Save them by pissing them off, harassing them, and not allowing them a moment's peace, that is. Because I really want to continue shopping there.
I read Savage Love every week as soon as it's available. This week, Dan Savage revealed something so dismaying about Target, my favorite source of shit to put on my couch, shit to put in my kitchen, shit to put on my floor, and jones soda. And the new chocolate. I hate to say, I love Target. And unlike WalMart, where someone is always beating their children, it's somewhat pleasant to go to.
Unfortunately, Dan Savage has revealed this week that Target allows pharmacists to not dispense emergency contraception, based on their personal whims. Shame, Target, shame. This is either a backhanded appeal to the christian right, who would rather shop at WalMart (who completely caters to their absurd demand that minority religions control community morality), or an invertibrate refusal to take a stand either way, assuming that red state pharmacists will be comforted by their ability to force pregnancy on unfortunate skanks, and coastal folks might never notice.
In his column this week, Mr. Savage encourages readers to follow the 'contact us' link from Target, and write to Target expressing how fucking EVIL this policy is. How fucking spineless (please don't say fuck to target) this policy is. Unfortunately, it's pretty fucking hard to find an email link on that site. In fact, the closest you can get is a form. And it takes a while to find.
So here it is.
And if you're thinking that pharmacists have a right to follow their moral blahblahblah despite blahblahblah- think about it this way.
Did you want to be a veterinarian when you were a kid? Even for a day?
Did some mean older kid say that veterinarians have to put kitties to sleep?
And you decided not to be a veterinarian.
Because that's what people do. People do not become employed in fields where they have to do things that upset them. Of course, society today says that people should never have to feel uncomfortable in the workplace. Even if they choose that workplace without considering the full spectrum of duties that are implied.
Fact: The Contraceptive Pill has been approved for use since May 9, 1960. For a Pharmacist to have entered the field without knowledge of this medical advance, they'd have to have been in practice for 45 years. Even assuming that they were some kind of pharmacy prodigy, and soared through pharmacy school and undergrad in 3 years (impossible), they'd be 65 now. Retirement age. Retire, dinosaurs, if it's so unethical. And those are the only ones who can even claim that they didn't know they'd have to do something they consider killing babies. (and, really, scientifically, isn't. at all. and I'm pro killing babies)
Younger ones are just making people pay for their poor career choices. Forced sex resulting in a need for emergency contraception is, unfortunately, far more common than the forcible drafting of unsuspecting young evangelicals into pharmacy school by white-coat clad press gangs. They don't have to be pharmacists; unfortunately, thus far, pharmacies are the only place to get emergency contraception.
Don't fucking get me started on gynecologists who won't perform abortions or prescribe contraception.
Write Target. Tell them you love Target. Even if you don't. (This is how to get things from companies, by the way- present yourself as a loyal customer with a single issue). Tell them you're depressed, dissapointed, betrayed, shocked. Tell them you'd hate, hate, hate to have to shop somewhere else. But that you will.
I don't want to have to stop going to Target. But I might have to.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Monday, October 31, 2005
A recipe I'd like to share.
It's getting time for casseroles, and warm things from the oven. Tomorrow I'm going to try to make baked ziti. But for now, here's a recipe I give to the world-
Disgusting Tasty Casserole-(Spinach Sweet Potato Casserole)
Two large white potatoes (any kind- waxy yellow or fluffy white will be fine)
Two large sweet potatoes
5-10 strips bacon
1/2-1 lovely onion
1/2 c. cheese, shredded (fontina, queso quesadilla, monterey jack, gruyere, cheddar- anything melty)
1 small package frozen spinach
Butter, salt, pepper, seasonings (garlic is nice or dill and a little sour cream or rosemary and roasted garlic, or roasted red peppers, or anything that happens to be around)
Dice uncooked bacon and place in the bottom of a square casserole dish. Dice the onion small as you like. Peel and cut the white and sweet potatoes into chunks, and parboil (lightly). Either zap them in the microwave or cook stovetop. It's important to leave them a little less done than you would for mashed potatoes. Cook spinach a little less than package directions. Put the casserole dish with onion and bacon into a hot oven (375-400), 5-10 minutes, or until onion begins to look transparent and bacon looks cooked.
