A Thanksgiving Reality Check

The following post was an email I got from my mom last week. She volunteers at a local food bank. It gave me all the feels, so I thought I'd share--


Sometimes my days at the food bank are very humbling. 

All of our clients who come in for food have stories, but when people pass them on the streets, most just walk a little faster and turn away to avoid them. When they come into the food bank week after week, a face in the crowd becomes a real person-- with a name and a story. Many will open up to you, and you get to know what some of them are going through and how one tiny little act of kindness can make their day.

Janice lives in her car. She ALWAYS politely asks me if she can use the bathroom to wash up, and she always asks how I'm doing.

Frank sits on a bench out in front and immediately eats what we give him, because he's so hungry. He has no plate-- just a plastic fork and a can of cold soup or beans. Yet he smiles at me every time I say, "How are you, Frank?" 

Darrell stands by the door and when we have items that people don't want from their carts, he asks if he can please have them. I always give him whatever he wants, I don't care if it's against the rules.

Barbara hides in the bushes and waits until the place clears out before she comes in for her food. She is very nervous and afraid of men, and always asks for extra soap. I think she might have been sexually abused.

Every week one of us goes in the back warehouse and sneaks Sam an extra loaf of "wheat bread" because he likes it so much. Big deal, it's stale anyway. He has diabetes and can barely walk on his swollen feet.

Charlie always asks if we have any sardines. We always make sure we have a stack of crackers to give him, too.

Victor loves peaches IN HEAVY SYRUP, so one of us buys a can of those for him every week.

Charlene is SO happy when she gets six eggs. We don't always have enough cartons, and that's why I collect them from everyone I know. Stores donate the eggs in cartons with broken eggs in them; we sort out the good eggs and need clean cartons to put them in so we can give them to people.

Debbie has to work swing shift in a vitamin factory because her husband lost his job after 22 years as a chef at a country club. She stinks like fish oil and apologizes. They have six kids. She barely makes it before we close, so I stay a little later for her so she can get her food. If the traffic is bad, she will miss the distribution time if I don't.

Sometimes, if it's a week they aren't supposed to get meat, they will cry. (Only one week a month is a meat week for each family.)

And sometimes the new clients cry when they see how much food we're giving them. They will say, "ALL OF THIS IS FOR ME?! REALLY?!"

I am told "God Bless You" 50 times a day.

This stuff goes on every time I work there.

But yesterday, a lady named Shirley came in. She's kind of latched onto me for a friendly ear. She's a white woman, about 45 if I were to guess her age. She has kids, and she has a husband. Someone from the food bank handed her a paper to sign in front of me. She sold her car to someone there for $375. I was just making small talk with her as I helped her out with her food, and I asked her how her Halloween was. She said, "It wasn't good. I didn't have the money to buy any candy this year, so I turned off my lights and just peeked out my window at the kids. I just wasn't able to buy any candy for them."

Shirley said they have to be out of their house in 17 days. They had to sell their house, they can't afford to keep it; it's in Sierra Madre. They're taking their equity and renting a place half the size. Her husband lost his job after 15 years, even though he got commendations for good sales. He was so embarrassed by it that he couldn't even tell her. Someone's brother in his company needed a job, so they let her husband go. Shirley had been planning an 80th birthday party for her mom when it happened. She said she spent $600 on the party, not knowing how much they would need that money. She told me, "I wish he would have told me. I spent money we needed. I just didn't know." 

One day, she found a movie ticket stub in her husband's pocket. It was for a day he was supposed to be working. She thought he was having an affair, but he wasn't. He just couldn't bring himself to tell her he lost his job when she was happily planning her mom's party.  

Shirley's rationing their remaining money until they move. She told me she can't afford to go to the grocery store. The ONLY way they eat is the food the food bank gives them. One son needs surgery and he was in so much pain they had to go on the husband's COBRA for a month or two so he could be treated immediately-- Medi-Cal takes too long to get processed. So that's more money they have to spend.  

