Category Archives: Cultural Things

National Everything Month

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May is National Correct Posture month so get it right already.

May is National Correct Posture month so get it right already.

At work, I’m the Communications Coordinator.

I love my job. I’m not setting the world on fire by writing corporate communications but it’s fun. I get to be creative in a supportive environment. I like my team. And I’m encouraged to pursue other writing and creative endeavors outside of the office. So, yeah, Corporate America is cool with me.

Anyway, I was recently researching what kind of National so-and-so month May happens to be. Turns out, there’s a lot of so-and-so’s for May. And for every month.

But, for now, let’s just focus on May.

Asian Heritage Month (Canada)
Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month
Awareness of Medical Orphans Month
Better Hearing and Speech Month
Better Sleep Month
Borderline Personality Disorder Month
Brain Tumor Awareness Month
Correct Posture Month
Creative Beginnings Month
Family Wellness Month
Fibromyalgia Education and Awareness Month
Foot Health Month
Freedom Shrine Month
Get Caught Reading Month
Gifts From The Garden Month
Go Fetch! Food Drive for Homeless Animals Month
Haitian Heritage Month
Heal the Children Month
Healthy Vision Month
Huntington’s Disease Awareness Month
International Audit Month
International Business Image Improvement Month
International Victorious Woman Month
Jewish-American Heritage Month
Latino Books Month
Lyme Disease Awareness Month National (World)
Meditation Month
Motorcycle Safety Month
National Allergy/Asthma Awareness Month
National Arthritis Month
National Artisan Gelato Month
National Asparagus Month
National Barbeque Month
National Bike Month
National Chocolate Custard Month
National Egg Month
National Family Month
National Foster Care Month National Good Car Keeping Month
National Good Car Keeping Month
National Hamburger Month
National Hepatitis Awareness Month
National High Blood Pressure Month
National Macaroon Day
National Mental Health Month
National Military Appreciation Month National
National Moving Month
National Mine Month
National Osteoporosis Prevention Month
National Photo Month
National Physical Fitness and Sports Month
National Physiotherapy Month
National Preservation Month
National Revise Your Work Schedule Month
National Salad Month
National Salsa Month
National Share A Story month
National Smile Month (From May 18 to June 17)
National Strawberry Month
National Stroke Awareness Month
National Vinegar Month
Older Americans Month
Personal History Month
React Month
Strike Out Strokes Month
Sweet Vidalia Onions Month
Teen Self-Esteem Month
Tennis Month
Ultra-violet Awareness Month
Women’s Health Care Month
Young Achievers of Tomorrow Month

(Source)

Dad Knows Best

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And here it is...still limping along.

And here it is…still limping along.

I should not be blogging right now. I should be writing my book.

I’m in the total-freak-out stage of this writing project. Now that I’m settled into my corporate job (I’m very happy there), I’ve developed a new discipline to devote 9-10 hours per week to this book. I can only hope this is enough.

I’m stressed to the max.

But I’ve been writing this blog post in my head for months and it’s time to get it out.

It’s about my camera.

When I graduated college in 2006, this Canon Power Shot A540 was my Dad’s gift to me. I’m going to send the link to this blog to my dad later today so he’ll soon learn that this was so not what I wanted. At the time, I had given my then-fiance very specific instructions to tell my dad that I wanted an iPod.

Instead, I got the camera.

“I figured that, with your new job at the New Times, you could use a camera for your work when you’re out reporting stories and such,” Dad told me.

Then I started my job and quickly accepted the assignment to take pictures of party people once a week for a column called Club Candids. I despised the gig but the money was way too good to pass up. This camera was with me all the way. It somehow survived bars, clubs, and dance nights each week for three years solid.

Today, the lens is missing its cover. The screen on the back is scratched to hell. The flash only works if you flick the bulb five times with your finger before you take the photo. The wrist strap is so caked with dried booze and grime, the woven threads are now all leathery and gross.

I promised myself I’d buy a new camera so I could take excellent photos for my book. I planned to use my sad, sad Canon only for the first few hikes. But I got busy and lazy and I didn’t want to do the research needed to buy a new camera.

Today, I’m more than halfway done with my list of hikes and this beat up little thing has captured some gorgeous photos…some are even good enough for the cover (according to my publisher’s Graphics Coordinator).

Dad knows best!