Drain potatoes and spinach. Remove casserole pan from oven, and add potato chunks and spinach to onions and bacon. Smash everything up together with a wooden spoon. Add butter seasonings, smash a little more, and then add cheese. Return to oven for 15-20 more minutes.
Variation: Use leftover baked or mashed potatoes in place of parboiled. Salad dressing (ranch or creamy ceasar - i could totally move to the midwest) can be added in place of butter and seasonings. Bacon can be omitted, but what's the point.
Disgusting Tasty Casserole-(Spinach Sweet Potato Casserole)
Two large white potatoes (any kind- waxy yellow or fluffy white will be fine)
Two large sweet potatoes
5-10 strips bacon
1/2-1 lovely onion
1/2 c. cheese, shredded (fontina, queso quesadilla, monterey jack, gruyere, cheddar- anything melty)
1 small package frozen spinach
Butter, salt, pepper, seasonings (garlic is nice or dill and a little sour cream or rosemary and roasted garlic, or roasted red peppers, or anything that happens to be around)
Dice uncooked bacon and place in the bottom of a square casserole dish. Dice the onion small as you like. Peel and cut the white and sweet potatoes into chunks, and parboil (lightly). Either zap them in the microwave or cook stovetop. It's important to leave them a little less done than you would for mashed potatoes. Cook spinach a little less than package directions. Put the casserole dish with onion and bacon into a hot oven (375-400), 5-10 minutes, or until onion begins to look transparent and bacon looks cooked.
Drain potatoes and spinach. Remove casserole pan from oven, and add potato chunks and spinach to onions and bacon. Smash everything up together with a wooden spoon. Add butter seasonings, smash a little more, and then add cheese. Return to oven for 15-20 more minutes.
Variation: Use leftover baked or mashed potatoes in place of parboiled. Salad dressing (ranch or creamy ceasar - i could totally move to the midwest) can be added in place of butter and seasonings. Bacon can be omitted, but what's the point.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Barren Bitches Be Crazy
So some dryin' up bitches be freezin' they eggs.
Fertility is the catch in gender equality. It used to be too much fertility held women back. The pill fixed that. Women can fuck like men, and choose when to carry a pregnancy to the end. Unfortunately, contraception is too good when used well. Women who've chosen to delay childbearing are beginning to find that they've dosed themselves right straight through their reproductive years.
So women feel the need to make choices that leave them stranded; either they dedicate their biologically useful years to economically useful purposes, or they have children they can't afford with partners that may just be good enough. These are tough times. The entrance of women into the workplace, and the use of the second income in middle class households to enter into bidding wars for real estate, and thus causing the booming, glorging, evil fucking rise in housing prices in all decent regions, has caused a type of life inflation.
We need more to start families, more money, more stability, more time to find a partner. And women haven't gained any more time. The gains in female life expectancy from better preventative care and better education for women happen in post-menopausal, non-fertile years. Women have longer lives than men- they just have shorter productive ones.
So bitches be angry that they've got to make choices. The impression given by the whole world, for years and years, was that a woman, a girl, could do whatever she wants, make any choices, and no doors would be closed to her. Unfortunately, biology doesn't work like that. Even with recent advances in egg freezing, biology doesn't work like that. Most women won't have the choices at 40 that they hand at 20. Most men will. Nearly fuckin' all men will. A man has to work hard to be infertile. Even with rising obesity, the risk of impotence from type ii diabetes doesn't render a man infertile. Ejaculation and harvesting can still occur.
