I have never been a gamer. All these years, my children, specifically my sons, have tried to get me interested in playing 'video' games. It started with my older son. He wanted me to try everything he played, like Runescape and World of Warcraft and others. My daughter tried to get me hooked on every version of Sims. Then my younger son tried once again with ZooTycoon and, later, Rockband and GuitarHero.
All to no avail. I couldn't see the point. Why sit and play a game for hours while my to-do-list became more delayed and eventually longer? In the end, the effect would be pandemonium in my life and the life of my home and family.
Sure. I would politely try. After all, I didn't want my children to learn negative patterns from me. The burden was on me to teach them not to be quitters, poor sports, or, worse yet, somehow learn from me not to engage at all. But it would end there. I would go politely on my way and let them play their games, happy for the silence.
I realized that part of my fear of learning to play the games didn't stem so much from the fear of wasted time, but the fear of all the buttons on the game controllers. As the games evolved, the settings and options increased and became confusing to remember and manipulate.
Not too far fetched if one considers that my first 'video' game was Pong. It consisted of two long vertical dashes down each side of a very small television screen. In the middle of the screen was a horizontal dash. Many of you reading my blog may recall it. Pong led to PacMan. PacMan was originally designed in the same linear fashion; all of which occurred before the advent of our current age of outstanding video graphics.
Video games have continued to evolve to those one can play on a phone. I have tried to stay away from them, for some of the same reasons I stayed away from my children's games many years ago. Time consuming and confusing.When I got my Android, though, my younger son showed me how to go to the Marketplace and download free apps. The first game I found was Solitaire, obviously. He then tried to talk me into a game called Angry Birds. My daughter concurred and showed it to me. But it was too confusing, too fast moving.
Recently, a friend turned me on to Words With Friends. Now I am hooked. Addicted. Constantly drawn. Multiple games going on; two with the same person (not suprisingly the same friend who introduced me to it!). I find myself continuously checking back for updates, or just to review the board to see what moves could possibly be made on my next turn.
It wasn't until today that I realized just how obsessed I am. I was in the doctor's office, waiting for the doctor. Somehow, between turns, I forgot to pay attention to what the nurse said as she walked out the door, so engrossed was I in figuring out my next 30-point word. Before I knew it, the doctor walked in, only to find me engrossed in my phone and not having changed into the robe. OOPS! But, I didn't stop there. As I left the exam room to go get my blood drawn, and continued through the rest of my appointment, I realized I wasn't all there. I was missing directions and even left my receipt at the nurse's station. The receptionist had to call me while I was driving home.
This game has invaded my empty time: the times when I am sitting at a light, or waiting in a doctor's office, or in a line, or just watching TV. The many small free moments in my day when I review my to-do list in my head and mentally check things off or plan for tomorrow. All of the time I normally just spend letting my thoughts and feelings ramble, as I am wont to do, have quickly been consumed by the pursuit of the next big word and the next win.
I am slowly figuring out how to play the game in the most effective manner, and earn more points. But, what remains elusive is corraling how much of my rambling thought time is consumed in the process.
The constant playing of Word With Friends has not done much for my record. Right now 1 win, 6 losses. Not great for an SAT instructor and technical writer. So, out of pride alone I will keep playing until I start winning....more.
So, download the app, find me, and invite me to a game. My user is kimb111.
See you in the game!
Tuesday, April 26
Friday, April 15
Disadvantage of Selling Your Home In A Buyers Market
The best time to sell a home is in a seller's market. The seller can dictate many terms and usually get very close to the asking price. Many other advantages...but mostly just more flexibility.
Selling in a buyer's market is a different situation. Not advantageous: lots of other homes on the market and excessively discriminating buyers. Combining this with an unsteady economic environment results in a situation fraught with distress for the seller.
By far, the worst part of selling in a buyer's market has to be a process called staging. In a post about Home Staging, Elizabeth Weintraub of About.com describes it as "...illusions...the way David Copperfield would sell a house." She further says "it makes home buyers want to buy it" and "it's all about dressing the house for sale...adding the small details." It even has an association related to it: Real Estate Staging Association (RESA).
Sounds great, eh? It may be, until you are immersed in it. The stager who came to my house was very pleasant. She brought her daughter with her, and of course my real estate agent joined our little party.
After the pleasantries, she got to work.
She told me to remove my prized cathedral photographs from the living room wall. She said the buyer needs a cleaner view of the beautiful patio and pool. I did not object; nevertheless, I could not resist informing her that those were not just something I had bought at Bed, Bath & Beyond for $55. I had taken those myself, in various cities in Europe. I made sure she knew how much I prized them.
She told me to remove my Holland mementoes off my piano and my armoire. She said the buyer needs to see a clear visual space so she can form a better view of what could be. Again, I did not object; however, was she (or even the "buyer") aware that one of those tiles is over 250 years old? Or that those large matching tile mosaics and copper tea kettles are antiques that I bought in various antique shops and markets in The Hague and in Delft.
She told me to rearrange the furniture in my childrens' bedrooms. She said it will open up the room and give the buyer a better image of what the room could hold. Still not objecting. OK, maybe a little when she made us, and my son, shift the bed in my daughter's room...2 inches. She did not seem to care that the bed was already precariously assembled and that the movement might dislodge something that would result in the bed dropping to the floor one night at 2 a.m.
She told me to remove my family photographs from the hallway leading up to the second floor. She said that any images of family life distract the buyer, possibly even forcing her to lose focus on the goal.
OK...enough. That is where I drew the line. We still live in this house and I refuse to take down my family pictures because someone does not have the vision to look past them. If that is the case, they do not need to be buying my house.