After she told me all of this, she said, "But you know, I see other people inside this place that are in much worse shape than I am, so I am thankful that we will still have a roof over our heads. A lot of these people don't."

Then she said, "I will see you next week because if I don't come here, we'll have nothing to eat." And she left.

It kind of just leaves you speechless sometimes.  And very thankful.

Thank you for being a friend

Relationships are the foundation of life (I know half of you wisenheimers reading this just thought, "No, it's water!" or "No, it's carbon!". Chill out, you're right too). Relationships determine not only how you interact with other living beings, but with every tangible object and abstract idea in existence. There are the relationships you have with others—your spouse or lover, your parents, your friends, your coworkers, your God etc.—and there are the less obvious relationships about which you seldom think; with nature, food, politics, sirens, the plot to Shawshank Redemption, your car, confidence, the ground upon which you walk and the air you breathe. Your entire being is in relation to everything.

So when anyone asks what in life is most important to me, the answer is obvious: Relationships.

Since the day I turned eighteen, I've never lived in any one city for more than four years. Berkeley, Boston and San Diego were home for short periods of time, and Pensacola is it for the next few years—until it's time to pack up and move on once again. Transience isn't rare for someone my age in today's culture. But when it comes to relationships, with each move and with each mile and with each passing day comes the separation and imminent dissolution of one of the most important forms a relationship can take: Friendships. And then comes the need to make new ones.

Remember when you were in elementary school and making a friend was literally as easy as walking up to anyone on the playground and saying, "Will you be my friend?" Boom. That was that. Friend made. You played with them for the rest of recess, sat with them at lunch, got their phone number and called them on the weekend to see if they wanted to come over and play. There were no self-constructed emotional walls, no social anxiety, no pride fueled by the fear of rejection... all of which lead to inaction, and opportunities missed.

Even through college making friends was pretty much that easy (alcohol helped, too, by that point). You were surrounded by thousands of like-aged and like-minded people in the same phase of life in one concentrated area; you were in the trenches together, spurring the formation of inevitable comraderies.

Then we became adults, and making new friends got hard.

With every move and every year that ticks off the calendar, sparking new friendships gets exponentially more difficult. I'm not talking about acquaintances—those are easy. I can be friendly with just about anyone. I'm talking about deep, meaningful friendships.

I half-joked with my best friend (since age 5) before moving to Pensacola this summer that I was going to revert back to my elementary school mindset and just ask people, "Will you be my friend?" To me, that's the hardest part about moving, having to downgrade great friendships to random texts and monthly-ish phone calls. With each new move, you have to start from scratch in trying to find awesome people to reattain invaluable, first-degree, in-person friendships. And even if you do meet someone with that potential, you can't just ask "Will you be my friend?", because now you're an adult, and adults don't do that. Adults are guarded. Adults have developed a fear of rejection. Adults are paralyzed by pride. Adults are too busy with their own, already-established lives. Other adults don't have time for new friends. These are the thoughts that creep into our minds now. And it sucks. Because I, for one, would love if another adult asked me to be their friend.

So why can't most of us do that?

I guess the reason for this blog post (other than the fact that I will find any excuse to sneak a Golden Girls allusion into something) is that lately I've been reflecting a lot on all the great friendships I've made throughout the years, and am being impatient about making more where I am now. Relationships are the most important thing to me, and currently there is a gaping lack of in-person friendships. I haven't yet mentioned that they always come along: these deep, meaningful friendships. Eventually. And I may have even begun the process of making a few in my current hometown. But the time I spend waiting for them to develop seems indefinite.

Anyway, to all in my past, present, and future—Thank you for being a friend.

Sorry, had to.

First Impressions of the Panhandle

Three and a half weeks ago, Grant and I moved to the South. The Florida Panhandle, to be exact -- 10 miles from Alabama, 254 miles from the nearest Trader Joe's, and a world away from home.

Three and a half weeks is a relatively short period of time, but in those 24 days I've already made some interesting observations about our new region.