And men will always want younger partners. Why? Because it makes sense that way. For decades, (generations, centuries, all of humanity thus far) a woman brought the fertility, a man brought the resources. Women get fertility early; men get resources later. Despite that, until very recently (historically speaking), a man was always very likely to outlive his wife. That's a digression. Recently, society has decided that both partners are responsible for providing heat and meat. So women have gotten older, closer in age to their male partners. They want and/or need individual material success prior to the baby making and the permanant coupling. Thus, the delayed childbearing.
So, a proposal.
It's not going to go back to the way it was. Women aren't going to give up careers in order to have children. Most women don't want to give up their dream baby and dream baby carriage and dream baby room and dream baby wallpaper and dream baby nanny in order to afford those things. And barring fundamental cultural change, men aren't going to suddenly begin marrying women past childbearing years in droves.
So how about we change what we can, to get women a few more years?
Fact: Girl children score higher on tests of school readyness than boys of the same age.
Fact (not true or proven): Middle School is fucking useless.
Fact: Cutting four years out of the public education system for half of all students would leave to massive savings.
So, we start girls in kindergarten at 4 instead of five. Mostly, they can handle it. The age of 5 and some months for kindergarten readiness is already a compromise between the social and verbal abilities of girl children and boy children. Then, we cut out a few years of middle school for girls- all three, or one or two. Girls go on to high school, and are prepared for college or public vocational education (which there would be money for, by cutting a few thousand children per year out of the educational system). So your average college freshman girl would be 14-16 instead of 17-19. That will leave her extra years to begin her career or graduate education before beginning to run down her biological clock.
Before this idea is dismissed as stupid bullshit (which it is) consider how it's actually the way that life has been designed. It feels like gross gender bias to even think about taking girls out of school earlier than boys- after all, isn't that what they did in other countries! But I'm proposing, not pulling them out early, but pushing them through faster. Women have always assumed adult responsabilities before their male peers. Maybe this is why so many goddamned livejournalling gothwearing eatingdisorder having teen girls feel life is so meaningless, and engage in such sad behavior and ridiculous angsty bullshit. Maybe female adolescence is a myth. Maybe it's just that their development has been placed on a male-centric, male-designed timetable. We've got to recognize biology for a moment. We've got to recognize tradition. Maybe we've even got to embrace it.
Of course, the real objection to this plan wouldn't be based on gender bias- it would be based on sex. Parents would be terrified that exposed to older boys younger, their girls would be having sex at a younger age. This knee jerk reaction probably would keep this proposal from ever being considered. We're so invested, culturally, in the idea of proms and dating and sock hoppes and malt shoppes. We can't imagine a world in which growing up doesn't mean dating the boy in math class, getting stuck with pins on prom night, the blushing fumblings in the back of borrowed cars...shameful, lonely, gropings towards second base. Of course, this isn't the way it goes now anyway. It's never been the way it goes. Girls date older boys, boys from somewhere else. Or they don't date. Or they im some guy on the internet and try fellatio in a parking lot. The sexual world of teenagers will never be clean cut, reluctantly chaste, and socially acceptable.
If I had started high school at 12 instead of middle school at 11, I'd have graduated at 16. College would have ended at 20. Now, at 23, I could be midway through a real job, instead of slinging coffee to people with real futures. I'm dating a man ten years older than me anyway. Of course, I don't want children. I'd gladly throw my fertile years some barren bitches' way for some kizzash.
Think about it.
Fertility is the catch in gender equality. It used to be too much fertility held women back. The pill fixed that. Women can fuck like men, and choose when to carry a pregnancy to the end. Unfortunately, contraception is too good when used well. Women who've chosen to delay childbearing are beginning to find that they've dosed themselves right straight through their reproductive years.
So women feel the need to make choices that leave them stranded; either they dedicate their biologically useful years to economically useful purposes, or they have children they can't afford with partners that may just be good enough. These are tough times. The entrance of women into the workplace, and the use of the second income in middle class households to enter into bidding wars for real estate, and thus causing the booming, glorging, evil fucking rise in housing prices in all decent regions, has caused a type of life inflation.
