~my daley bread~

I'm Daley. I tried being normal once. Worst two minutes of my life.

[daleydialogue]

I was raised by a feminist

I just didn’t know that feminist was my dad!  

My immediate family consists of women. Mothers, sisters, daughters.  All the men have bravely married into the madness.  My mom and dad had me and my sister - two very different girls who grew up to be very different women.  My sister lives in New York and embraces all that it is to be a East Coaster; the attitude, the pace of life, the fashion.  She has an edginess that I could never grasp, nor did I ever try to as the token do-gooder that I am.  I have lived in California my whole life and have no intention of leaving.  I have my husband and my cat and we have a stable (and very fun!) life outside the city.  This is all to say that my father had his hands full in managing the trepidatious relationships of two daughters and their mother.  

I think it’s safe to say that most men want a son.  Some men definitely do want daughters, but I think they generally want sons as well. Sort of a footnote of ‘I’d love to have a daughter *as long as I also have a son.’ The way I was raised, gender was a non-factor.  I was told to be the best in my class at Math, English, History, you name it.  I remember my dad being so excited in grade school when I won a competition at multiplication tables.  One of the boys I beat cried, and my father couldn’t have been happier!

There was also never the stereotypical concept imposed on me of boys play sports and videogames, and girls do dance and shop for dresses.  I did all those things, but I was a jock in every sense of the word.  I was on a swim team at the age four, played youth soccer (my dad coached a year or two in there), and picked up basketball in the fourth grade.  He was clearly thrilled that my gymnastics classes didn’t evolve into cheer camps, and my tap classes didn’t lead me to a life in leotards.  I played sports, and my dad was at every game.

In high school, my freshman History teacher was also the high school boys basketball coach. He graded my papers during the day and saw my basketball games at night.  My dad had helped me study for a geography test in which you were given a blank map of the world and had to fill in all the countries and their capitals. I remember Mr. Blackwood making me turn beet red by announcing to the class that I had gotten 100% on the task.  One morning I woke up and found a note in my bathroom.  It was from my dad.  It read, “I met Mr. Blackwood last night at the basketball game.  He asked me if I was Andrea Daley’s father, and I told him that I was. He said I must be very proud. I am.” That was 17 years ago, and I still hold that moment close to my heart.

For the past 5 years my dad and I have spent our summers participating in open water swim races together for fun (I know, not many people’s idea of fun!). Today I received an email from a race that we signed up for, and the title was ‘Splash and Dash Format Change.’  It was a simple two lines of text explaining that the women’s heat for the swim would be going off first, and the men’s heat was to follow 5 minutes later.  I forwarded him the email and said “Heck yeah!” excited that the change meant I wouldn’t be stuck behind slow male swimmers during the race and could tackle some real open water.

My dad then forwarded me an email exchange that he had earlier: Hello, 

I don’t know if you’re the one to address this to, but I recently asked an acquaintance who is a strong masters open water swimmer why she never did the Splash & Dash events.  She told me that she did not like them because the women always start 5 minutes after the men and so when she did them in the past she spent a significant portion of the race maneuvering around dozens of slower male swimmers.  My daughter has the same complaint—she says the buoys are like sea lion pods, with swimmers barely moving as she tries to get around them.

This is of course a reality of open water swimming, but the issue is why the women, who include some of the strongest swimmers in the field, should always have to bear the brunt of it.  As a 64-year old average male swimmer, I enjoy the benefit of the “men first” policy with relatively open water for most of the race.  But it seems to me, in this age of gender equity, that this benefit should be shared by alternating who goes first (men or women) from event to event.

Tom Daley  

Hi Tom,

Thanks for the input… I never really thought about that?  Must be the male in me!  So, let try it out. L et them know that we here at the Splash & Dash believe Chivalry is not dead and we will have a ladies first race tomorrow. We can flip flop who goes first each race to make it a better event for all!! Thanks,  First Wave Events 

I’d like to now say that I’m very proud of my dad, a true feminist in his own right, who has been advocating for me my whole life.  