1. Menu items can be misleading

Before we moved here, I had already accepted the fact that going out to eat was going to be a bit different than in California. Everything would be fried, grits would be a side option, and key lime pie would be abundant. 

But I thought I'd be safe with salad. Salads are standard fare and pretty much universally understood. Imagine my surprise upon ordering multiple salads at multiple restaurants and discovering that "mixed greens" down here means "shredded iceberg." There was ne'er so much as a spinach, arugula or romaine leaf in sight. Beware the salads.


2. This is the Bible Belt

For 27 years, when I thought of Florida I imagined palm trees, white sandy beaches, Disney World, and cute, old, linen-clad Jewish people muttering Yiddish phrases like "meshuganah." Unbeknownst to me, there were parts of Florida closer to Alabama and Mississippi than Miami. Florida is actually a humongous state -- it would take us 10 hours to drive to the Everglades.

After moving here and taking a closer look at the map, I discovered the Panhandle was actually part of the Bible Belt, and lives up to everything that implies. You can't buy alcohol on Sundays in the next county. Grant's base is in Milton, Florida, which has 172 churches for a population of 9,323. That works out to one church for every ~54 people.

And as astounding as that figure is, there are even more preachers than churches. Every Sunday, the street corners are littered with people like this:

Some are shouting verses, some are speaking in tongues, some are holding graphic signs -- and all are trying to save you. In a town with one church for every 54 people, that seems a little like trying to sell ice to Eskimos. But that's just one concentrated town in the Pensacola region. Some people are spiritual in different ways.

3. ...but not everyone is Christian

There are also a lot of Wiccans, Pagans and other unconventional religions represented. A few weeks ago, Pensacola made national news when three family members offed themselves in a Wiccan ritual killing, right here in our county. Which leads me to my next observation.

4. The first thing you think when you see Florida news is WTF

I'm going to issue you a challenge: Every time you open your Facebook page, take a gander at the "trending" topics on the right side of your newsfeed. Every time you see a bizarre, non-Hollywood news story, investigate a little further and find out where the story took place. It's uncanny how often the answer will be Florida.

When I found out we were moving to Florida, a friend (Hi, Bsayl!) and I started sending each other all the weird news stories we'd see coming out of Florida (you know, to get pumped). Here's a small sampling:

• See #3 above
• Armadillos cause spike in leprosy cases in Florida
• Second-largest python ever caught in Everglades
• Massive Florida sinkhole that swallowed man reopens
• Click here for more, like:
• "Ft. Lauderdale man tries to sell live 5-foot nurse shark outside Publix"
• "Palm Beach County investigators find a bowling ball filled with gunpowder connected to long rope used as a wick, like something straight out of a cartoon"
• "Man killed in Panama City Beach after an argument over how much spice to put into a gumbo at a seafood restaurant"

5. There's wildlife everywhere

Especially mosquitoes. Lots and lots of mosquitoes. Lots of mosquitoes who think my California blood is a fine delicacy. My first evening here, I got 36 mosquito bites, and since then have had no less than seven at any given time.

Aside from all the leprosy 'dillos, pythons and gators you hear about in the news (see #4), I've also seen two toads hop across our porch, a gecko in the bath tub, tons of fish and ospreys in the bayou, dozens of turtles hanging out along the Clearwater River, and a lot of unfamiliar birds (the highlight being the pair of cardinals that like to munch on my bird feeder).

6. Semantics is unimportant

I've noticed an extraordinary amount of unfortunate wording on signs and billboards. It seems like no one really looks at a phrase or tagline from all angles before publishing, which is an immature brain's dream come true. For example, I saw this gem just the other day and had to snap a photo:

OK, I may need to be saved for poking fun at this one, but I couldn't help it. The wording was just too creepy.