We need more to start families, more money, more stability, more time to find a partner. And women haven't gained any more time. The gains in female life expectancy from better preventative care and better education for women happen in post-menopausal, non-fertile years. Women have longer lives than men- they just have shorter productive ones.
So bitches be angry that they've got to make choices. The impression given by the whole world, for years and years, was that a woman, a girl, could do whatever she wants, make any choices, and no doors would be closed to her. Unfortunately, biology doesn't work like that. Even with recent advances in egg freezing, biology doesn't work like that. Most women won't have the choices at 40 that they hand at 20. Most men will. Nearly fuckin' all men will. A man has to work hard to be infertile. Even with rising obesity, the risk of impotence from type ii diabetes doesn't render a man infertile. Ejaculation and harvesting can still occur.
And men will always want younger partners. Why? Because it makes sense that way. For decades, (generations, centuries, all of humanity thus far) a woman brought the fertility, a man brought the resources. Women get fertility early; men get resources later. Despite that, until very recently (historically speaking), a man was always very likely to outlive his wife. That's a digression. Recently, society has decided that both partners are responsible for providing heat and meat. So women have gotten older, closer in age to their male partners. They want and/or need individual material success prior to the baby making and the permanant coupling. Thus, the delayed childbearing.
So, a proposal.
It's not going to go back to the way it was. Women aren't going to give up careers in order to have children. Most women don't want to give up their dream baby and dream baby carriage and dream baby room and dream baby wallpaper and dream baby nanny in order to afford those things. And barring fundamental cultural change, men aren't going to suddenly begin marrying women past childbearing years in droves.
So how about we change what we can, to get women a few more years?
Fact: Girl children score higher on tests of school readyness than boys of the same age.
Fact (not true or proven): Middle School is fucking useless.
Fact: Cutting four years out of the public education system for half of all students would leave to massive savings.
So, we start girls in kindergarten at 4 instead of five. Mostly, they can handle it. The age of 5 and some months for kindergarten readiness is already a compromise between the social and verbal abilities of girl children and boy children. Then, we cut out a few years of middle school for girls- all three, or one or two. Girls go on to high school, and are prepared for college or public vocational education (which there would be money for, by cutting a few thousand children per year out of the educational system). So your average college freshman girl would be 14-16 instead of 17-19. That will leave her extra years to begin her career or graduate education before beginning to run down her biological clock.
Before this idea is dismissed as stupid bullshit (which it is) consider how it's actually the way that life has been designed. It feels like gross gender bias to even think about taking girls out of school earlier than boys- after all, isn't that what they did in other countries! But I'm proposing, not pulling them out early, but pushing them through faster. Women have always assumed adult responsabilities before their male peers. Maybe this is why so many goddamned livejournalling gothwearing eatingdisorder having teen girls feel life is so meaningless, and engage in such sad behavior and ridiculous angsty bullshit. Maybe female adolescence is a myth. Maybe it's just that their development has been placed on a male-centric, male-designed timetable. We've got to recognize biology for a moment. We've got to recognize tradition. Maybe we've even got to embrace it.
Of course, the real objection to this plan wouldn't be based on gender bias- it would be based on sex. Parents would be terrified that exposed to older boys younger, their girls would be having sex at a younger age. This knee jerk reaction probably would keep this proposal from ever being considered. We're so invested, culturally, in the idea of proms and dating and sock hoppes and malt shoppes. We can't imagine a world in which growing up doesn't mean dating the boy in math class, getting stuck with pins on prom night, the blushing fumblings in the back of borrowed cars...shameful, lonely, gropings towards second base. Of course, this isn't the way it goes now anyway. It's never been the way it goes. Girls date older boys, boys from somewhere else. Or they don't date. Or they im some guy on the internet and try fellatio in a parking lot. The sexual world of teenagers will never be clean cut, reluctantly chaste, and socially acceptable.
