1200 + pages= one semester, one of 3 classes.
There's no way around it. I come from peoples of small statures. The average height in my family (extended included) is probably 5' 4". A few folks exceed that but just barely making it to 5' 7" or 5' 8" which really just means we consider them to be freaks. I'm generally okay with my petite size, I've got enough attitude and a collection of huge earrings to compensate, but lately I've kind of struggled with a phenomena only short folks are stricken by that has started to become a huge part of my day to day experience...
That would be the exorbitant amount of face time I spend with people's elbows, armpits, butts and crotches.
For any short person out there riding public transportation, this is an all too familiar feeling. And it manifests itself nearly every day.
If I'm unable to get a seat, then its elbows to the face as people insist on holding the pole next to me instead of the pole above when they can clearly reach it. Usually they are clearly tall enough to reach the pole above, but instead their self-centeredness leaves me to make an attempt. As if being 5' 1 3/4" (that 3/4 is a huge deal) is conducive to reaching a pole nearly 6 feet in the air. On more than one occasion some middle aged business woman in a power suit will be kind enough to throw her arm out for me to hold onto as we get jostled from side to side.
The photo at right, does not truly do justice to the annoyance I feel. That poor girl just looks only slightly annoyed. I tend to feel murderous my entire ride to work every morning, fortunate to be someone who has actually obtained a seat, because I get on before the masses, but stuck with someones bag hitting my head because they are too inconsiderate to notice I'm being assaulted by their Prada or Timbuk2 bag.
If I'm even luckier, I get to have some personal time with the stitching on someone's butt pockets, apparently a lot of folks are into Joe's Jeans and Dockers around my hood. I've spent a lot of time examining belts and on some rare occasions panty lines, truly a great start to the morning.
But the BEST, and most coveted of my riding experiences is when some jerk-off guy decides he has to stand right in front of me but refuses to take off his back pack. As he faces me, and people try to cram into the bus behind him I get on again off again time with his fly, and have come to determine more people wear button fly pants than you might think.
Though the hate is quite strong, I'm attempting to embrace the fact that I get to see quite a different side of life from this vantage point. Lots of shoes to judge people by, bags to determine if they are real or knock-offs. But honestly this is just too much booty and private part time for me. PLEASE people, keep your genitals out of short people's bubbles.
Yeah... I totally just quoted a bad Missy/Ciara song.
Anyway, my bestest buddy and oldest friend in the whole entire world is the source of most of my music finds...
SIDENOTE: Well one of 2 (the other being my boy of 10 years who no matter how long its been between convos, we're almost always on similar pages in each of our own books, actually, yesterday we were talking shit about vegans who wear leather sneakers and discovered while he's north, and I'm bay side, we were wearing almost identical outfits... scary yo). : END SIDE NOTE
Has made his list of the best tracks, cuts, break beats and covers, public for the world.
His recommendations are almost always on point, so stop by and as he builds more, check out some great music.
Actually, its beyond heels, its love-hate with all women's dress shoes.
I discreetly snapped the photo above on the bus today. These heels were so awesome the photo (taken by my meh, camera phone) does not do justice.
So its no secret I love shoes, but my love affair may be misleading as my shoe of choice is generally sneakers. But trust, when I say I can appreciate a truly well designed pair of heels, wedges or lady boots. But, like with much of women's fashion I have issues with them.
Flats, my business casual shoe of choice, are too flat all of the sudden. In light of the quarter-life they're proving to be too much for my bod to handle.
The last pair of black heels I bought squeezed my poor, nearly non-existent b/c its so little, baby toe into such submission that it took a week to recover.
My beautiful burnt orange leather wedges prove to be great for salsa dancing, but impractical running through SFC's never smooth streets.
The misery I experience now, post dress shoe wearing (particularly heels) is kind of exasperating. I used to dance, and do martial arts, could walk barefoot on all sorts of surfaces, and now my feet are pansies.
Seeing shoes like the ones above (maybe I just think they're fly because they're orange, I really cannot say) make me sigh, sometimes at an audible tone, which made my attempt at covertly taking a picture of this woman's feet a bit less covert.