DISCLAIMER: Overall, Pensacola has been way better than I thought it would be. I just had a handful of things that I thought would be fun to write about. The people are mostly normal, the beaches are awesome, and there are a lot of great bars and restaurants... it's actually a pretty thriving small city. It's different, but it's shaping up to be a fun little adventure. I even bought a banjo to get into the spirit.

I'm a Floridian now and I really don't hate it.

The Lesser-Known Causes of Obesity

I can recall the month of October 2014 as being a particularly hysteric one. The ebola outbreak in West Africa was worsening and with modern travel, made its way (on a very small scale) to American shores.

There were five people who tested positive for the disease on American soil, only one of whom perished from it. But with ebola dominating the evening news, sales of rubber gloves and surgical masks spiking, and anyone with the slightest cough being treated like a leper, you'd think it was the country's most threatening epidemic.

"Five positive diagnoses, one death," I thought to myself. And all this hubbub.

What if there really were an deadly epidemic in America, one that affected 35% of the adult population and 20% of minors? How would we react to that?

We wouldn't, and we haven't. At least not proactively enough. That epidemic does exist, and it's called obesity.

I'm not going to get into the economic, cultural or psychological effects of our society's gradual transition to an obese one, nor am I going to delve into the obvious causes we've all heard over and over (larger portion sizes, an increasingly sedentary lifestyle, higher processed sugar and fat content in food, etc.).

Instead, I want to explore some of the less thought-about, perhaps more outlandish causes for our nation's onset of obesity in the last few decades. Indulge me as I, dare I say it, muse.


The demise of dance

If you knew me in my formative years, you know that I think the way young people "dance" these days is completely ridiculous. Grinding crotches and gyrating hips is NOT dancing. I like to call what youngsters do in the clubs these days "Vertical, clothed sex."

Vertical, clothed sex is completely effortless. Since the 1930s, the days of swing dancing, jitterbugging, and Lindy-Hopping, dancing has becoming increasingly less coordinated and well, lazy. I'm not talking about what you see at Justin Timberlake or Chris Brown (they're incredible) concerts, but rather what you'd see at any given club on any given night.

Let's review some samples, shall we?

Dancing in the 1930s: http://youtu.be/-avipfNKqxQ?t=1m52s 

Dancing today: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aw5z1mJ_1qM

Need I say more?

1930s dancing: A full-on cardio workout. Today's dancing: You don't have to move your feet. Not even once.


The disappearance of the yard + introduction of the gardner

The suburbs were once a place to settle for the working man of the big city, a place where he could retreat and have his own house, a car, a couple of kids, a dog and an open space for them to all go outside and be active. Land parcels were big, houses were modest, and families often prided themselves on their yards.

In the last few decades, families have traded in the value of having a yard for a bigger house. Add-ons equal more rooms and livable square footage, which translate directly into dollars. Having grown up in Arcadia, California has given me a unique advantage to seeing this process grossly accelerate in the last 25 years.

My grandma lived on a street with modest two-bedroom, single story ranch homes on half acre lots. One by one, my grandma's neighbors have all died or moved away, and one by one, enormous mini mansions have taken their spots and swallowed their yards, the most recent selling for $5.5 M. 8,113 square feet. Complete with a wok room. A room... dedicated solely to a wok.

Yards provide a place for kids to play and a place for adults to upkeep. A lot of parents these days have bad cases of Mean World Syndrome, and won't let their kids walk to the park or school yard alone anymore; take away the yard too, and they've got nowhere to go be active. What do they do instead? Stay inside and watch TV. Stay inside and play on the computer. Stay inside and play video games. Stay inside and become obese.

And for adults, the yard used to provide great exercise. Ever tried to operate one of those old push mowers? It's not easy! Weeding, landscaping, raking leaves... these are all forms of simple exercise (not thought of as such) that burned calories and got adults moving. And yes, a lot of people do still have yards. But how many of them are tended to by the people who own them? The gardening industry has erupted in the last few decades, making it affordable for even middle class families to forsake yard work. But at what cost to your health?