If I had started high school at 12 instead of middle school at 11, I'd have graduated at 16. College would have ended at 20. Now, at 23, I could be midway through a real job, instead of slinging coffee to people with real futures. I'm dating a man ten years older than me anyway. Of course, I don't want children. I'd gladly throw my fertile years some barren bitches' way for some kizzash.
Think about it.
What it's like.
I've never really been the normal girl.
People think I'm really unconventional; I've been able to make my quirks skew more charming than queer. I don't know why I'm like this. I just know that I've never been able to quite manage being standard, in any way. I was precocious. I was bright. I was a well-spoken eight year old. I was academically extraordinary. I've always been able to achieve without really trying (except at bennington). In average surroundings, I am above. I don't even remember how to read things I think are dull, like textbooks or assigned reading. At UMass, I can make A's without trying. I can't quite seem to not be shy, not be weird, not be a little different. I know, every time I go out, get dressed, do something, say something, I'm just a little off. I never really get how to dress, how to choose my clothes.
The best explanation for this is something called right-hemisphere dysfunction.It's a non-verbal learning disability. Everything that's written about it seems to apply to me, but the interpretations piss me the fuck off. People try to pin it onto the autistic spectrum. That's bullshit. I'm not autistic, I'm not aspergers. I'm not any kind of motherfucking rain man. I'm just me. And I'm good at things with words. Very good. Brilliant. I can pick up languages quick. I can play with words and rules. I can find subtexts, interpret film like it's an essay. Sometimes writing is a game to me. Other things are harder. I can't read people very well; I'm empathetic (fuck aspergers, I don't have fucking aspergers. I UNDERSTAND people, I'm intuitive, it's not any anthropologist on mars shit), but sometimes it takes a bit to pick up individuals and group dynamics. If you meet me once, I'm weird. If you know me for a year, you forget I ever was. I'm funny. I'm fucking hilarious; but sometimes, it's true, I have trouble with non-literal uses of language. When I was in college for real, it was hard for me to answer "What's up?" with "What's up?".
That's it, though. When I was a kid, I didn't just seem articulate, I was. I didn't just seem bright, I was. Everything that's written on this NVLD bullshit seems like sour grapes. The literature talks about children using words they don't really understand, appearing intelligent in elementary schools, with their 'true', delayed nature, coming out later. Reccommendations for life include predictable careers and very little secondary education. Remember, kids, if someone seems smarter than you, they're not. People talk about children with NVLD seeming to have wide vocabularies, but lacking comprehension. About shallow understandings, and shallow interpersonal relationships.
How do you fucking know, guy? How do you know how smart I am? Because my mind works differently than yours, it must be worse? Even (and especially) where it seems better? I am smart. I am a bad student. I am a good writer. I can be frustrating. I'd rather write around the rules than within them. People think I'm being difficult on purpose. Mostly, I'm not. My co-workers call me lazy, call me stupid. It's hard. There's a lot of ambiguity at my job, a lot of things you're supposed to know to do without ever having been told or having seen it written down. And if not, you must be lazy. Must be stupid. It hurts. It hurts to know that I am smart and stupid, but it's better than believing that I'm stupid and seem smart.
I know I'm not normal. I've never felt normal. I feel the cracks between what I can do and what everyone else can do; for years I walked around, feeling about to be found out as the fraud I felt like.
I lust after normalcy. I want it so badly. I want to do everything that everybody else does. I want to have what my friends have. I want a normal job and a normal boyfriend and a normal life. I don't want to make A's without trying, while pissing off my professors with my apparent slacking and bad attitude. I want to make B's with professors on my side. I want to have someone with me at thanksgiving dessert. I don't want to have to win people over for once.