Oh but how lovely they are. Like finely crafted master pieces, they just hurt like a bitch lately, relegating me to the oft hated upon, but occasionally stylish teacher shoe– if you dig deep, look hard and do NOT settle that is.
BUT I PROMISE: I will not and cannot ever, only wear teacher shoes. I will be that educator with dope sneaks, killer heels and I MEAN BUSINESS boots. I will not settle for clogs, that's fo sho. I will train my feet to endure the pains I've been feeling as of late. Honestly, I love shoes too much not to.
Glad to know my money is being spent well. Here's my version of grad school. Enjoy. (Context, once a month friday night/ all day Saturday class.)
Obama's press conference today. Part of the Transcript via CNN.com
Question: Mr. President-elect ...
Obama: What happened to your arm, Lynn?
Question: I cracked my shoulder running to your speech on election night.
Obama: Oh, no.
(LAUGHTER)
Question: (inaudible)
Obama: I think that was the only major incident during the -- the entire Grant Park celebration.
Question: Thank you for asking. Here's my question. I'm wondering what you're doing to get ready. Have you spoke to any living ex-presidents, what books you might be reading?
Everyone wants to know, what kind of dog are you going to buy for your girls? Have you decided on a private or public school for your daughters?
Obama: Let -- let me list those off.
In terms of speaking to former presidents, I've spoken to all of them that are living. Obviously, President Clinton -- I didn't want to get into a Nancy Reagan thing about, you know, doing any seances.
I have re-read some of Lincoln's writings, who's always an extraordinary inspiration.
And, by the way, President Carter, President Bush, Sr., as well as the current president have all been very gracious and offered to provide any help that they can in this transition process.
With respect to the dog, this is a major issue. I think it's generated more interest on our Web site than just about anything.
We have -- we have two criteria that have to be reconciled. One is that Malia is allergic, so it has to be hypoallergenic. There are a number of breeds that are hypoallergenic.
On the other hand, our preference would be to get a shelter dog, but, obviously, a lot of shelter dogs are mutts like me. So -- so whether we're going to be able to balance those two things I think is a pressing issue on the Obama household.
He called himself a mutt. :D
Magtonic: YOOOO Obama called himself a mutt in his press conference. I told you I'm a genius.
Magtonic's Best Friend: He's so gangsta.
In all seriousness, here's a far better argument as to why Obama is "so gangsta."
Seven days ago I was getting ready for work at this time. It would be the last day in our old office located in San Francisco's very own CRACK ALLEY.
He'd enter the office at 9 dressed as Bert of Bert and Ernie from sesame street toting a NO ON PROP 8 sign and tell me that his husband, who he's been married to now 4 times, was dressed as Ernie and that they were late because they had gotten out of the car on their way to work to join a no on prop 8 protest along the side of the rode. Both feeling incredibly hopeful we'd go through the motions to close out whatever business we had to complete for our move later in the weekend.
I'd go home and gear up for my favorite holiday, put on my crazily thrown together female superhero costume and help by father finish up dinner for the guests we'd invited over, in our family halloween is not just for the kids. We'd drink make a huge scene on our front stoop, scaring some kids, and be joined by so many we love.
Mom, dad and I would get up saturday morning to preform at a rally for a candidate for supervisor of a neighboring district. The skys would rain something fierce. Sunday would pass with no real events, just homework, and attempting to complete one of 3 assignments. My boss would call, tell me as he was packing up crack alley and moving into the new office a pigeon would fly into our window and he'd spend a decent portion of the day trying to get it out. Only felt par for the course. I'd celebrate Dia De Los Muertos, my second favorite holiday by doing homework in a cafe with classmates as a whole slew of crazy white hipsters ran around 24th and mission looking like calacas.
Monday would arrive, we'd move, feng shui the new office. All the while, as I readied my three assignments worried about the move and had strange conversations with my best friend, all of which pointed to each of us experiencing our own kind of mental break down, his induced by LA, mine induced by over work and blocking out any inevitable concern about Tuesday.
And Tuesday would come. So many I love, so many I like, working themselves up into frenzies. Uncertainty, concern, and vows to move should a certain old fella become our next Commander and Chief...