The disappearance of the yard in combination with the explosion in gardening services has eliminated this hidden activity that provided good exercise for anyone dedicated to keep their yard looking nice.


The emergence of corporate America

With the Industrial Revolution, advent of the assembly line, and building of the nation's infrastructure came the fall of small-town America. And with the fall of small-town America came the extinction of walking.

From the first American settlers until the turn of the 20th century (big, concentrated cities excluded, where walking is still the main mode of transportation), every town had a center, and that center included stores, a school, a church, a tavern, and a smattering of other commercial enterprises. Each was unique to its own town. Before the introduction of cars, trains, and the infrastructure on which to operate them, people walked to accomplish whatever daily tasks they needed.

As anyone still living in a big city without a car can tell you, walking miles every day gets you fit. Once the infrastructure was built, major corporations were established and things got more and more spread out. Mega stores like Sears Roebuck and later WalMart put Mom and Pop out of business. People couldn't depend on their feet to get what they needed anymore. Cars, buses and trains replaced the need to walk, even short distances, eliminating another form of common yet hidden exercise in which we were once forced to engage.

[New] Life and Death on Facebook

When I was in the 10th grade, I made my very own MySpace page. It was my social networking debut. Prior, I had only digitally interacted with friends via AIM and the occasional AOL chatroom (until some creepy old man would inevitably pose "a/s/l?"). Ew.

As my 15 year-old self signed up and meticulously crafted my MySpace profile to reflect exactly who I was (Counting Crows' "Big Yellow Taxi" on autoplay, background picture a soccer net), I hadn't the slightest inclination that I was entering a world from which I could never return. 

Social networks have become one of the most pervasive forces in modernity. Some argue (and are mostly right) that with the advent of social networks and more broadly, the Internet, privacy is dead. Unless you don't exist online. Which are very few of us.

For we living, breathing, consenting adults (over the age of 13) able to make the decision for ourselves to exist online and choose to do so, more power to us. Hopefully most of us have sound enough judgement to decide what should and should not be published about ourselves to just about anyone in the world who wants to see it. I say "most of us" because there are plenty of people out there like this. And this. But I digress.

For we living, breathing, consenting adults. I carefully chose this wording for the consideration of two groups of people I've lately noticed have unique existences on social networks, Facebook especially: Kids and the dead.

We'll start with kids. There are four major developments in Facebook's product timeline that have encouraged the explosion of kids showing up in your newsfeed: The addition of the newsfeed itself (2006), the photos feature (2005), the LIKE button (2009) and the platform going mobile (2011). Since the beginning of time, parents have loved bragging about their kids. Since the beginning of photography, parents have loved taking photos of their kids. Combine the two in a seamless, 3-second process on your smartphone, then add the ability for people to publicly praise their kids and boom--they're all over Facebook. It's just an extremely convenient, public baby book.

But what future repercussions do kids face for an online identity begun before they had any say about it? Those naked toddler photos or stories about how they pooped in their hands and smeared it on the TV? We have no idea. It's so new, there's no way to tell what kind of social and psychological consequences having an online identity that early in life will have on someone as they age. After all, Facebook has only been available to the general public since 2006. Even the very first "Facebook Kids" are not yet 10 years old. We'll have to wait and find out.

Then there's the dead. Sadly, I've known several young people taken far before their time, most of them since I've been in college, and have had a Facebook page. The majority of these souls have lived on through their Facebook pages--for whatever reason, no one has deleted their profiles.

I've noticed for much of the living, the dead still existing in their digital social circles has provided them comfort; if they're still online, they're not completely gone. Perhaps in all of us, there's a subconscious, irrational belief that there's Facebook in the afterlife, and our late friends are still checking their notifications. The dead's Facebook pages now serve as digital memorials, a place for people to visit, continue posting photos, write memories and messages on their walls. And unlike a gravestone or ash site, you can take it with you wherever you may be. It's an ongoing homage to someone's memory and avenue to continue talking to them.

Kids, and the dead, on social networks. What do you think?