[daleydialogue]

#MERICA

I met my first Trump supporter today. It caught me off guard, because I naively assume that others hold the same point of view as me.  For instance, when I see a woman pull out her checkbook to buy groceries, I assume everyone in the line behind her agrees with my eye roll and deep sigh of impatience. For the past several months, poking fun at the ridiculousness of Donald Trump has been an easy win in any casual chat on politics. Any stance otherwise would be seemingly preposterous in California.  

I was in one of my favorite places, the great retail store of Target, lugging a barrel of cat litter and a yoga mat to the check out. Target and I have an “It's Complicated” type of relationship. It's got almost everything I could want; clothes, beauty supplies, and soft pretzels.  I'm generally in good spirits headed to Target, maybe even picking up a bonus tub of Redvines on my way out.  But if for any reason you need customer support in Target, you are doomed.  I've received “gift cards with purchase” that were blank when I returned to use them. I’ve purchased a vacuum from Target online and set it for in-store pickup, and it wasn’t there when I showed up, nor was it ever found. Don't look for help when you are in Target, just look for the exit.

I was raised with an abnormal sense of urgency.  My dad taught me that every task that I do needs to be accomplished with the utmost efficiency.  Driving to a destination needs to be expedient and without traffic. My wait at the doctor’s office should be prompt.  And the lines I select at stores need to be as short as possible.  

So as I'm hauling my uncharacteristically domesticated housewife loot to the Target checkout, I mistakenly stationed myself behind an 80-year-old woman who was holding on to a bottle of mouthwash while talking to the checkout girl about the negative effects of fluoride.  It sounded like the incoherent babble of a grandma who excitedly tells the same story for a week to everyone she encounters. The exchange shifted to her reminding the teen that the political debate was on at 6pm. The girl pretended to be reluctant, responding that she would be working but that her grandma would fill her in on the important parts.  I thought it so nice that this little old lady was encouraging a young girl to watch another female make history.  

As my items began to be scanned, the woman kept talking, making no motion to leave.  “I heard that even if Trump wins, they will make it look like a tie. And if Hillary loses they will make it look like she won.”

I could tell that the cashier was done catering to the woman’s pedantic small talk and really didn’t know what to say.  So in an effort to acknowledge her mindless comments and get her to move along I responded, “Well let's hope she does win then.” 

She squared up to me, “Oh, I'm not supporting Clinton. She is not fit to be president. You support her?”

My eyes widened. “Well, I'm a Democrat and a woman, and think a politician should be president. So yeah, that should cover it.”

She retorted, “She will die before she even has the chance,” and looked at me expectantly, like she just asserted a remarkable point. Knowing not to argue with crazy, I picked up her bag that lay untouched at the register and handed it to her. “Here you go. Bye!”  I turned back to the checkout girl, “Let's hope she dies before she has the chance to vote. Now get me out of here.”  Target, It’s Complicated. 

[daleydialogue]

The future

When a man rolls through Chipotle on a segway, placing his order without having to take a single step, and no one bats an eye, you have reached the future.  

Where am I in the future?  The same place I have been my whole life.  California is my home and likely forever will be.  I’ve worked for the same company for 8 years. Fresh out the college gate I landed at a big tech company and haven’t strayed since (not without looking for better options).  Despite my best efforts, it turns out I am very resistant to change.  I am someone who is critical of close-mindedness, of those people who don’t want to explore the world. And yet, I find myself wanting my friends within reach, my family to stay put, and my man by my side.

Change is hard and the only constant is change. So then…hard is constant?

