece of advice. (because they should!)

But the truth is that I have my homies back in Tahlequah. I grew up in an area that was supportive of my future and my education. Even when I wanted to leave, an elder told me that it’s important to continue building myself, to gain skills that can help our people even if I don’t come back anytime soon. And I took that to heart. And I’m not about to let fuckers take that away from me; I don’t care if they are Indians in Indiana. If you’re not happy with this state’s approach to Indian education, change it. I hate to be so evil about this. But if you’re going to play a victim, then only plan on being victimized.

There is all this talk about victimization. About city representatives that don’t care. About being an overlooked minority. About casino money being split between WASPS instead of reservations. I AM TIRED OF BEING CONSIDERED A VICTIM OF SOCIETY. Respect yo’self. If we think we have a right to education, land and money, then claim it. Stop acting like a victim and act with entitlement and privilege. Even if we don’t have a dime to spare to our cousin for gasoline, we can at least pretend like we’re entitled to what we are owed.

Be a coyote. Be a trickster. Learn the system and beat it from the inside out.

So, no, I am not going to be a part of your conference. And, no, I’m not going to act like the world owes me something. I’m going to claim it. Asquadvhi, golagi nigesvna!

Lesson One

Here is a list of items that I recently learned in hope that I can prevent the same faux pas for others. I share because I care. You’re welcome.

1. Gary Busey and Nick Nolte are not the same person.


2. I don’t know if you have this in your city or not - but on all the Indianapolis fast food chains there is a soundtrack of evil, cackly birds. For the longest time I thought this was some strange bird native to Indiana that lost its fruit loops. Turns out, it’s an Amazon bird call that is supposed to scare the bejesus out of tiny pestlike birds that hover and paint fast food joints with their poo.

3. The smell of jizz in the early summer is actually the blossoming of the ginkgo biloba tree. I would ask people about it, but they would look at me all crazylike and say, “I don’t know about the smell of jizz.” Bullshit, yes you do.

Which makes wikipedia's comparison of the ginkgo smell to "rancid butter" even funnier.

occupational hazards

One enjoyable aspect of my job is its connection to academics. It’s like a window into a world of what could have been if I had not been denied admittance into the top tier schools I so haphazardly selected to apply to after college.

Earlier this week, we were visited by one of our scholars. He arrived wearing black dress shoes, navy dress socks, khaki camping shorts and a Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt. I don’t know if he was just sending some sort of covert message like “Ha ha, Indianapolis lost their ticket to the Super Bowl last year to the Steelers” type of jab. Or “98% of my brain is used to research international ethical leadership, so the other 2% is left fighting over whether or not it is socially acceptable to pick my nose and wipe it on your cubicle.”

This disconnect between reality and intellectualism is what I really hoped for in a postgraduate world of academics -- to be so smart that students would have to overlook the bucket of tobacco chew on my floor to be in my presence. That they would have to dismiss the smell of stinky cheese and bourbon emanating from my office.

On the other hand, there are the strange, disturbing mannerisms. We have one student who doesn’t swing her arms when she walks and sometimes eats other peoples’ lunches in the break room. I witnessed her devouring two of my raviolis and put the rest back in the refrigerator (dear god). Also, I’ve been trying to figure out our most recent graduate assistant. Every time she walks by my desk, she breaks no cadence in her walk -- so it looks like a giant head gliding by my desk. Plus, let’s just say she rips some good ones in her cubicle next to mine and doesn’t acknowledge them. Not one “excuse me” or uncomfortable giggle. Just a loud, continuous fart and then typing.

So maybe losing my ticket to postgraduate literature was really a blessing. But then again, I'm walking around with a huge mayonnaise stain on my blouse. So who am I to judge?

Botox and Bonnevilles

Happy or sad?

Toombsday and I engaged in an uncomfortable activity that falls somewhere in between job interview and gynecologist exam -- the realm of car shopping. It was during this experience that I had a revelation: there is a purpose for Botox.

Since my brief observation of the plastic robot serum in celebrities such as Posh Spice and Nicole Kidman (whom I adore), I thought Botox was primarily a chemical of narcissism for people harboring some Peter Pan complex or unhealthy obsession in the Fountain of Youth.

Nay, I tell you, there is a real and useful purpose for Botox. Car salesmen and aspiring poker champions. Hear me out. Have you ever sat across the table from either of these types? I’m always looking for some facial expression of anger, empathy or humanity from them. Searching for some entree into negotiation or strategy because Lord knows that their words are misleading.

Enter Botox. There is no emotion from them at all. The golf tan forehead betrays no weakness. The whole exchange is like negotiating with a slippery electric eel. Nothing says balls of steel other than “I inject deadly neuromuscle toxin into my forehead twice a year.” I think there may be a market here.

In case you’re wondering, Toombsday plays poker. And he bluffed them into oblivion. Team Marvelous 2, Minions of Doom 0.

The third circle of hell

Wal-Mart Shopping Tip #1: Take your iPod*. And never ever take the headset off--even if a five-year-old slams his cart into your heel. Because then I will only be able to see you beat your child for picking up a box of cereal as opposed to both the beating and the ear-bleeding shrieking across the store.

Wal-Mart Shopping Tip #2: Don’t shop at Wal-Mart.

*Please note that the iPod is incapable of blocking all ambient noise, especially when a fellow shopper squeals in excitement for Taco Bell taco seasoning, exclaiming, “Hey, Clarence, come down here! They’ve got Taco Bell! Now we’re cooking!”

"It's like synchronized swimming, but with fire."

Bringing a whole new meaning to Red, White and Crue, our 2006 routine was set to "Shout at the Devil." If that doesn't stand for freedom, I don't know what does.