If not me, who? If not now, when?

Two days ago, actress/director Emma Watson (Hermione Granger of Harry Potter fame) delivered a speech at the UN to promote the #HeForShe campaign. If you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and take 10 minutes to watch:

In her speech, she brought to light many truths, three of which particularly resonated with me. In a world where feminism is barely one second old on the calendar of humankind's time on Earth, with thousands of years to battle against, how do we change perceptions around a beautiful idea that has quickly turned ugly?

"Feminism" as a bad word
As a girl power-preaching, UC Berkeley-attending, equal rights-advocating, outspoken female athlete from a strong women-having household (hi mom!), even I am guilty of interpreting "feminism" and "feminist" with negative connotations. Man-hating. Hairy legs. Unwanted outspokenness. Feminism, as conveyed by the media and my immediate society growing up, meant anger, Birkenstocks and bra-burning.

Thankfully, I attended possibly the best university in the world for correcting my flatly wrong assumptions. As Watson points out, feminism, by definition, is "the belief that men and women should have equal opportunities." When taken literally, almost everyone I've ever met is a feminist. And my hope is some day (soon) feminism will be understood fully as all the great things for which it stands.

Feminists come in all forms
You don't have to attend rallies, lobby Congress, or speak at UN summits to be a feminist. Simply believing in the idea of gender equality and building up both women and men around you is a contribution. A movement needs leaders, but it also needs soldiers on the ground. Teach your daughters self-worth. Make it safe for your sons to show emotion. Little efforts can affect big change. Watson points out several examples of inadvertent feminists who made a large impact on her life:

My life is a sheer privilege because my parents didn’t love me less because I was born a daughter. My school did not limit me because I was a girl. My mentors didn't assume that I would go less far because I might give birth to a child one day. These influences are the gender equality ambassadors that made me who I am today. They may not know it but they are the inadvertent feminists needed in the world today. We need more of those.

Gender equality is a social norms movement. Right now it is widely believed, in most of the world's cultures, that women are second-class citizens. That men need to be tough. That a woman's sole purpose in life is to make babies and please her husband, and a man's is to be the breadwinner. That a woman's body belongs to her man. That boys should not like pink.

Changing perceptions is never quick nor easy, but it has to start with someone, somewhere.

If not me, who? If not now, when?

It goes both ways
Too often feminism is connected with double standards, that women want to have their cake and eat it too. For example, women want equal pay, yet still expect the man to pay the bill on a dinner date.

That's simply not feminism.

Feminism is equality for everyone, men too. Feminism means splitting the check, or paying next time. Do not mistake feminism for this unwanted mutation of the idea. Feminists want to have their cake, but they want to bake it, in equal partnership, and split it fifty-fifty with someone of the opposite sex.

[Feminism] is the theory of political, economic and social equality of the sexes.

Unless you live under a rock, you're probably aware of the recent domestic violence scandal involving the NFL right now. Ray Rice, Ray McDonald, Jonathan Dwyer and others have been charged or indicted within the past two months for some form of domestic violence, against women. Should they be punished? Yes. Should the NFL be under fire for not handling these (and many previous) cases more seriously? Absolutely. Is there a major problem of criminal culture alive and well in the NFL? You betcha.

But what about female soccer standout Hope Solo? She was arrested in June for allegedly beating up her sister and nephew.* After about two days making back page news, the matter was quietly forgotten. She was suspended for one NWSL game and paid a measly $2,500 fine, never missing a game for the USWNT.

Yesterday was the first time I've seen Hope Solo brought up in the same context as the NFL cases. U.S. Soccer is standing by its decision to allow her to continue playing and hardly anyone is giving it a second look. It's not headlining SportsCenter. It's not opening every local evening news tonight.

So what gives? How can we achieve full equality if we don't advocate for the bad along with the good? Equal means equal.

Let's forget the Birkenstocks, allow our boys to wear pink and suspend Hope Solo. Let's make feminism synonymous with its true meaning: equality.