There were many other changes; most superfluous and more annoying than heart-wrenching.
As the stager went through my house room by room, view by view, I couldn't help but get the feeling that my personality was being suppressed in my own house in order to elevate the capability of the potential buyer. A buyer who, in my opinion minute after excruciating minute of this staging ordeal, was appearing to me like a sheep, a lemming, or any other animal that can be categorized as not having a mind of its own. A follower, a herd animal, that has to be told what to think, coddled into seeing a vision that has been artificially created for her.
As I delve deeper with the stager into corners and nooks of my home, a home I have spent time organizing into a meaningful pattern, inserting who I am and what I believe into every element of its design, with the stager who is bound to reverse and overwrite that pattern because buyers cannot see past it.
I couldn't help but think that in this buyers' market that every house has to be a model home, devoid of personality, perfect, creative in a lackluster way. But, if this is what we have to do to our homes in order to sell them, what does that say about the buyers out there that expect that? Like a drug, they have lost creative thought, imagination, any ability to look past a veneer and into the structure and to apply their own reality to what they see instead of being confused by trying to squeeze their blue accessories into the gold room in front of them. Instead of opening their mind and empowering their individuality, they now are forced to rely on their environment conforming to them. But, not only are they forced, but somehow at the same time they can demand that.
Staging endows them with the ability to tell their broker that everything was fine with the house but I couldn't figure out how to make my pink oriental rug fit into the red dining room. Hello.....it's called paint.
Really people. This is what is going on. Sheep are taking over. Sheep who cannot think on their own; sheep who latch onto a sheep dog or other leader, who does have the vision, and can stage their environment for them. But does that really mean they have more power. Just because they can pay cash for the purchase?
They may be able to command the attention of the market, of the agents, but bottom line they have sold their souls to do so.
Selling in a buyer's market is a different situation. Not advantageous: lots of other homes on the market and excessively discriminating buyers. Combining this with an unsteady economic environment results in a situation fraught with distress for the seller.
By far, the worst part of selling in a buyer's market has to be a process called staging. In a post about Home Staging, Elizabeth Weintraub of About.com describes it as "...illusions...the way David Copperfield would sell a house." She further says "it makes home buyers want to buy it" and "it's all about dressing the house for sale...adding the small details." It even has an association related to it: Real Estate Staging Association (RESA).
Sounds great, eh? It may be, until you are immersed in it. The stager who came to my house was very pleasant. She brought her daughter with her, and of course my real estate agent joined our little party.
After the pleasantries, she got to work.
She told me to remove my prized cathedral photographs from the living room wall. She said the buyer needs a cleaner view of the beautiful patio and pool. I did not object; nevertheless, I could not resist informing her that those were not just something I had bought at Bed, Bath & Beyond for $55. I had taken those myself, in various cities in Europe. I made sure she knew how much I prized them.
She told me to remove my Holland mementoes off my piano and my armoire. She said the buyer needs to see a clear visual space so she can form a better view of what could be. Again, I did not object; however, was she (or even the "buyer") aware that one of those tiles is over 250 years old? Or that those large matching tile mosaics and copper tea kettles are antiques that I bought in various antique shops and markets in The Hague and in Delft.
She told me to rearrange the furniture in my childrens' bedrooms. She said it will open up the room and give the buyer a better image of what the room could hold. Still not objecting. OK, maybe a little when she made us, and my son, shift the bed in my daughter's room...2 inches. She did not seem to care that the bed was already precariously assembled and that the movement might dislodge something that would result in the bed dropping to the floor one night at 2 a.m.
She told me to remove my family photographs from the hallway leading up to the second floor. She said that any images of family life distract the buyer, possibly even forcing her to lose focus on the goal.
OK...enough. That is where I drew the line. We still live in this house and I refuse to take down my family pictures because someone does not have the vision to look past them. If that is the case, they do not need to be buying my house.
There were many other changes; most superfluous and more annoying than heart-wrenching.
As the stager went through my house room by room, view by view, I couldn't help but get the feeling that my personality was being suppressed in my own house in order to elevate the capability of the potential buyer. A buyer who, in my opinion minute after excruciating minute of this staging ordeal, was appearing to me like a sheep, a lemming, or any other animal that can be categorized as not having a mind of its own. A follower, a herd animal, that has to be told what to think, coddled into seeing a vision that has been artificially created for her.
As I delve deeper with the stager into corners and nooks of my home, a home I have spent time organizing into a meaningful pattern, inserting who I am and what I believe into every element of its design, with the stager who is bound to reverse and overwrite that pattern because buyers cannot see past it.
I couldn't help but think that in this buyers' market that every house has to be a model home, devoid of personality, perfect, creative in a lackluster way. But, if this is what we have to do to our homes in order to sell them, what does that say about the buyers out there that expect that? Like a drug, they have lost creative thought, imagination, any ability to look past a veneer and into the structure and to apply their own reality to what they see instead of being confused by trying to squeeze their blue accessories into the gold room in front of them. Instead of opening their mind and empowering their individuality, they now are forced to rely on their environment conforming to them. But, not only are they forced, but somehow at the same time they can demand that.
Staging endows them with the ability to tell their broker that everything was fine with the house but I couldn't figure out how to make my pink oriental rug fit into the red dining room. Hello.....it's called paint.
Really people. This is what is going on. Sheep are taking over. Sheep who cannot think on their own; sheep who latch onto a sheep dog or other leader, who does have the vision, and can stage their environment for them. But does that really mean they have more power. Just because they can pay cash for the purchase?
They may be able to command the attention of the market, of the agents, but bottom line they have sold their souls to do so.