I'd talk with my cousin, the one with the Cher tattoo... and he and I would start our own last minute campaign. YES ON CTFD! the CALM THE EFF DOWN campaign. Because what else was there to do between waking that morning and the evening time closing of West Coast Polls?
I had class Tuesday night. No one was truly present. The only time I spoke was to say "HOW COULD THE AUTHOR NOT SEE THAT?" spoken exactly how the caps lock implies. I turn in assignment 1 of 3.
Home at last. Confusing numbers of electoral votes. Waiting for 8pm to arrive. Wolf Blitzer, who my dad treats as his homeboy, says there are 30 seconds until the polls in CA, WA, OR and HI close. He talks 29... he says something else... 15 adds to his last comment, 6... reminds us the polls close in 5 seconds. BREAKING NEWS. He won...
I'm confused. I refuse to believe it... I wont believe it until every vote is counted, as a true pessimist I expect some of the bullshit cons have pulled in the past. But its true. And I don't know whether to cry with relief, or take a trip to the restroom... I've been holding back my emotions so it seems only fit to release something. A shot is had in his honor.
He speaks, my best friend says he wants his fade. I tell him he has his fade. He tells me he just needs a clean up. I call my boyfriend, on campus with a bunch of his friends, he's wound up. I say good night. My sister calls elated we have a president (elect) who can read. I gloat, saying our "mixed" president gives validity to all the undergrad work I did on mixed race studies. I'm a genius I say. A genius ahead of her times.
I go to bed. At 12:00 a thought occurs... SHIIIIIITTTT. 3 years ago I got together with my dude, its my anniversary. I call leave a message apologizing. He calls back, leaves a message trying to convince me its not election day, but the day after. Oh well...
Wake up feeling like an ass. Then finding out Prop 8 has passed. Its hard to know how to be excited. Hard to know if I'm allowed to take ownership of both the victory and the let down. Hard to know how my individual life will change. Educational change takes time. Will I see the change I'm affecting in my life time? I've seen a black mixed man become president. A man who's sister is half Indonesian, damn I am still a genius. Too busy to do much for an important but also no frills day in my life with my dude. A day that for both of us is more a matter of ceremony than need.
The week goes on. SF provides a landscape of mixed feelings. I turn in assignment 2. And now it's Friday. And my week is still not over. No work, b/c the boss is at a conference and my assignments have, until this week been kind of neglected. Evening class tonight. All day class Saturday. I've been desperately waiting for Sunday to get here, since Monday. Law suits have been filed. Melissa Ethridge says she won't pay her taxes. Whoopi Goldberg's cat writes the new first family a letter about how they should not get a dog.
And who do we have to thank for such a victorious national moment in history. Apparently Oprah, Diddy and Tyra. Thanks guys, but right now, I think Ellen really needs a hug.
I'm going to try and start writing a "Rant of the Week." I've been pretty bogged down and well, I need to create space for other components of life besides PoMo theory on education and equity based school reform.
That being said behold Gizmo.
Gizmo was featured on Animal Planet's "It's Me or the Dog" where a British animal behaviorist helps folks tame unruly pets, and is a prime example of my newest hatred of (to quote my father) "big ass- fat ass" lap dogs.
Why are so many small dogs so damned fat? What the hell is going on in the minds of their owners that make them think its okay for they're small dog to live this way? A huge part of me wishes I had just taken pictures of these dogs to illustrate why I'm so feverishly hating on these dogs. I could just be like example one. Example 2. Period. But instead consider the following.
First here are a couple of observations:
- In the last few years San Franciscan's passed an initiative to no longer be called pet owners but pet guardians and in light of trying to acknowledge that pets should be treated as family members I think an epidemic was created.
- Paired the increase in lap dogs as personal accessories (Thank You to the Paris-Britney phenomena) means more small dog owners exist than previously.
To be frank, I can't stand small dogs anyway. It is only on a rare occasion that I meet a well mannered small dog. Most are old, half blind or have owners whose general attitude towards life is no muss no fuss. Otherwise I find their barky-ness, endless shivering and shaking, the buggy eyes, and general attitudes obnoxious. To me, they all look sick.