I recently visited my college campus with one of my closest friends whom I met while attending school there.  There was a time when I would have called her my “best friend,” but over the years I’ve soured to that term.  With the relationships that have come and gone in my life, “bff” has lost it’s meaning.  There are people that I spent years living with who I don’t speak to any more. There are people that I have loved who I won’t ever see again. The maintenance of mutual interest over time and geographies is an incredibly difficult thing, and that’s largely because of change.  The changes in our surroundings and the changes in our values.  As much as I have maintained the status quo since graduating, it’s amazing how much has really changed.

It has been 8 years since she and I graduated from living in a party house filled with friends, and here I am now navigating her stroller through throngs of college kids on campus.  We stop in the library, where she and I spent many late nights working at the help desk. Instead of people hushing us for our laughter, I try to quiet her crying baby as she quickly runs for a bathroom break. 

We cruise by the rose gardens, where we normally would have spent the day tanning. But we are not walking to smell the roses. We are walking to get the 10,000 steps required to not be obese adults -they don’t warn you about that in college! I see the co-eds flirting in the cafeteria, and I look down at my engagement ring.  There is a pang of longing for those more innocent times to be restored. 

But those were also days wracked with insecurity.  Not knowing myself, what I wanted, and even what I deserved. Never did I think I would come so far in confidence and accomplish so much.  And never did I think that I would be sitting outside the building where we regularly danced the night away with strangers, watching my girlfriend put on her nursing cover to breastfeed her newborn.  If new technology isn’t indication enough that future is here, then that certainly is.  All I can do is hope the future changes me for the better.  

[daleydialogue]

Change is Hard

[daleydialogue]

I’ve been a competitive athlete for most of my life. Competition is something I identify with wholeheartedly as a part of me. Like anyone else, I like to excel and win. As I digress out of my prime athletic years, opportunities for success in this realm are fewer and farther between. And as it happens, my victories from my younger years have taken a toll on my body so that I’m no longer able to run around like a spry spring chicken. This has brought me into new fitness ventures, the most recent of which is Yoga.

I understand that yoga has become all the rage, largely among the green juice-drinking housewives of any affluent city. They either are carrying a small dog or a yoga mat, speed walking to somewhere important, like the nail salon. They look fit enough, so I thought I should give this yoga thing a try.

I asked my friend what yoga is, and she said it’s really good stretching. But isn’t just stretching really good stretching? Sit down, touch your toes, it’s all good. I also heard yoga called a spiritual discipline. If I had any discipline with my food in the first place, I wouldn’t need to be in yoga.

So, I thought going into a stretching class targeted toward pixie housewives would be a magical relaxing way to suddenly lose 20 lbs. I did not know that yoga is really the art of anorexic contortionists mocking those of us who can’t support our entire body weight on one hand. I spent most of the class in a shameful crouching fetal position they call child’s pose. Whenever I tried to enter downward dog or upward cat I would nearly topple over. I felt the sideways glances of the ballerinas around me - Oh, you can’t stand on one leg and hold the other above your head? How sad for you. But all I could think every time we were told to change positions was WHY? Why the F would I ever want to do that? Ask around to people who have played competitive sports and they aren’t calling out the practice of crouching camel toe as the key to their success. What was most embarrassing was that in this BEGINNER class, everyone knew exactly what move to make every time she called out an Indian term, like somehow everyone became fluent in Sanskrit.

After the session concluded, the teacher approached me with her Namaste hands covered in prayer beads. “Welcome to the club,” she smiled saintly. “It will change your life.” It was clear by my bruised wrists and ego that I was a first-timer. I did not know what a Chaturanga was, but now that I have experienced it, I’ll stick to the workouts that are strictly in English.

[daleydialogue]

Uh ohh...here comes some feminism.  

There is this incredibly thin line between the power and the prison of female sexuality.

Hanging at the latest snobby juice bar, my girlfriends and I are drinking our sugar/carb/joy free kale/beet/spinach/celery juice.  My boyfriend brings in his Chipotle Quesarito, since he would never touch any of the ridiculously green crap we force ourselves to pretend to enjoy.