Thursday, April 14
Solitaire
I love to play Solitaire on my phone when I am waiting, as in the doctor's office or a long line, or bored. Usually, I win 90% of the games. When I don't win, I just re-deal and try again. It keeps me entertained and satisfied...as long as I am winning.
Today, I hit a losing streak. I had played at least 20 games while waiting for my oil change. I had won only two. None of my past proven strategies worked; instead, they led to dead ends. The cards I needed were not where I needed them nor when I needed them. I got stuck over and over and was forced to continually begin a new game.
I don't mind losing, because I see it as an opportunity to learn and, ultimately, to win. However, losing at something I am normally good at just irritates me. Even worse, I knew the computer program was dumbing down each successive game so as to keep me playing. After all, that is one of the bases of addiction. Keep it easy and simple, don't let it hurt too much, and they will keep coming back.
As the game kept getting easier, and I continued to lose, I could not help myself from trying to make a connection between losing this game and living my life.
I wondered if this is how God works on us, our lives, and the lessons He wants us to learn.
I thought about the issues I deal with in my life. Not only the pedestrian issues that ebb and flow throughout a given day, but the more pervasive problems. I have a few whoppers that have been hanging on many years for dear life, trying to pull me down into their chasm.
Perhaps those whoppers are still there because, like my game of Solitaire, I have not figured out the correct combination of moves necessary to unlock the mystery, solve the problem, and move to the next.
Like a skilled game designer, God continues to allow me to press restart, in the form of each new day.
But, I wonder, does He keep introducing the lesson over and over? And does He change it up a bit each time, possibly dumbing it down? I know He occasionally will throw a new card in the deck: a fleeting epiphany or a new friend to spin a different perspective.
However, He never allows us to re-deal the deck. We get the cards we are dealt; what we do with them is up to us. Or does He? Maybe the re-deal is all in how we perceive our lives, our situations. He continues to guide us to intercept those issues hanging out there in the balance that He knows are critical for us to move on in His plan.
I know He never gives up on us; unlike many teachers and educators, even parents, spouses, and friends, who sometimes shrug their shoulders and throw up their hands in exasperation. Turning their backs and walking away from the problem. God does not do that. He knows our hearts, our capabilities.
Thank God He is not human.
But, like the game of Solitaire, we sometimes play out our lives in solitude, seeking a winning combination. As in any game, a few such combinations exist. All we need is to figure out which one works. God has designed a few failsafes and fallbacks that help us perservere, keep us coming back to Him. Once we recognize them for what they are, we can turn the game from a loss to a win.
Today, I hit a losing streak. I had played at least 20 games while waiting for my oil change. I had won only two. None of my past proven strategies worked; instead, they led to dead ends. The cards I needed were not where I needed them nor when I needed them. I got stuck over and over and was forced to continually begin a new game.
I don't mind losing, because I see it as an opportunity to learn and, ultimately, to win. However, losing at something I am normally good at just irritates me. Even worse, I knew the computer program was dumbing down each successive game so as to keep me playing. After all, that is one of the bases of addiction. Keep it easy and simple, don't let it hurt too much, and they will keep coming back.
As the game kept getting easier, and I continued to lose, I could not help myself from trying to make a connection between losing this game and living my life.
I wondered if this is how God works on us, our lives, and the lessons He wants us to learn.
I thought about the issues I deal with in my life. Not only the pedestrian issues that ebb and flow throughout a given day, but the more pervasive problems. I have a few whoppers that have been hanging on many years for dear life, trying to pull me down into their chasm.
Perhaps those whoppers are still there because, like my game of Solitaire, I have not figured out the correct combination of moves necessary to unlock the mystery, solve the problem, and move to the next.
Like a skilled game designer, God continues to allow me to press restart, in the form of each new day.
But, I wonder, does He keep introducing the lesson over and over? And does He change it up a bit each time, possibly dumbing it down? I know He occasionally will throw a new card in the deck: a fleeting epiphany or a new friend to spin a different perspective.
However, He never allows us to re-deal the deck. We get the cards we are dealt; what we do with them is up to us. Or does He? Maybe the re-deal is all in how we perceive our lives, our situations. He continues to guide us to intercept those issues hanging out there in the balance that He knows are critical for us to move on in His plan.
I know He never gives up on us; unlike many teachers and educators, even parents, spouses, and friends, who sometimes shrug their shoulders and throw up their hands in exasperation. Turning their backs and walking away from the problem. God does not do that. He knows our hearts, our capabilities.
Thank God He is not human.
But, like the game of Solitaire, we sometimes play out our lives in solitude, seeking a winning combination. As in any game, a few such combinations exist. All we need is to figure out which one works. God has designed a few failsafes and fallbacks that help us perservere, keep us coming back to Him. Once we recognize them for what they are, we can turn the game from a loss to a win.
Monday, March 21
Driving Solo Part 3: Best Foods
One of the key elements to any successful road trip is the food. And, there are a few schools of thought on how to satisfy that. You can either think it out before departure and load up a cooler and a duffle bag or stop every time hunger or thirst strikes. Obviously, stops are necessary for needs like gas and facilities, depending on the length of the trip and size of your gas tank. But, when you consider that the need for food involves more than just hunger, well... you get the idea.
I have historically chosen the first route, not only because it was easier when traveling with small children, but also healthier and cheaper. Not to mention a time saver.
But, now that I do much of my traveling by myself, my main goal is to keep the momentum going so I combine the two thoughts. I bring some food with me to solve the hunger issue, but I make a stop to take care of the boredom issue. I combine the boredom stop with the gas and potty stop. This way I don't feel like I am wasting too much time.
