Meccanized

I will readily admit that I am not the most political person in the world. Donkeys…Elephants (asses…fatties…) — I side with the Democrats on almost all social issues, but that doesn’t mean I think all Republicans are inherently wrong. Independent of anything else, someone’s political affiliation won’t move the needle for me.

But what does grind my gears is stupidity. Democrat stupidity and Republican stupidity — put whatever modifier you want in front of it. It is still stupidity. if it smells like poo and it looks like poo…

And so that brings me to today’s annoyance of the day:

I kid you not…

In between killing boar and popping out babies did she suddenly get her doctorate in biology? Fruit fly research has been instrumental in breakthroughs in autism, birth defects and a whole slew of diseases, because we humans an incredible number of related genes with fruit flies.

When I initially watched this video, I was laughing. But after some thought, my laughter was replaced by actual anger at Palin’s smugness and self-satisfaction and at the people who continue to titter away at her rock-stupid, narrow comments. As a soft-biology major, and as someone who shares a desk with a hardcore science person, I felt the need to write this entry.

Sarah Palin: you are Meccanized.

Today is my birthday. I’m actually very excited about that. I love birthdays. Thank you to all of my amazing friends who have made this birthday better than all the rest.

Of course, because it is my birthday, I have been reflecting on the past 25 years. Somewhere in the childhood pets (Sassy, the Albino Dwarf Hamster being the scariest), the first kisses and the epic trips to the mall in South Norwalk during lunch breaks, I graduated high school, cycled the Pyrenees, finished college and established a cool life in San Francisco. All in all, a pretty great quarter century.

But one event puts a black mark on my otherwise fabulous 25 years: The 4th grade Invention Convention.

That really grinds my gears.

Think a minute: what does the phrase “Invention Convention” mean to you?

To me, it means a place where you present new ideas. Where you show the world (or at least the audience of Redding Elementary School) your ability to innovate. Hell, dare I say, it is a place where you invent something. Or at least offer a new twist on something that has already been invented.

As a fourth grader, I invented a changeable toothbrush. Ok, looking back, I didn’t “invent” it per say. But keep in mind, this was in 1994, when changeable toothbrushes, like Tonya Harding fans, were hard to find. I spent an entire weekend with my engineer father whittling several toothbrushes with a razor blade to create a base and a few different heads.

It was brilliant. Innovative. An answer to the age-old question, “what do I do if my handle is new and supple but my head is grungy and old?”

So imagine my fury and shock when another girl…we’ll call her Jessica… won — I repeat…won — the entire convention with:

A tie protector.

A tie protector that had already been invented and was quite popular at the time.

A tie protector that was a Ziploc bag cut into a rectangle and … wait for it … scotch taped to the tie. Which would ruin the tie anyway, thereby negating the purpose of a tie protector.

Her POS tie “protector” won the blue ribbon. My blood, sweat and tears didn’t even get an honorable mention.

I don’t hold many grudges, but this one I will take with me for the next 25 years and beyond.

Jessica, you’ve been Meccanized. And your tie protector sucked.

You know what else really grinds my gears? Pigeons.

Rats of the sky.

They are fighting outside of my office window right now, and the thwacking their dirty, feathery bodies make as they knock into the glass is pushing me closer and closer to tangible fury.

What bugs me, more, though is the elitism that some pigeons seem to feel over others. There is this one black and white pigeon that I’ve seen around these haunts quite a bit. He’s (or she’s…how can you tell?) is actually kind of endearing — he waddles around a little when he walks, I think because he has something wrong with one of his feet, and he carries himself with a quiet confidence that you don’t find in…pigeons…often.

Anyway, routinely this little guy seems to be left out of the pigeon fun; the other pigeon bullies ignore him and whenever he flaps himself over to where they are perched, they fly away. Who do they think they are?

Asshat pigeons who exclude one semi-endearing pigeon: You’ve been Meccanized.

Ok. I don’t think I am capable of softening this, so I am just going to say it unapologetically:

People who dress their dogs in clothing (or do anything more ridiculous that, like take their dogs to get manis and pedis or Swedish massages) make me sorry to be part of the human race. This goes so far beyond just griding my gears.

A friend of mine told me that her sister dresses her dog up and that she would get me a picture to use for this post. I steeled myself for the worst, but the picture was a pleasant surprise:

Sure, I still think this is ridiculous, but giving your dog (though I am not even sure this punt-able creature can even be called a dog) an accessory isn’t that bad and can actually be kind of cute.

No, I am talking about monstrosities such as this:

There are no words...

Dogs are animals for God’s sake! They are meant to be dirty and furrily naked. They should be allowed to feel the freedom of having their paws touch the ground without having booties between them and the pavement. They should be allowed to feel the cool breeze blowing through their fur, not floating over a wool sweater emblazoned with “Fashion: Doggie Style” (ha…ha…get it? The people who find this little pun laugh-out-loud funny are the same people who bring their dog to a gym and make it run on the treadmill for exercise.)