In the last few weeks I've seen some seriously obese small dogs. I mean I get it, maybe its a sign of the times, reports constantly tell me that America is becoming an obese nation but DAMN YALL, Our pets?! I am ALL for bodies of all shapes and sizes. I'm all for big dogs and medium dogs but SMALL DOGS SHOULD NOT BE OBESE.
Owner Excuses: I've caught segments here or there of the show mentioned above and people make extremely sad excuses as to why their small ass dog is fat. "Oh why should he eat dog food?... Oh he has a condition.... Oh he just likes relaxing?"
I get it a dog's existence is all about relaxing (unless you have dogs to heard sheep but the last time I checked we don't do that in the city) but PLEASE! Dogs don't have to eat dog food but they do not need to eat the way we do ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY ARE ONLY SUPPOSED TO WEIGH LIKE 5 POUNDS! He has a condition my ass...
There's been a huge discussion of individuals who substitute having children for having pets, it happens, thats cool you want to love and be loved but your dog does not need a stroller, or a dress, small coat for the winter maybe. But over compensating for that, or really and truly believing your dog is a part of your family does not mean over feeding them, and believe me I say that as member of family who wants to make sure guests are well fed. I just ask, are there no limits people? I don't know it just doesn't seem like its that hard to keep your small dog within a reasonable weight limit.
Chihuahuas, pommeranians, lhasa apsos, pugs, poodles and terriers of all sorts are not intended to be meaty dogs! They're bone structures are not built for the weight! I mean look at Gizmo. He's so bloated his legs are so little in comparison to his torso! That's just not right. If you love your dog than don't out their delicate little feet through that please. No one wants their belly to drag on the ground (at least I hope not).
That's why they're called LAP DOGS. Get it together y'all...
This is just too fantastic.
So I've reached a new stage in life. I'm officially a grad student, working in urban education reform and have tried chocolate covered bacon. But one thing hasn't changed, there are just some things I need to hate on.
Though I mean well, I’m a pretty judgmental bastardess. I can’t help it. I’m a hater by nature. Without meaning to I defy laws about first impressions. I judge books by their covers — I’m a sucker for good packaging— and I make snap decisions about people based on first impressions. Don’t worry, its not that deep. A few short moments after meeting someone I start filing people into my mental Rolodex.
In all sincerity, it’s really just a two category sorting system: “research further” or “return to sender, not interested in your offer, please don’t call again.” A perfectly reasonable system if you ask me. Though many people agree these two categories, and this thought process are real talk, my criteria used to divide and conquer the personalities I come into contact with, raises eyebrows.
Lots of people have rules used to do this type of cataloging— never trust a person with thin lips, never trust someone whose eyes are too close together, never trust someone who is a close talker, won’t look you in the eye and so on.
But my judging doesn’t stop with people I am actively chopping it up with or when meeting my homey’s homies. Sadly, whenever people ask stupid questions like “what do you notice first in a guy?” I’m ashamed to answer, because on one hand its what I notice first in people in general, and on the other, to many it’s as shallow as you can get.
No, its not eyes, smile, bods or booty. My judgment isn’t based on shit people can’t control, at least with out a plastic surgeon or behavior modifications. To me, it tells full stories about people, and rest assured, if we were face to face, I’d be judging you by it too. In fact I do it all day, everyday, at the nail shop, on the bus, in the grocery store, even at home. Trust me when I say that it’s all I need to know about people at first glance. I learn more about someone in my small little tidbit-sized deduction than I can learn from being given your name, business title and hometown. (I’m not gonna lie I can also deduce a lot from where you fall in your family’s birth order, but that requires investigating and hella work.)
So when I say its someone’s shoes that I notice first, know its not because I’m some stiletto obsessed, fashionista clamoring for Jimmy Choos, knock off Ma-No-No Blahniks or Louboutins— don’t get it twisted, once in a blue moon I dream about my own pair of classically designed red soled French heels. That’s the wrong girl, and those are the wrong shoes. Hear me out when I say my shoe of preference is, and has always been, the sneaker. Somewhere deep in my heart the teenage hip-hop-head just can’t let go of gloriously fashioned retro kicks in new and exciting colors.