In the end, it really all comes down to what are the best foods for road trips. If you are driving by yourself, you need food that has simple packaging and is easy to eat with one hand. I keep my food in or behing the front passenger seat, within easy reach. Even though I love the concept of fast food, particularly really beefy burgers loaded with all the toppings or chunky burritos with sour cream and salsa, I think you will agree with me that it is not only messy but dangerous to eat while driving.
The question: what foods are safe, healthy, and affordable?
In my experimenting, I tried to transcend my usual travel food choices and came up with the following list:
On the next trip, trying desperately to reduce my food expenditures and make it healthier, I made a trip to Walmart before heading out of town. On my list were:
And, of course all the items solved the easy-to-eat category.
Unfortunately, I still stopped at Buccee's on all of my trips; but I realized that if I shopped smartly beforehand I could rest in the knowledge that it was only for gasoline and boredom relief.
I have historically chosen the first route, not only because it was easier when traveling with small children, but also healthier and cheaper. Not to mention a time saver.
But, now that I do much of my traveling by myself, my main goal is to keep the momentum going so I combine the two thoughts. I bring some food with me to solve the hunger issue, but I make a stop to take care of the boredom issue. I combine the boredom stop with the gas and potty stop. This way I don't feel like I am wasting too much time.
In the end, it really all comes down to what are the best foods for road trips. If you are driving by yourself, you need food that has simple packaging and is easy to eat with one hand. I keep my food in or behing the front passenger seat, within easy reach. Even though I love the concept of fast food, particularly really beefy burgers loaded with all the toppings or chunky burritos with sour cream and salsa, I think you will agree with me that it is not only messy but dangerous to eat while driving.
In my experimenting, I tried to transcend my usual travel food choices and came up with the following list:
- Pralined pecans
- Italian wrap
- water
- Sonic blast, Oreo
- Sonic popcorn chicken
- dried fruit
On the next trip, trying desperately to reduce my food expenditures and make it healthier, I made a trip to Walmart before heading out of town. On my list were:
- blueberries
- yogurt raisin mix
- sugar snap peas
- peanut M&Ms
- water
- a bottle of wine (for later that night)
- sunflower seeds
- Dr. Pepper
And, of course all the items solved the easy-to-eat category.
Unfortunately, I still stopped at Buccee's on all of my trips; but I realized that if I shopped smartly beforehand I could rest in the knowledge that it was only for gasoline and boredom relief.
Friday, March 18
Disaster Relief in Japan
It has been a week since the earthquake in Japan.
A week since the tsunami the earthquake caused.
Less than a week since we learned about the further terror of potential nuclear meltdown and radiation.
This is the worst tragedy to hit Japan since the events of World War II.
The images streaming in from overseas are heartwrenching, almost beyond description. Ultimately, we will see these images again on the pages of some future edition of National Geographic. Images of despair and loneliness and the emptiness of unbelievable personal loss.
My heart and my prayers go out to the people of Japan. Their pain, panic, and chaos - their fear - are unfathomable, as with any disaster. With a sick stomach, the rest of the world watches as their travesty unfolds with the knowledge that things will get worse before they get better.
Glib but true.
In this vein, any compassionate human being desparately desires to help out, in any way. The first instinct is to establish a physical connectivity, like anyone would do to help a neighbor. Here in Houston, this instinct was commonplace for weeks following Katrina. Neighbors helped neighbors to cut up fallen trees and cover up leaking rooves. Better yet, strangers helped strangers. We were all there to help each other with the very physical tasks of digging out and cleaning up.
It was cathartic and mutually reassuring, especially when combined with the hugs and gentle pats on the back. Somehow a touch makes everything all right again.
But we can't do that for the people of Japan. At least, not directly. We need to rely on those on the ground, whether via our Marines or the hands, backs, and shoulders of those working for the various disaster relief agencies. We have to trust them with our intentions and our hopes.
More difficult still, we have to trust others with the only thing we can really put forth, the only physical connection we can establish with our Japanese neighbors on the other side of the globe.
Our money.
Properly utilized disaster aid money has proven an elusive animal in recent times. The Haiti earthquake in 2010 revealed the ills of corruption and cronyism; over $500 million of private donations were collected yet only about a fifth of those funds has been used. Much of the rest of it has just disappeared into the hands of a corrupt government and its shady processes. Prior to that, the American Red Cross fell into that same dark cavern when millions of dollars were somehow misappropriated and/or questioned. At the same time, generous Americans found out that much of their hard-earned money went to pay high salaries to top executives instead of helping those in need.
That is a jagged little pill to swallow, as Alanis Morrissette might agree.
This leaves us in a quandary. We want to help but can't get there to be a part of it. The only way to do it is money. But, with belts getting tighter and ends inching farther apart and harder to connect, who can we trust?
I hastened to Bing to find an answer, for me and for you, because I hate feeling helpless.
Givewell provides fantastic information, including recommendations (they highly recommend Doctors Without Borders and Direct Relief International) and detailed analyses of various charitable organizations functioning in the international arena. It offers a synopsis of why it may not be as helpful as you think for Americans, and the rest of the world, to continue to donate to Japan as they did to Haiti. The reasoning is sound and critical. Please read it with an open mind. If you do, I guarantee it will make sense.
Charity Navigator is less comprehensive, but provides financials and historical background (for registered users).
Another concern of mine was the integrity of the information flowing to us through our media. It is well known that the American media tends to sensationalize disasters. I lived this reality while overseas. Events occurring in my backyard in The Hague, which for me were just commonplace goings on, sent my friends and relatives here in the U.S. afluster worrying for our safety. After all, sensationalizing a disaster stirs up more fear, and fear is good for business, right? But, this approach is propogated by many journalists with impure intentions and, moreover, inadequate backgrounds and educational base.