At the table next to us, two young girls are animated in conversation about their escapades from the night before.

“Oh my god, while you were in the back room making out with that guy you won’t believe it; Amanda started hooking up with Jay on the couch. I told her not to cuz he was totally wasted and looked like he was going to puke.”

My friends and I exchange glances, fondly thinking of our more unencumbered days in college; house parties racked with endless boozing and reckless make-outs.  Six years ago we were more flighty with our considerations of consequences.  Our sly pleasure from eavesdropping was soon shattered.

“…And she totally started giving him a BJ in front of all of us. Like, we were all there.  And then of course he throws up all over everything.”

Our smirks quickly turned to remarkable horror. 

Supposedly we have moved away from the over-sexualization and demeaning representation of women in the media and beyond (me = more than a little doubtful).  If girls still think they need to publicly suck off a man to get him to like them, something in the system is still broken. This is our progress?  

[daleydialogue]

Father knows best...if you look past the crazy.

While you are growing up, your parents know best. Well, at least they know better than you.  They have the advantage of living longer and going through the motions of school, work and many other life experiences. So whether we agree with them or not, they have the common sense to keep you alive better than you could do on your own at the time.

Whenever I needed help in Chemistry or Math or really any other subject in school (except Spanish), I could count on my dad to have all the answers.  He's an accountant by trade, a lawyer by degree, and a genius by a little girl's opinion.  I naturally admired my dad for all of the knowledge he had that I was far from acquiring. It is interesting how when you grow older and experience so many more things, the paradigm shifts.  I imagine that this is a fear many parents have; eventually descending from the throne of heroic soothsayers, and being exposed as fraudulent in all their "wisdom." 

While I know my dad will always have the correct calculus answer, I've found that my own reasoning is oftentimes more sound. It's true that the man who could teach me the fine points of public speaking, and the keys to success in sports, is in fact limited in many areas of life lessons. But don't worry, he is still as adamant as ever to hold his word as the final truth. 

My Dad: I will have the chicken quesadilla, no chicken...And an apple juice.

Me: That sounds like what a little kid would eat. 

My Dad: What is a quesadilla anyway? I hope it's something I like. 

Me: Are you serious? It's a tortilla with melted cheese in it.

My Dad: Oh, like a Mexican pizza? That’s good because I really wanted pizza.

10 minutes later, while eating...

My Dad: Man, this is great, this is even better than pizza! This cream cheese stuff is really good.

Me: That’s sour cream.  I can’t believe you haven’t had a quesadilla, it was the easiest way to eat during college.

My Dad: They didn’t have quesadillas when I was in college.

Of course not.

[daleydialogue]

 I’ll admit it; I’m a bad mother. I let my baby turn one year old with no celebration nor recognition. There weren’t any tantrums over this neglect, but months went by and my guilt grew.  So here I am again, tending to the needs of my dear little Daley Bread.

Sometimes I look around and think I may be the only sane person in my life.  That’s a high bar jump over because my ticket for rides on the crazy train has been punched more than once. I was a hormonal teenager for 7 years, an overachieving college student for 4, a girlfriend for 6, and a female for all of my life. Of course I’m not certifiably insane, but Crazy comes with the territory.

These instances where I feel like everyone has lost their mind typically occur when I am surrounded by my family members.  And I’m not talking about the crazy Uncle Jeff type of characters, or the distant cousins you hear wild stories about (though their sanity is probably up for questioning as well).  I’m referring to the legitimate influencers-of-your-life type of people. And when I think my mom or dad may have lost their mind somewhere along the way from mid-life to seniorville, it makes me a little worried about my own future when I sail to senility. 

I’d like to categorize their brand of insanity as an attribute of old age, and think that they weren’t always so steadfast with unreason. But I realize that I have actually been battling them for the majority of my life on decisions large and small in proportion. I may have been pre-pubescent half of that period of time, but I like to think I know what’s best for me. 