People don't understand. My parents don't understand. They see what I achieve as proof that there's really nothing amiss. No matter how many diagnoses I have, they'll always see their brilliant daughter. They don't know that I can't figure out things that are dead obvious to everyone else. Sometimes I get myself into trouble, deep trouble. And there's no help for me. If I had dyslexia , and got myself into trouble taking a course load that was too heavy, there would be tons of things academic services could do for me. If I had ADD, and couldn't concentrate, I could see a specialist, given ritalin or adderal, and feel normal.
But if I work hard and quiet, never miss an assignment, never give someone reason to dislike my work; I can still get in too deep. I run through professors, term by term. I never get anyone on my side. Professors see me coming in late to class (disorganization is part of the disability- the most easily combated part, but part of it), never coming to office hours, and turning in work (BRILLIANT work, guy) that obviously wasn't even started until the night before. I know how much time it takes me to write a 13 page paper- one evening. I know how long it takes me to write a 7 page paper- one evening. One evening, one draft. It simply wouldn't be useful to start it the week before, and come in for feedback. That's not the help I need, lady. I need you to tell me what I have to do to get a recommendation from you. That's why I got kicked out of Bennington. Simply, my disability isn't charming enough. I don't cast a sympathetic figure.
I want to be normal. I so want to be normal.
A friend of mine graduated from Bridgewater State last year, same major as me. Her family threw her a party in the basement of a Chinese restaurant. She danced with her boyfriend, her mother drank too much and embarrassed everyone. In the middle of the party, my friend swelled up huge with an allergic reaction.
I'll never have that. I could hope for the allergic reaction. But the normalcy, the sheer grimy shady, peeling wood-paneled life of it...not for me. Not ever.
My boyfriend has had girlfriends before me. They did everything real. Everything. Everything that people do. They knew eachother's families. His friends knew them. I'm sure everything was normal. I'm not saying it was fun, or didn't have problems, but my boyfriend has had normal. He's had miserable. He's had depressing. He's had painful and pointless, but he's had normal.
So now I'm wondering- am I going to fail next? Or am I going to excel? There's a good chance I'll do amazing on the LSAT. I might go to law school and rape it, kick its fucking ass. I might make it my mewling, screaming bitch. Or it might be one of those normal things I can't have. There might be tons of ambiguous requirements, errands, busy work and obsequities that I can't navigate. I might be stuck doing well without support. I would be labeled as aptitude without attitude. Smart but lazy. How can I even get there if I can't even find a recommendation? Or know where to get the form to officially declare my major? Will it be UMass or Bennington? Friendship or Romance?
People think I'm really unconventional; I've been able to make my quirks skew more charming than queer. I don't know why I'm like this. I just know that I've never been able to quite manage being standard, in any way. I was precocious. I was bright. I was a well-spoken eight year old. I was academically extraordinary. I've always been able to achieve without really trying (except at bennington). In average surroundings, I am above. I don't even remember how to read things I think are dull, like textbooks or assigned reading. At UMass, I can make A's without trying. I can't quite seem to not be shy, not be weird, not be a little different. I know, every time I go out, get dressed, do something, say something, I'm just a little off. I never really get how to dress, how to choose my clothes.
The best explanation for this is something called right-hemisphere dysfunction.It's a non-verbal learning disability. Everything that's written about it seems to apply to me, but the interpretations piss me the fuck off. People try to pin it onto the autistic spectrum. That's bullshit. I'm not autistic, I'm not aspergers. I'm not any kind of motherfucking rain man. I'm just me. And I'm good at things with words. Very good. Brilliant. I can pick up languages quick. I can play with words and rules. I can find subtexts, interpret film like it's an essay. Sometimes writing is a game to me. Other things are harder. I can't read people very well; I'm empathetic (fuck aspergers, I don't have fucking aspergers. I UNDERSTAND people, I'm intuitive, it's not any anthropologist on mars shit), but sometimes it takes a bit to pick up individuals and group dynamics. If you meet me once, I'm weird. If you know me for a year, you forget I ever was. I'm funny. I'm fucking hilarious; but sometimes, it's true, I have trouble with non-literal uses of language. When I was in college for real, it was hard for me to answer "What's up?" with "What's up?".