Visualize This

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This photo makes me think of Phoenix. Then I think of the silhouetted power lines I often see in the evening. That makes me remember a tattoo that a friend of mine has on his forearm. And then I contemplate how the imagery of tall palm trees and power lines against a skyline has been adopted by so many Phoenicians as a symbol of life in Phoenix. That leads me to wonder about our collective identity as a city…and then I remember that most of us could care less. Which makes me think about how Phoenix natives never talk to their neighbors. I COULD GO ON. All this happens because I look at a simple photo.

I’m taking a break from making maps.

It’s actually my favorite part of “writing” this book (I guess since I enjoy it, I’m not really justified to take a break but whatever). For every hike, I must turn in a map so the cartography department can accurately create another map that’s included with the trail review.

I like to do it because I get to make pictures. I use the image from my EveryTrail app or a scanned trail map and then I add arrows and notes using Snagit.

It’s not a far cry from what I do in my current day job in which I must find the most meaningful way to accurately communicate complicated information.

In short, that means turning most things into pictures.

I’m probably betraying my kind here, but I believe that humans are much more sophisticated in reading the pervasive visual language than the traditional written language.

Don’t argue with me. I learned this in my Art History classes.

They say the average modern-day American views [it's too late in the evening to look up the estimated number right now but think about every billboard, computer icon, television show, packaging design for products, etc. you see each day] a whole shit-ton of images in a day. Compare that to the actual words you read in a 24-hour period.

See what I’m getting at?

When my book comes out, I can expect most “readers” to flip through the pages, scan the photos, glance at the maps, and maybe, maybe read a caption or two.

I can’t blame them. I do the exact same thing.

Taking that into consideration, I suppose I shouldn’t feel so guilty about busying myself with map-making in order to avoid the writing.

Art History Major

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I almost pee-pee’d in my pants when I saw this in person.

College is certainly a faint memory for me at this point in my life. Except for that pesky student loan payment, I’m rarely reminded of the four (let’s be honest, six) years I spent studying for exams, writing papers, and half-assing my way through the curriculum.

Half-assing until, that is, I chose my major.

This one broke my heart.

After years of switching majors and wasting money on classes that didn’t count toward a degree, I made the very impractical decision to major in Art History. My logic went like this:

“I’ve taken two Art History classes. I aced them both. I love having class in a dark room. Fuck it. I’m majoring in Art History.”

At the Phoenix Art Museum, 3rd Floor, the Yayoi Kusama installation…people! You must experience this!!!!

It took another few years to complete the required courses. Shortly after graduation, I joined the work force and was shocked to discover that I could use my education to write art reviews. (And, eventually, I used it to write vulgar top ten lists about famous dicks and T&A throughout Art History.)

“It’s so loose!” I yelled when I entered the gallery at the Prado. Sometimes, I get too excited.

Today, I don’t use my degree for much else than checking the box on my resume.

Which is fine by me.

When I picked the major, I didn’t harbor any fantasies of entering into the contemporary art market. The short-lived amount of time that I spent frequenting the local visual art scene was (and still is) enjoyable. But it didn’t turn out to be my life’s desire.

To this day, this is the only painting that has emotionally moved me to such a degree that my eyes actually welled up with tears. I know, I know…how pedestrian of me!

Still, I’m so glad I studied Art History. It’s like learning regular history, but through a picture book. And all your classes take place in a shadowy classroom with a passionate professor who shows slide after slide of gorgeous imagery. Then you get to hear the juicy stories of personal turmoil, political ideology, passionate love affairs, and any other human experience that caused the inception of such creations.

A dear friend surprised me with an impromptu visit to the LACMA when this was on display. I freaked.

And if you’ve ever traveled with me, I’ll most likely force you to visit the city’s art museum.

Then I’ll bombard you with inaccurate tellings of all the juicy stories I learned in college.

It pains me greatly that I have yet to view a work by Grandma Moses. The pain!

Black Cat Appreciation Day

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Bruce, Bruce the Goose, Broobles, Bru-bear, The Might Bruce, Bru-ba-looga, Bru-bees, Bru-bah, Boose, Bruce is Loose…just to name a few.

I learned that today is Black Cat Appreciation Day.

Say what?

I don’t know who decided this and I don’t really care. It’s an excuse for me to talk about our lovely little black kitty, Bruce.

We adopted Bruce through the AZ Maine Coon Cat Rescue organization — which basically means we paid a few extra bucks for a domestic long-haired cat. Bruce was worth every penny.

He had been living in foster care for years. The agency said he switched owners once, and was then given up by his second family.

Back then, his name was Alex. His profile described him as “regal and proper”. His foster mom assured me that he was shy, liked to hide under beds, and grumpy.

Perfect.

