don't be pasty!

As a blue-eyed half-ginger with a genetic propensity for skin cancer, I am concerned.

I live by a pool. This is a thing I very much enjoy. Alarming to me, however, is the perpetual toasting of epidermis going on in the surrounding lounge chairs. Girls and boys lay out for hours on end, not just soaking up but cooking themselves in the midday offshoots of that burning radiative ball of chemicals inhabiting our sky.

All the racist imperialist preoccupation-with-whiteness legacy is a bad thing, and I am happy to see it out of vogue in my neighborhood at least. But it seems now scorching oneself is the color of choice.

I may just be bitter. At Girls' Camp as a teenager, I lost the Tannest Legs Competitions without fail, as my stems were so pale as to have a bluish sheen. My largely Scandinavian ancestry has doomed me to glow in the dark. I wear gloves, glasses, and a big hat out to garden and burn within fifteen minutes of sun exposure.

But my parents are already having tumors removed and going in for laserage regularly. They never laid out. I don't think tanning beds existed when they grew up and yet here we are.

So please, do not UV-light yourself. Do not treat the poolside like a rotisserie oven. Do not cake your skin with bronzer or self-tan. Embrace your natural complexion, whether it be cream or ebony or bronze or brown. Rock what you've got and say no to tanorexia.

(Also, I am not a meat pie. Nor am I a nipple patch. Please don't call me 'pasty.')

a plea for sanity

With soccer recently becoming more chic, and the Beckhams in America and whatnot, an alarming trend of ignorance is surfacing.

Picture this: I am buying a churro from a Brazilian kid at the farmer's market. Now, I am no expert, but I was raised by three stark raving soccer fanatics and the kid, probably nine or ten, is wearing Dinho's national jersey. So I start talking.
"Oh hey, isn't Ronaldinho at Milan now?"
Blank stare.
"Yeah, he was with Barcelona for a while, right?"
Continuation of the blank stare.
"Ronaldinho?" I gesture at my back. "Your shirt?"
The kid blinks and hands me my churro.

Weird, I think. Oh well. Maybe he doesn't speak English. But then I mention Rooney's injury to an MU kit, or Milan's latest victory to a guy in stripes. Blank stare and blank stare, respectively. Your jersey? Soccer? Blank stares all around.

America, this has got to stop. It's like the Chinese character tattoo thing all over again. I say to you, DO NOT PUT SOMETHING ON YOUR BACK UNLESS YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS.

I suggest mandating a series of simple questions before allowing American buyers to purchase an international kit. For example: "What is stoppage time?" "Who won the last World Cup?" Or "Name five teams. Go ahead. I dare you. You have the whole rest of the world to chose from."

This could be followed by a brief disclaimer: "I acknowledge that by purchasing said jersey, I realize that this player will most likely be traded next season, rendering this shirt irrelevant. I also realize that if I wear Celtic, Rangers, or FK Partizan paraphernalia into the wrong bar, I could end up dead." I feel that this would go a long way towards alleviating the problem.

Perhaps I'll just grit my teeth and deal with it. Maybe I could learn the rules of that other football and join my cohorts at the stadium. But with World Cup on its way and globalization here to stay, I encourage my fellow countrymen to educate themselves. You might like what you find.

be my guest

Now that it's February and I've thawed out a bit, I've regained some of my joie de vivre and am back to blogging up a frenzy. I'm very honored to be featured as Judy's guest-blogger over at her B&B. Go there to read me harp on political science.