Fear.
There is already too much fear surrounding this disaster, most of it coming from the fear of the unknown. And of course, the upheaval of predictable life.
I learned some interesting facts that helped me to put it in perspective.
Several sites recommended the rest of the world to hang tight. Rely on the Japanese organizations that are already in action. Don't donate too much money right now.
I feel more at ease about my decision. For this one, I will take the easy way out: I will pray.
After all, prayer is easy.
Prayer is powerful. As is God. He can achieve ALL things.
John 16:33: "These things I have spoken to you; that in me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage. I have overcome the world."
A week since the tsunami the earthquake caused.
Less than a week since we learned about the further terror of potential nuclear meltdown and radiation.
This is the worst tragedy to hit Japan since the events of World War II.
The images streaming in from overseas are heartwrenching, almost beyond description. Ultimately, we will see these images again on the pages of some future edition of National Geographic. Images of despair and loneliness and the emptiness of unbelievable personal loss.
My heart and my prayers go out to the people of Japan. Their pain, panic, and chaos - their fear - are unfathomable, as with any disaster. With a sick stomach, the rest of the world watches as their travesty unfolds with the knowledge that things will get worse before they get better.
Glib but true.
In this vein, any compassionate human being desparately desires to help out, in any way. The first instinct is to establish a physical connectivity, like anyone would do to help a neighbor. Here in Houston, this instinct was commonplace for weeks following Katrina. Neighbors helped neighbors to cut up fallen trees and cover up leaking rooves. Better yet, strangers helped strangers. We were all there to help each other with the very physical tasks of digging out and cleaning up.
It was cathartic and mutually reassuring, especially when combined with the hugs and gentle pats on the back. Somehow a touch makes everything all right again.
But we can't do that for the people of Japan. At least, not directly. We need to rely on those on the ground, whether via our Marines or the hands, backs, and shoulders of those working for the various disaster relief agencies. We have to trust them with our intentions and our hopes.
More difficult still, we have to trust others with the only thing we can really put forth, the only physical connection we can establish with our Japanese neighbors on the other side of the globe.
Our money.
Properly utilized disaster aid money has proven an elusive animal in recent times. The Haiti earthquake in 2010 revealed the ills of corruption and cronyism; over $500 million of private donations were collected yet only about a fifth of those funds has been used. Much of the rest of it has just disappeared into the hands of a corrupt government and its shady processes. Prior to that, the American Red Cross fell into that same dark cavern when millions of dollars were somehow misappropriated and/or questioned. At the same time, generous Americans found out that much of their hard-earned money went to pay high salaries to top executives instead of helping those in need.
That is a jagged little pill to swallow, as Alanis Morrissette might agree.
This leaves us in a quandary. We want to help but can't get there to be a part of it. The only way to do it is money. But, with belts getting tighter and ends inching farther apart and harder to connect, who can we trust?
I hastened to Bing to find an answer, for me and for you, because I hate feeling helpless.
Givewell provides fantastic information, including recommendations (they highly recommend Doctors Without Borders and Direct Relief International) and detailed analyses of various charitable organizations functioning in the international arena. It offers a synopsis of why it may not be as helpful as you think for Americans, and the rest of the world, to continue to donate to Japan as they did to Haiti. The reasoning is sound and critical. Please read it with an open mind. If you do, I guarantee it will make sense.
Charity Navigator is less comprehensive, but provides financials and historical background (for registered users).
Another concern of mine was the integrity of the information flowing to us through our media. It is well known that the American media tends to sensationalize disasters. I lived this reality while overseas. Events occurring in my backyard in The Hague, which for me were just commonplace goings on, sent my friends and relatives here in the U.S. afluster worrying for our safety. After all, sensationalizing a disaster stirs up more fear, and fear is good for business, right? But, this approach is propogated by many journalists with impure intentions and, moreover, inadequate backgrounds and educational base.
Fear.
There is already too much fear surrounding this disaster, most of it coming from the fear of the unknown. And of course, the upheaval of predictable life.
I learned some interesting facts that helped me to put it in perspective.
- The Japanese government is better equipped to handle the impact and effects of earthquakes and tsunamis than practically anywhere on earth. They practice highly detailed disaster plans, specific and step-by-step plans, on a regular and frequent basis.
- As a result of this constant practice, combined with the intended design of the nuclear plants in question, their plan was in effect within seconds of the first rattles of the quake. Furthermore, the potential Armageddon-like scenarios, even though things appear quite disastrous and apocolyptic at the moment, were averted.
- The radiation levels are not as disastrous as implied.
- Foreigners putting boot to ground to help might be counter-productive due to language and culture barriers.
- The Japanese are highly efficient and competent people.
Several sites recommended the rest of the world to hang tight. Rely on the Japanese organizations that are already in action. Don't donate too much money right now.
I feel more at ease about my decision. For this one, I will take the easy way out: I will pray.
After all, prayer is easy.
Prayer is powerful. As is God. He can achieve ALL things.
John 16:33: "These things I have spoken to you; that in me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage. I have overcome the world."
Tuesday, March 15
Last Day In Sarasota
Today I decided that I want to live here some day. Probably not right in Sarasota, but definitely on one of the keys. Siesta Key will do.