While in foster care, Bruce lived in a guest house with many other kitties. The conditions were more than acceptable but the unavoidable cat-piss smell was depressing. The foster parent also hosted a pack of pugs…one with a missing eye, no bark, and a wheel for a leg (he’s wearing a top hat in my memory but I’m confident I made that part up).

Once home, Bruce immediately retreated to a closet.

We didn’t see him for two weeks. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, we’d hear a guttural, scraping cat moan. This rusty-door-hinge sound is Bruce’s regular voice.

One night, when we returned from an evening out with friends, Bruce met us at the door. He rolled flirtatiously on the floor. Stinky and matted, Bruce graciously allowed us to brush him and clean his long fur with some cat-cleaning wipes. His coat became shiny and smooth. And he lovingly purred as we scratched and cooed over him for at least an hour.

Bruce was here.

Since then, Bruce has emerged as one of the finest cats I’ve ever owned. He’s surly, shy, secretly mischievous, and occasionally over-affectionate.

Busted!

Like I said, he’s perfect for us.

Public Speaking

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Brisbane City Council, flickr creative commons

Yeah! This is what I felt like on the inside!

Turns out, I’m not afraid of public speaking.

I figured out a great trick: I have to know what the heck I’m talking about.

Last week, I got a last-minute invite to talk about blogging at a meeting with the Gilbert Small Business Alliance.

With less than 24 hours to prepare, I whipped up an outline. While Lou cleaned the dishes that night, I rehearsed my presentation.

And, because my husband is awesome, when I “opened the floor” for some Q&A, he asked multiple questions and spoke in a different character voice each time.

I expected I’d be super nervous before the presentation. Instead, I was just slightly sweaty as I blabbed in front of the small crowd of florists, mediators, floor cleaners, and other independent business owners.

Rather than run the risk of offending someone with my godless, eff-word-filled blog, I mostly concentrated on The Root Word, a blog that I edit for the fantastic hair experts at The Root Salon.

The audience asked some really great questions, shared their own blog ideas, and I received some great feedback from the organizers. All in all, I think it went well.

Of course, the big win for me was not feeling terrified.

And, as a bonus, I now have an outline so I can easily write a blog about blogging.

Death Email

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If this happens, my family should know what to do.

I heard on the Diane Rehm show yesterday that one should have a frank discussion with family members about their wishes for death.

Being a bit of a planner by nature, I emailed my immediate family and asked them to answer the following questions:

  • Where would you like to die – at home, in a hospice or somewhere else?
  • Who would you like to be with you when you die?
  • Is there anybody that you don’t want around?
  • Are there any particular pieces of music, prayers, or things to have around you that you find comforting?
  • Are there any types of treatment or care that you don’t want to have in the final days of life?
  • Do you want to make a living will?
  • Do you have any issues that you would like to sort out with family or friends before you die?
  • Are there any messages you would like to record or put in writing to leave behind for your loved ones when you die?
  • Do you have any religious or cultural practices you would like to be carried out before and after you die?
  • Are there any specific wishes you have about your funeral?
  • Do you want to be cremated or buried?
  • Do you want to organise your own funeral?
  • Have you made a will or updated your present one?

Then I filled it out.

My family is quite practical and we’ve had frank (and sometimes ridiculous) discussions about death. My father staunchly believes that a dead body is a mere object. In fact, many years ago, a “contract” was created to state that, when my father dies, my brother has the right to eat the body. Both parties signed the agreement which was hand-written on notebook paper.

With this unique family perspective backing me, I began the process with a cavalier attitude. But, I admit that by the time I answered all the questions, I felt sad.

And I’m worried. I fear that putting my death preferences in writing will somehow engage the universe’s energy in motion to create a specific set of circumstances that will cause my untimely death. I really would prefer that my parents not have to grieve a their child and I don’t want Lou to be a widower.

But, if that happens, at least they’ll all know not to give me a church funeral.

Family in Fractions

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It is what it is.

A while ago, I wrote about my mixed-up heritage here.

I had to call my mom to get some of the information for that post.

Recently, she sent the kids this email:

Hi,

I was in my safe deposit box today and discovered this information that you sometimes ask and I don’t remember it all so here [are] the details:

I am:  9/16 English, 1/4 Irish, 1/8 German, 1/16 Scotch

Pete (your dad) is:  you all know this…1/2 Irish, 1/2 Italian

So you all are:  3/8 Irish, 9/32 English, 1/4 Italian, 1/16 German, 1/32 Scotch

Love, Mom

So there you have it.