And what I think a lot of people miss about this whole dog pampering movement is the impact it will have on dogkind. Every time you tie that hoodie on your pug, that dog becomes less likely to be able to adapt to cold weather without it. The little pads on its Golden Retriever feet lose their calluses a little bit every time you lace up its tiny shoes. And the Terrier loses the ability to successfully act on its instinct to hunt and kill every time you file and paint its nails (but I just crossed into a whole other realm of crazy).

It is basic Darwinism– survival of the fittest, and I guarantee you in no scenario will the fittest dog ever be one with a little bow in its fur and socks on its paws.

Ugh.

Dog pamperers (and, for good measure, punt-able dogs): consider yourself Meccanized.

Got another personal sore point for you: Swan Lake. Swan Lake really grinds my gears.

I was 6, and my mom enrolled me in the pride-swallowing siege that is an early-stage ballet class.

I held my own nicely — I didn’t fall over, I looked adorable in my tutu and leotard, and I smoked the rest of the class in second position. All in all, I was pretty pleased with how things were shaping up.

I got my validation (or so I thought) in the middle of the second week, three days before our final performance of Swan Lake. “Casting” (in quotes because it isn’t really casting when you just tell 13 snot-nosed, ADD six-year-olds where to stand on a wooden platform) took place, and my instructor told every little girl where she should stand during the dance…except me.

I was meant for something much greater than the mere background players.

I, my instructor explained, brow furrowed in what I thought at the time was sheer inability to comprehend the reaches of my talent, was going to be the star of the show, the swan in Swan Lake. I, and I alone, was going to sit in a chair and move my arms in time to the music, gracefully and grandly, while all the other children who weren’t good enough danced around me in a circle.

And that is exactly what I did. I was a bright, shining star, and for 14 years, I rode that glory wave proudly. Never mind that immediately after the show my parents took me home and refused to ever let me dance ballet again. I was a Prima Ballerina, and that was something no one could take away from me.

Until Thanksgiving dinner when I was 22, also known as “The Day My Earth Stood Still.” Someone said something about a ballet they had seen, which triggered my delusions of grandeur. I pointed out to everyone that, yes, they were in the presence of greatness, in the presence of the star of Swan Lake. My parents exchanged quick glances, and then decided it was time to tell me that my entire childhood was a lie.

Apparently, my ballet instructor was concerned that my “lack of rhythm and loud stomping around” would ruin the show, and he wanted to exclude me from the final performance. Apparently, sitting on that chair, waving my arms like a fool was a tactic thought up by my parents to save me the emotional scarring of being removed from the show for suckiness. Kudos on the child-rearing, Mom and Dad– no emotional scarring here, clearly.

Since then, whenever I hear Tchaikovsky or see any little girl in a tutu, I have to pause and forcibly maintain my composure.

This post was so cathartic, and so is this:

Swan Lake (and, for that matter, all children’s ballet classes), you are Meccanized.

Next up: Doggie clothing

I was told that first posts that are too intro-y are cheesy, so I’ll keep this brief. Welcome to my blog.

Now, down to brass tacks.

You know what really grinds my gears? Cilantro.

Apparently, there is a genetic trait that makes cilantro taste badly to some segment of the population (a beautiful, wonderful segment). People have argued this with me for as long as I have been vocal about my feelings, but I put my faith in science on this one.

It is hard for me to put my distaste for cilantro into words. Its very existence makes me upset. It’s like the Miley Cyrus of the herb world– dry-heave inducing, totally ruins whatever it is a part of, and I can’t quite figure out why people want it around.

And it seems to be popping up everywhere, even places where it has no business being. Case in point: I ordered duck ravioli lightly sauteed in chicken broth (because any meal that includes two of the 3 components of a Turducken is A-OK in my book) at a high-end restaurant a few months ago (I don’t let things go easily, in case you couldn’t tell). The bowl was lowered to the table and set in front of me, and my usual excitement in the presence of edibles rapidly devolved to upset as I noticed the green sprinklings on the plate and in the broth. At first I couldn’t believe it, then was sad, then frustrated, then furious, and then I accepted that my meal was tainted– my own personal Kubler-Ross model. I made it through the meal by taking a swig of wine, then shoving a forkful of cilantro-tainted duck into my mouth and swallowing really quickly before the taste of the alcohol wore off.

Agony. Sheer agony.

Cilantro, you’ve been Meccanized.

(I promise that future posts will be more substantive and relevant, but I figured this was as good a place as any to cut my teeth as a blogger, since this is something I clearly feel very passionately about.)