I checked out of the hotel this morning around 10 and headed south on 41. Somewhere down that way I had seen a restaurant called Dutch Valley Home Cooking. On its marquis was advertised "Belgium Waffles". This made me chuckle for two reasons. First, the technical writer in me knows it is not "Belgium", which is the place and hence a noun, but "Belgian", which is the adjective describing things from Belgium. At least it was correct on the menus, which I found out once I sat down. The other reason was my intrigue over the "Dutch" part. I wondered if it truly was "Dutch" home cooking. Not alot of things beat Dutch pancakes ~ pannenkoeken. Alas, no pannenkoeken on the menu.
When I entered and was seated, it reminded me very much of an IHOP, or even Denny's. Waitresses scurrying around with multiple plates loaded with eggs and sausage. And, of course, endless coffe. After viewing the menu, it was decidedly "un-Dutch" but very much, again, a standard Denny's-like menu, complete with a wide variety of typical diner fare, with breakfast served all day long. The place was populated mostly by grey-haired seniors, travelling in groups or couples. My age group was definitely under-represented. It made me feel very young, for a change.
My server, Martha, was a serious yet efficient senior. I could not help but feel a little sorry for her that, at her age, she had the need to work as a waitress in a diner. I wondered if it was by choice or necessity; I thought probably the latter because I can't see any glamour in that type of work. But, that's just me. I decided I don't want to have to do that when I am her age.
I next drove through Siesta Key. Mainly, I was looking for a nice little cafe on the beach to hang out in the sun for a few hours before I had to be at the airport. Unfortunately, like most of what I saw in the part of the keys I visited over my time down here, all of the waterfront has been consumed by condos and other sorted vacation rental properties. I was disappointed; however, it got me thinking about future business opportunity to create something similar to what the Dutch did on the North Sea. There, condos are set off from the water's edge, separated many times by a main thoroughfare, and the seasonal restaurants, which are constructed every Spring and de-constructed every Winter (talk about reusable buildings!), run along the usable beach front for miles.
On a whim, I pulled into the marina to sit on the deck at Marina Jack's. Shock Top on tap and crystal sky. I got there only slightly before the lunch crowd, so had my pick of tables. Of course, I went for the one closest to the water and fully sunlit, and next to what looked to be an Amish family of three. I had seen quite a few Amish families over the past days, cycling and walking among the other tourists. In that same vein, I had also seen what I think were Mormon families, or at the very least some type of other religious or cultural group judging by the prairie dress and head covering that the women of the group wore. Anyhow, I became immediately conscious of my low-cut tank top and my tight jeans. That uncomfortable feeling was about to flow over into my drink order until I noticed that Mr. Amish was drinking a beer as well. I briefly tried to recall my knowledge of the Amish and thought most of their cultural more was to shun society. How can they shun society if they are here living it up in Sarasota like one of us? I guess maybe it is OK if they are riding bicyles instead of renting cars. I was a little self-conscious when I pulled out my laptop. Maybe they were judging me as well....
My final stop was the Ringling Museum of Art. Now, I have been to many art museums, both in the U.S. and in Europe. I couldn't imagine how this could top anything I have already seen. Jaded? Yep, I fully admit it. But, I was pleasantly suprised at a few things. First, the courtyard area was beautiful and more like the museums in Europe than anything I have seen here in the U.S., combining the experience of learning and viewing distinct pieces of art with the relaxation of a garden.
I also loved the mosaic-style flooring in the courtyard. I couldn't remember seeing that type of mosaic anywhere before.
I decided to take a guided tour of the museum. The tours were always a must in the cavernous European museums and the tour guides always had interesting historical anecdotes to augment what my eyes saw. I expected nothing less here...but I was unfortunately quite disappointed. Maybe I got the wrong tour guide. Her focus was on how the piece had come into the collection, not anything intelligent or insightful about the piece or the artist. Worse yet, in one of the galleries she didn't even know the artists for the pieces. When I asked the question, she stumbled over a response that had something to with the recent renovation of this gallery and they hadn't yet put up that information. Excuse me, but aren't you the tour guide? Needless to say, I went solo after that.
A few galleries down, there was a piece, the subject of which was Pieterskirk in Leiden. Can't remember the artist. However, the greeter who had helped me out when I first walked in came over and made a comment about it, which included that he had been in that church. I looked at him with a big smile and replied, "So have I!" He was taken a bit aback, but kept on and gave me some information that I didn't already know, and then continued with a few other pieces in the gallery. Now, that is what a tour guide is supposed to do, augment what my eyes see with something my brain doesn't already know. I commented to him about the tour guide I had already dismissed. He offered in explanation that she was new there. I decided that, when I retire, I want to be a tour guide in a museum. So, I guess I better start studying my art history.
I headed to the airport after that, even though I was quite early. Fine with me, I just did what I usually do and sat in the bar with my beer and my book, interspersed with alot of people watching.
Feeling relaxed and fulfilled today. But, planning my next adventure. It never ends.
I checked out of the hotel this morning around 10 and headed south on 41. Somewhere down that way I had seen a restaurant called Dutch Valley Home Cooking. On its marquis was advertised "Belgium Waffles". This made me chuckle for two reasons. First, the technical writer in me knows it is not "Belgium", which is the place and hence a noun, but "Belgian", which is the adjective describing things from Belgium. At least it was correct on the menus, which I found out once I sat down. The other reason was my intrigue over the "Dutch" part. I wondered if it truly was "Dutch" home cooking. Not alot of things beat Dutch pancakes ~ pannenkoeken. Alas, no pannenkoeken on the menu.
When I entered and was seated, it reminded me very much of an IHOP, or even Denny's. Waitresses scurrying around with multiple plates loaded with eggs and sausage. And, of course, endless coffe. After viewing the menu, it was decidedly "un-Dutch" but very much, again, a standard Denny's-like menu, complete with a wide variety of typical diner fare, with breakfast served all day long. The place was populated mostly by grey-haired seniors, travelling in groups or couples. My age group was definitely under-represented. It made me feel very young, for a change.