I checked to see if insanity is an inheritable trait.  Author Sam Levenson summed it up best. He said “insanity is hereditary, you get it from your kids.”  Since all I have birthed thus far is this sweet and precious blog, I think I’m safe for now.

[daleydialogue]

Cruise Cardio - A Titanic Disaster

I didn’t think that it was possible to find a lower standard of athlete than those passing time on their cell phones in the corporate gym.  I was dead wrong. 

Enter cruise athletics, a whole new level of the under prepared and completely uncoordinated. 

I went on my first cruise to Alaska for a little summer vacation at sea. While my friend and I made due with the entertainment that was provided on board, the gym on the ship offered it’s own brand of amusement. 

There are three types of passengers on cruise ships-- the newlywed, the overfed, and the nearly dead. While typically these folks are stationed in their rooms, in cafeterias, or at Bingo, some actually venture to the upper deck to get their burn and firm on.  

On Day 2, I made my way to the gym to work off my second lunch (cruise food is too delicious). Now, as a person who has a tendency to fall all on my own, the ocean really wasn’t doing me any favors. I had several slippery close encounters over the course of the week while dancing, eating, and just plain walking. I soon learned that working out on the waves is also risky and largely more dangerous than working out in them.

I steadied myself on the treadmill and resigned to just walking (mostly because I hate running). I observed that my peer passengers were not exempt to these same wobbly woes, although it seemed like their difficulties weren’t really due to the water. I think that the majority of their workout was actually climbing the stairs from the buffet to the gym.

These cruise ship Olympiads gave me a glimpse of why seniors typically just bob about in swimming pools as their main form of exercise. I watched an old woman teeter on her stationary bike, while her husband stood next to her as a spotter.  To be fair I’ve had years of practice on treadmills, bikes, and ellipticals, so my balancing act was a bit more refined than a woman who likely has trouble stabilizing when standing.  The true comedy came from the people who came to the gym both fully clothed and fully intent on exercising.

When the man next to you on the treadmill is in his finest sweater, khakis, socks AND sandals, it’s hard to take much of what is going on seriously. I saw a woman purveying the property like she was in some sort of athletic museum, analyzing every contraption. She took a few tugs at some cables and then called it a day. I think her belt buckle was probably getting in the way. 

~Thanks to SeanFranklin for the writing encouragement

[daleydialogue]

Why is it the ones you love, always bring you down the most?

Me after 3 slices of the amazing Patxi's Pizza...

*hyperboleandahalf.com

[daleydialogue]

Dear Pregnant Lady at the Gym,

It must be rough to have sacrificed your body, one that you have likely worked countless hours to maintain, all to experience the “miracle” of life.  It is really admirable that even though your belly is protruding and you probably hate your life, you still push yourself to squeeze into workout pants and show up at the gym. I respect your dedication to such a fruitless battle.

Now I don’t know much about what pregnant women are supposed to do for exercise. In fact, I know very little about pregnancy, and I try to keep it that way.  Any time an ounce of information about carrying a child and giving birth is shared with me, I usually end up mortified and wanting to un-hear it.  I don’t watch horror movies or explicit medical shows, because like childbearing knowledge, they are nauseating and highly damaging to my psyche. 

But while you, Pregnant Lady at the Gym have chosen this path that I am unfamiliar with, I can tell you one thing: those crunches are probably not going to make your stomach any smaller.  You kind of really look ridiculous.

I’m just saying.

Unless you aren’t really pregnant; and in that case, my apologies.

[daleydialogue]

I did a triathlon. It was brutal. While I am less than graceful, I at least didn't end up like this guy. Cheers to never doing one again.

[daleydialogue]

How gay is your chicken?