*Every incidence of domestic violence is different in action, context, and circumstance. I am in no way equating or comparing in specificity any case mentioned in this post, only pointing out the similar legal charges.

Dear Ann Coulter,

It has recently come to my attention that you felt the need to explain to the country and to the world that our nation's increasing interest in soccer can only be a sign of America's moral decay.

Well, I'd like to respond. And I won't even go for the painfully obvious fact that almost everything you stand for is the real moral decay of this country.

But let's talk soccer.

You cite Ted Kennedy's Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 as the only reason Americans have an increasing interest in The Beautiful Game, and that no American whose great grandfather was born in America watches soccer.

My great grandparents were born here and I love watching soccer. In fact, I even played it for 19 years. Guess what? I've never even been to Mexico. And I bet I could circulate a petition that would garner thousands of signatures of people who watch and/or play soccer whose great grandparents didn't come here on a ship or by crossing the Rio Grande. I'm sorry that your parents kept you from any sort of diversity-driven life experiences while you enjoyed your clam bakes and Cotillion classes growing up in Connecticut. And by the way, have you ever driven by a field in Fenwick or Darien? Pleeenty of little white kids running around kicking soccer balls.

To address your next point, individual achievement (and failure) is a huge part of soccer. Ever heard of the Maradona's Hand of God? How about Roberto Baggio's missed PK in '94? Brandi Chastain and that black sports bra? Oh yeah, of course you haven't. You've been too busy with your head in the ground to ever open your mind to anything beyond the NRA and scheming ways to block women's right to the vote.

You say "No child's self-esteem has ever been bruised" in soccer. As a child who spent her formative years playing the game, I can tell you that some of the lowest points in my life came from soccer experiences. Missing PKs, blowing tap-ins over the cross bar, scoring own-goals, losing in a national championship, not getting selected for the ODP Regional Team... some days you were the absolute goat on the pitch and never wanted to show your face again. But you did. You always came back. And how you responded to those self-esteem bruising moments formed the resiliency and never-say-die character that has made a lot of ex-soccer players who they are today.

I'm not even sure what you mean when you say liberal moms like soccer because the girls can play with the boys, unlike in serious sports. Hundreds of little girls play hardball and basketball on boys' teams. Oh, and remember that little girl who plays football? Samantha Gordon? She makes her opposition look like toddlers trying to tackle Marshawn Lynch.

I'll keep my next point short. Your distaste for the fact that soccer matches can end up in 0-0 draws is a clear reflection of your ignorance of the drama and progression of a tactical duel. If this is your stance, don't you think our wars in the Middle East are just so darn boring? Who's winning? Why isn't there more action? Yawn. Those seem long and never-ending too. But wait... you support those... I'm confused.

I'll keep my next point even shorter. There's no prospect of major injury in soccer? First of all, the fact that you think that is a BAD thing (even if it was reality) is disturbing. Secondly, other than rugby, soccer players wear the least amount of protection of any sport. Thirdly, watch this.

Furthermore, congratulations for realizing that soccer is foreign! You got one thing right! It originated in England in the early 1800s. Guess what else originated in England centuries ago? The founders of the United States. Ann, unless you're a full-blooded Native American, I've got some news that will break your heart -- you're foreign too. Please try not to take that too hard.

Maybe the reason Americans have a newfound interest in soccer is that they're just discovering the beauty, grace, passion and tactical masterfulness of the game. And yes, it lasts a *whole* 90 minutes. How do we ever stay awake?! All us soccer fans should be thankful that we won't end up like Michael Jackson, right Ann? Too soon, by the way.

I have more for you, but in the off chance I ever get to meet you face to face, I'll save it for that. I'll just end this by saying I can tell you where you can stick your opposable thumbs... you know, the ones that separate you from all of us foreign, unevolved, soccer-loving beasts.

Sincerely,

Ex-soccer player, current soccer fan and future soccer mom,

Lisa K. Daiss