My server, Martha, was a serious yet efficient senior. I could not help but feel a little sorry for her that, at her age, she had the need to work as a waitress in a diner. I wondered if it was by choice or necessity; I thought probably the latter because I can't see any glamour in that type of work. But, that's just me. I decided I don't want to have to do that when I am her age.
I next drove through Siesta Key. Mainly, I was looking for a nice little cafe on the beach to hang out in the sun for a few hours before I had to be at the airport. Unfortunately, like most of what I saw in the part of the keys I visited over my time down here, all of the waterfront has been consumed by condos and other sorted vacation rental properties. I was disappointed; however, it got me thinking about future business opportunity to create something similar to what the Dutch did on the North Sea. There, condos are set off from the water's edge, separated many times by a main thoroughfare, and the seasonal restaurants, which are constructed every Spring and de-constructed every Winter (talk about reusable buildings!), run along the usable beach front for miles.
I decided to take a guided tour of the museum. The tours were always a must in the cavernous European museums and the tour guides always had interesting historical anecdotes to augment what my eyes saw. I expected nothing less here...but I was unfortunately quite disappointed. Maybe I got the wrong tour guide. Her focus was on how the piece had come into the collection, not anything intelligent or insightful about the piece or the artist. Worse yet, in one of the galleries she didn't even know the artists for the pieces. When I asked the question, she stumbled over a response that had something to with the recent renovation of this gallery and they hadn't yet put up that information. Excuse me, but aren't you the tour guide? Needless to say, I went solo after that.
A few galleries down, there was a piece, the subject of which was Pieterskirk in Leiden. Can't remember the artist. However, the greeter who had helped me out when I first walked in came over and made a comment about it, which included that he had been in that church. I looked at him with a big smile and replied, "So have I!" He was taken a bit aback, but kept on and gave me some information that I didn't already know, and then continued with a few other pieces in the gallery. Now, that is what a tour guide is supposed to do, augment what my eyes see with something my brain doesn't already know. I commented to him about the tour guide I had already dismissed. He offered in explanation that she was new there. I decided that, when I retire, I want to be a tour guide in a museum. So, I guess I better start studying my art history.
I headed to the airport after that, even though I was quite early. Fine with me, I just did what I usually do and sat in the bar with my beer and my book, interspersed with alot of people watching.
Feeling relaxed and fulfilled today. But, planning my next adventure. It never ends.
Sunday, March 13
Race Day
Obnoxious alarm at 5:30 am, again. Except this morning, it was really not 5:30 but 4:30 am. Snooze button until about 6. Threw on my gear, grabbed my sunglasses, which I of course I wouldn't need for another 2 hours, a banana and a granola bar, and swept out the door by 6:20. My light jog down to the race start line got me there by about 6:30.
It was chilly, but not as cold as I have had to put up with in previous races. Certainly nothing like the San Antonio Half several years ago where hundreds of runners tried to huddle up to a VERY finite number of heaters in about 40 degree temps. THAT was cold!
The field was quite cramped. Not until about Mile 5 did it open up a bit, remaining susceptible to much jockeying and suprisingly rude territorial behavior. Unusual for runners, who as a whole tend to be quite polite. I was not too happy about the man ahead of me who was hocking up into the wind; I was even more unhappy when there was no room next to me to move out of the field of trajectory.
By Mile 10, my ITB kicked in due to the mostly cambered running surface. While I was able to maintain a very steady pace throughout, the pain in my right knee and the cramping in my right toes made it difficult to keep going. So, while I was successful at not having to stop to use the porto-lets, I had to slow down just to be able to finish. My goal was to finish better than 2:08 but I failed with 2:11. I did surpass my previous 5K AND 10K finish times. Not good enough for me. This means at least 5 more Halfs in my future unless I can get my training more in line with my goals.
The food spread was not as diverse as other races I have done, but was much healthier, for which I was thankful. Yummy yogurt mixed with fresh fruit and granola instead of pizza. I left within 20 minutes of finishing and limped the 1.2 miles back to my hotel, where I showered and crashed until about noon.
At which time, I practically jumped out of bed and within 10 minutes was out the door. The Aleve I had taken right after the race was a necessity in this. I was not about to waste this gorgeous day!
My plan was to head to Venice for lunch. Venice is one of the local tourist areas, complete with shops and restaurants. The town green was hosting a Jazz Festival and Venice Ave. was fairly crowded with couples and families wasting away a beautiful Sunday afternoon in the sun. I opted for lunch at T.J. Carneys. It was one of the only "restaurants" with copious outdoor seating. I refuse to sit inside on such a perfect day! I ended up chatting with an older couple who sat down next to me. We talked mostly about running and traveling. They are from Minnesota, spending 2 weeks down here while the temps back in their hometown are pushing the mid-20s. When they heard that I planned to head to one of the keys after lunch, they suggested Gasparilla Key. Pristine, mostly open white sugar sand beaches. Sold!
After paying the $5 bridge toll and traversing the 5 mile causeway, I ended up at the Gulf in the parking lot of one of the only public beaches on the island. Most of the island, like the others here, is occupied by resorts and rental properties in posh, private neighborhoods. What struck me about this island was the turquoise water and idyllic waterway scenery. "Idyllic" can be found in many places in the US, but turquoise waters...well, let's say that is a rarity where I come from.
Houston/Galveston water is more varied shades of brown and grey.