I don’t know how many Scrubs fans there are out there that have heard of, or seen the episode involving a little game called Gay Chicken. It’s where two straight people (typically dudes) see who has more balls, metaphorically.  The 'players' move in for a sensual kiss until someone backs off in mortification. The loser is the one who backs down first. I have had the unfortunate experience of watching someone I was dating play this game with his friend. Given how stubborn the two people involved were, let’s just say we all lost in the end.

On a trip to North Carolina last year, I was introduced to a southern sensation known as Chick-fil-a, a fast-food chicken joint that is undeniably delicious. I was curious as to why I hadn’t experienced the wonders of these chicken sandwiches out west, given their extreme popularity. There is now a giant Chick-fil-a being constructed steps from my office building. This development brought me to new levels of excitement for my future lunch life. I even made plans to be one of the first 100 customers to be at the opening for a chance to win free meals.

I soon learned that their origination in Atlanta has the company grounded in strict Christian principles, so much so that they aren’t even open on Sundays. The only issue I take with this fact is that it’s simply a poor business practice. However, recent news has it that the company has actually contributed millions of dollars to anti-gay groups…and suddenly my food has a stance on equality.

I typed into Google search the question, ‘Can chickens be gay?’  Of course, I already knew the answer, since there is plenty of evidence in nature of animals engaging in same-sex acts, orgies, and beyond.

The first result that came up on was from a wiki on Answers.com. The only response listed below the question read, “yes they butt rape each other.”  I don’t think it can be summed up any better than that. Much like curiosity and the cat, Christianity killed the chicken.

[daleydialogue]

The genesis of Ujam

I’ve determined the latest developments in popular fitness have begun to compromise people’s dignity.  As we have become more in-tune with how to target and tone different muscle groups, humans are starting to demonstrate athletic characteristics of animals in a zoo.  I walked into the Cisco gym the other day and saw a man running on the treadmill with his arms literally held straight up in the air, like he was escaping Godzilla. Ads for workout DVDs boast their routines as INSANITY workouts, making participants “scream in agony” as if it’s a positive thing. Personally, I'm trying to hold on to all the sanity I have left.

It was in the locker room at Cisco where I discovered the latest workout craze. I overheard a conversation where a woman said, “You should try the UJam class! It’s the closest thing to a dance club that I get these days.”

I peered around the corner to see a middle-aged Asian woman, rockin a sports bra and skort (didn't know they were worn anywhere other than a tennis court).

“Haha, I believe that. But there’s no booze!” a very large woman responded.

“True, but it’s where I get to dance slutty without my daughter seeing.”

I was sold. Clearly I needed to get in on the action.

There’s nothing like a corporate hip-hop class to bring out the middle-aged dancing queens donning pink sweat bands on their heads, and the men who insist on wearing ungodly short shorts. It is one of the few places where I can go to an exercise group of 20 people and be the only white person. You would think that in turn, that would mean I have the least rhythm out of everyone. However, the Indians and Asians of Silicon Valley are really giving me a run for my money. It really just meant that I was about a foot taller than everyone. I looked around at all of the semi-synchronized pelvic thrusts to the beat, and had to stifle laughter thinking of the children that would be horrified to witness their parents participating in this dance troupe.  

I’ve now become a regular at the bootie-shaking sensation known as UJam class at Cisco, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Don't be shy about shakin' what your mama gave ya...she may be doing the same thing at work. 

[daleydialogue]

Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

This is not a religious blog. Not even close. In fact if you are religious, hit the back button on your browser as you have no business here. After a childhood of Sunday school classes and 4 years at a Jesuit university, I'm now a recovering Catholic.  Call me agnostic, call me atheist, just don't call me to go to church.

This blog has actually been endearingly named by my co-workers, the people who love to listen to my stories.  I thought my life was normal, until their amusement at my daily tales turned into a full-on fascination. I've been told time and time again that I should have cameras follow me around to document my ridiculous experiences. I decided to forgo strapping a camera to my head, and put it all down in writing.  

So here goes, serving it up hot...I hope you have some wine on hand to wash it down.