Perhaps after years of conditioning- straining to get a peek at others to see if they out did my own kicks, my eyes instinctively go to shoes first. No, I’m not some submissive bitch looking down because culture tells me I can’t look you in the eye, I’m peeping the shoes you decided to wear today, and getting your story.
The ground rules to my game are few, and only a handful of people have ever proven me wrong. The shoes I tend to hate, often belong to ladies and fellas I wouldn’t want to break bread with in the first place, and as such my check plus check minus system saves me the pain of weighing through hours of conversation and annoying personality traits.
First no-no’s include: dirty, painted on or marked up kicks of any kind, but in particular, Chuck Taylor’s and shell toe adidas fall under most commonly mistreated shoes. In my opinion a Chuck’s rubber toe should be white— not yellow, not brownish, not covered with angsty words or doodles.
To some degree I get that certain populations want interactive shoes, so once every trillion or so pairs I’ll except an “enhanced” all star, but never should someone draw on a leather shoe like a shell toe. It’s just not cute and, if you’re too busy to clean the wear and tear off the rubber parts of your shoes I’m sharing a not so secret-secret from the sneaker head handbook… Fantastic and an old toothbrush, nuf said. And folks, there is such thing as beyond repair, something to be noted for any piece of apparel. If your possessions have holes bigger than a pencil eraser and cannot be repaired even with the most simplistic pocket sized sewing kit, its time for that item to be buried. It lived a good life, served you well, but duct tape and gorilla glue or fabric patches can only work in a few instances.
Scratch that. Duct tape should never be used to fix apparel.
Return that shit to sender. It tells me you don’t know how to take care of your shit and while I get money’s tight (recession and all) when you walk up to someone with grimey shoes that look like they far predate this little economic crisis, I really have no sympathy.
Now Chuck’s and shell toes can be cool, when kept clean and treated like shoes with their historical importance in American culture should be, but what I really can stand and is almost never excusable, is combat boots worn, well just because— not because you know, you’re combating or anything— as well as creepers or any other shoe sold almost exclusively at hot topic.
These shoes are often treated as an emo version of a pissing contest. I’m talking the “I’ve had my doc (martin)s for 5 years!” — “Oh yeah! I’ve had mine for 10”.
No. All you have is a festering ground for foot fungus and bacteria. Trust me. I worked in footwear, creating custom sneakers at a certain major athletic store for a minute. No shoe worn day in and day out for that long of a period of time could ever be bacteria or fungus free. It’s just not possible. Shoes worn every, or nearly everyday, or for heavy activity tend to have a six month life span— Proper foot health tidbit #1.
Back to the boots. I feel these shoes scream douche, or lack of an ability to embrace change. We aren’t in 1980s London, and the Ramones dead or geriatric. Truthfully most of the jackasses who sport these shoes are too young to even know where this shit comes from. And if you used to rock em’ that’s cool, but you don’t need some clunky ass platform loafers in plaid or gold toed boots (because you enhanced them yourself) to prove something. Not interested in your offer.
My hatred of boots, creepers and the like segways nicely into my hatred of clunky shoes in general. Long have gone the days of clunky heeled or soled shoes. Ladies, if you’re intimidated by heels, as am I most of the time, there are shoes out there that give you a lift with out the impending fear of breaking your neck. Wedges for example, are cool. Low heels are in. But clogs and three in by three-inch square heels do not scream office professional. Like the orthopedic 2 in soled boots worn by men, they scream, “I am in desperate need of a reason to care!” CARE PEOPLE.
Just slightly less sad than the two sort of categories listed here are those people who care enough to own more than one pair of shoes and take care of them to a certain degree, but don’t know how to branch out. I.E. Men who own black or white K-Swiss, New Balance or Nike’s. It says, I’m sort of up on what’s not ugly but I’m boring and predictable. Women are victims of this as well but often to a lesser degree.