I parked and walked down the beach. I literally ran into a man plopped right in the surf with his fishing poles stuck in the sand. Not a fisherman myself, I was intrigued and stopped to ask him what he was fishing for. Not long after, a beautiful Blue Heron sauntered up, obviously after the man's bait fish. Seeing that I took my camera out, the man offered to sacrifice some of his bait to try to lure the bird closer for a good shot. The bird gladly obliged!
I turned back shortly after that. My knee was acting up and my bladder was beginning to scream at me.
On the way home, windows open and radio blaring, I pulled up to a stop light next to a man on a motorcycle. He looked over and said something to me, which I couldn't hear because my music was so loud. Once I turned down the volume, he repeated himself.
"You look like you're having about as bad a day as I am."
"Not really," I replied. "Actually, I'm having a great day (not a lie!)"
"Oh. Well, I wish I could say the same. My dad died today," he said. Boy, did I feel like an insensitive bitch.
"I'm so sorry to hear that." I really was.
Light changed. Engines (mainly his 750) roared.
"I'll say a prayer for you," I yelled at the top of my lungs.
He waved back.
For the next several stop signs we ended up right next to each other. At one point, a brand new green Viper with black racing stripes pulled up in the far lane.
"I wouldn't mind driving around in that," he said.
"I'd take it," I replied.
Light change again.
He thrilled me and the other drivers on the road with some stunt driving-showoff, I thought...obviously blowing off some steam-before finally turning off the road. I beeped and waved; he waved right back.
I have thoroughly enjoyed this trip if only because of the people I have encountered. Each one has enriched my journey in some way; each one has made a solo yet potentially lonely trip enlightening and invigorating.
It was chilly, but not as cold as I have had to put up with in previous races. Certainly nothing like the San Antonio Half several years ago where hundreds of runners tried to huddle up to a VERY finite number of heaters in about 40 degree temps. THAT was cold!
The field was quite cramped. Not until about Mile 5 did it open up a bit, remaining susceptible to much jockeying and suprisingly rude territorial behavior. Unusual for runners, who as a whole tend to be quite polite. I was not too happy about the man ahead of me who was hocking up into the wind; I was even more unhappy when there was no room next to me to move out of the field of trajectory.
By Mile 10, my ITB kicked in due to the mostly cambered running surface. While I was able to maintain a very steady pace throughout, the pain in my right knee and the cramping in my right toes made it difficult to keep going. So, while I was successful at not having to stop to use the porto-lets, I had to slow down just to be able to finish. My goal was to finish better than 2:08 but I failed with 2:11. I did surpass my previous 5K AND 10K finish times. Not good enough for me. This means at least 5 more Halfs in my future unless I can get my training more in line with my goals.
The food spread was not as diverse as other races I have done, but was much healthier, for which I was thankful. Yummy yogurt mixed with fresh fruit and granola instead of pizza. I left within 20 minutes of finishing and limped the 1.2 miles back to my hotel, where I showered and crashed until about noon.
At which time, I practically jumped out of bed and within 10 minutes was out the door. The Aleve I had taken right after the race was a necessity in this. I was not about to waste this gorgeous day!
My plan was to head to Venice for lunch. Venice is one of the local tourist areas, complete with shops and restaurants. The town green was hosting a Jazz Festival and Venice Ave. was fairly crowded with couples and families wasting away a beautiful Sunday afternoon in the sun. I opted for lunch at T.J. Carneys. It was one of the only "restaurants" with copious outdoor seating. I refuse to sit inside on such a perfect day! I ended up chatting with an older couple who sat down next to me. We talked mostly about running and traveling. They are from Minnesota, spending 2 weeks down here while the temps back in their hometown are pushing the mid-20s. When they heard that I planned to head to one of the keys after lunch, they suggested Gasparilla Key. Pristine, mostly open white sugar sand beaches. Sold!
 |
| Solo sandpiper trolling for dinner. This was as close as he would let me get. |
Houston/Galveston water is more varied shades of brown and grey.
I parked and walked down the beach. I literally ran into a man plopped right in the surf with his fishing poles stuck in the sand. Not a fisherman myself, I was intrigued and stopped to ask him what he was fishing for. Not long after, a beautiful Blue Heron sauntered up, obviously after the man's bait fish. Seeing that I took my camera out, the man offered to sacrifice some of his bait to try to lure the bird closer for a good shot. The bird gladly obliged!
 |
| Blue Heron posing after his payment of several frozen bait fish. |
On the way home, windows open and radio blaring, I pulled up to a stop light next to a man on a motorcycle. He looked over and said something to me, which I couldn't hear because my music was so loud. Once I turned down the volume, he repeated himself.
"You look like you're having about as bad a day as I am."
"Not really," I replied. "Actually, I'm having a great day (not a lie!)"
"Oh. Well, I wish I could say the same. My dad died today," he said. Boy, did I feel like an insensitive bitch.
"I'm so sorry to hear that." I really was.
Light changed. Engines (mainly his 750) roared.
"I'll say a prayer for you," I yelled at the top of my lungs.
He waved back.
For the next several stop signs we ended up right next to each other. At one point, a brand new green Viper with black racing stripes pulled up in the far lane.
"I wouldn't mind driving around in that," he said.
"I'd take it," I replied.
Light change again.
He thrilled me and the other drivers on the road with some stunt driving-showoff, I thought...obviously blowing off some steam-before finally turning off the road. I beeped and waved; he waved right back.
I have thoroughly enjoyed this trip if only because of the people I have encountered. Each one has enriched my journey in some way; each one has made a solo yet potentially lonely trip enlightening and invigorating.
 |
| Seashells (crushed) by the seashore. |
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