Why are people so afraid of color, texture and laceless shoes? When did classic Timberland boots become a shoe for all seasons? On the female tip, I understand the appeal of Ugg’s— I won’t front I own a pair of soft soled Ugg slippers, that sheepskin shit is no joke, but those things shouldn’t really venture out of the house. Don’t give me that “they’re good for winter” bullcrap. They aren’t waterproof and have no traction. Frankly they’re the female preppy douche calling card. (Men= dock shoes. For more info, google that bitch.) They’re a fad that needs to die.
Ditto for Crocs. I get the appeal— ergonomically correct, easy to clean, lightweight but they are GOD AWEFULLY ugly. Grandma’s, grandpa’s and people with bad backs, may the crocs be with you, but please make those bitches your house shoe.
Being up on trends or at least owning up to more recent to date sneaker-boot slipper hybrids and neon foam rubber clogs is understandable as they’re all designed for comfort or easy, but they really are so common now they’ve been promoted to annoying. They say absolutely nothing special about you. Frankly I think that’s what shoes should do, say something special about you.
No, you don’t need to wear Nike Court Force Hi-s with paisley blue uppers a magenta swoosh and silver details, though those are a current personal fav. Nor do you have to sport red and white Chinese brocade adidas sleek series flats, though I can pull those off at work. What I’m arguing isn’t just a matter of me being judgmental; it’s a matter of presentation. Shoes say everything about you. Not because of the brand or how much they cost you, or the image they give you. The condition of and amount of time you spent picking them out says to me, how much you care about yourself. Plenty of people spend money on clothes, gadgets, personal care products gym memberships and botox to show the world their own self worth. Shoes aren’t that complex and your feet deserve to be remembered.
No your shoes don’t need to be the highlight of your outfit each day, but I believe they can seal the deal. So here’s my brief guide to what I think one’s shoe wardrobe should contain at the most basic level.
One pair of shoes only to be worn in the house. This can include slippers, those unmentionable clogs and fur lined boots, slides, your favorite sandals from Chinatown, or any other easy shoe designed for comfort not fashion, though they can be fashionable if you like. Wear them in the yard out back, but no further out in front than your doorstep. They can have holes, be dirty (buy not to the point of bacteria developing) whatever you want or need them to be. Only hear is the realm of ugliness, comfort and function, limitless.
Seasonally appropriate shoes: one for summer, one for winter. Summer shoes take form in slides or sandals and do not require sacrificing comfort for fashion in most cases. Basic leather or solid colored rubber will do, no bells and whistles necessary. Winter shoes require simple, waterproof boots with traction. Fur feather tassels and other foot accessories not necessary. But please, keep each to their own season. Flip-flops + snow = absolute idiocy. Snow boots (or my favorite fur lined ones) + so hot outside you could fry an egg on the street temperatures= cut the fashion umbilical cord. Anna Wintour would not approve.
For Athletics: Now I say this with the utmost respect for folks who regularly engage in sports or going to the gym or other major physical activities as I suck at keeping up with any one thing— I am sans car so I do walk everywhere. But please folks, please wear the appropriate shoe for your activity of choice. Wearing the wrong shoe can do some GNARLY shit to your body.
It is with that that I as the following:
These shoes are not designed to support the impact these activities have on our bodies. That’s why they make different shoes for each of them— Proper foot health tidbit #2. Do your research, and don’t stray from what your body actually needs.
For work, like athletic shoes, they should obviously match your game. However, for anyone working from a desk, or in a desk related facility a simple business casual (for the most part) shoe is all you need. They should be sleek.. Work shoes, unless your personality and industry allow, should say only that you’re confident and know what you’re doing. A simple but strong leather shoe in black or brown says this, and I know there are plenty of these out there.
Lastly, at a basic, and I mean basic minimum, lock down one pair of go anywhere, do anything sneakers/ flats/ casual shoes, that make you happy. For the more conservative types this can be the one colorful shoe in your collection. For someone like me it’s the sunset print slip on Vans or Nike Dunk Lo-s in grey & dark purple with a polka dot toe box. This pair of shoes should make you smile. Happy feet make happy people.
Happy people, get filed into “Research Further.”