That's it, though. When I was a kid, I didn't just seem articulate, I was. I didn't just seem bright, I was. Everything that's written on this NVLD bullshit seems like sour grapes. The literature talks about children using words they don't really understand, appearing intelligent in elementary schools, with their 'true', delayed nature, coming out later. Reccommendations for life include predictable careers and very little secondary education. Remember, kids, if someone seems smarter than you, they're not. People talk about children with NVLD seeming to have wide vocabularies, but lacking comprehension. About shallow understandings, and shallow interpersonal relationships.
How do you fucking know, guy? How do you know how smart I am? Because my mind works differently than yours, it must be worse? Even (and especially) where it seems better? I am smart. I am a bad student. I am a good writer. I can be frustrating. I'd rather write around the rules than within them. People think I'm being difficult on purpose. Mostly, I'm not. My co-workers call me lazy, call me stupid. It's hard. There's a lot of ambiguity at my job, a lot of things you're supposed to know to do without ever having been told or having seen it written down. And if not, you must be lazy. Must be stupid. It hurts. It hurts to know that I am smart and stupid, but it's better than believing that I'm stupid and seem smart.
I know I'm not normal. I've never felt normal. I feel the cracks between what I can do and what everyone else can do; for years I walked around, feeling about to be found out as the fraud I felt like.
I lust after normalcy. I want it so badly. I want to do everything that everybody else does. I want to have what my friends have. I want a normal job and a normal boyfriend and a normal life. I don't want to make A's without trying, while pissing off my professors with my apparent slacking and bad attitude. I want to make B's with professors on my side. I want to have someone with me at thanksgiving dessert. I don't want to have to win people over for once.
People don't understand. My parents don't understand. They see what I achieve as proof that there's really nothing amiss. No matter how many diagnoses I have, they'll always see their brilliant daughter. They don't know that I can't figure out things that are dead obvious to everyone else. Sometimes I get myself into trouble, deep trouble. And there's no help for me. If I had dyslexia , and got myself into trouble taking a course load that was too heavy, there would be tons of things academic services could do for me. If I had ADD, and couldn't concentrate, I could see a specialist, given ritalin or adderal, and feel normal.
But if I work hard and quiet, never miss an assignment, never give someone reason to dislike my work; I can still get in too deep. I run through professors, term by term. I never get anyone on my side. Professors see me coming in late to class (disorganization is part of the disability- the most easily combated part, but part of it), never coming to office hours, and turning in work (BRILLIANT work, guy) that obviously wasn't even started until the night before. I know how much time it takes me to write a 13 page paper- one evening. I know how long it takes me to write a 7 page paper- one evening. One evening, one draft. It simply wouldn't be useful to start it the week before, and come in for feedback. That's not the help I need, lady. I need you to tell me what I have to do to get a recommendation from you. That's why I got kicked out of Bennington. Simply, my disability isn't charming enough. I don't cast a sympathetic figure.
I want to be normal. I so want to be normal.
A friend of mine graduated from Bridgewater State last year, same major as me. Her family threw her a party in the basement of a Chinese restaurant. She danced with her boyfriend, her mother drank too much and embarrassed everyone. In the middle of the party, my friend swelled up huge with an allergic reaction.
I'll never have that. I could hope for the allergic reaction. But the normalcy, the sheer grimy shady, peeling wood-paneled life of it...not for me. Not ever.
My boyfriend has had girlfriends before me. They did everything real. Everything. Everything that people do. They knew eachother's families. His friends knew them. I'm sure everything was normal. I'm not saying it was fun, or didn't have problems, but my boyfriend has had normal. He's had miserable. He's had depressing. He's had painful and pointless, but he's had normal.
So now I'm wondering- am I going to fail next? Or am I going to excel? There's a good chance I'll do amazing on the LSAT. I might go to law school and rape it, kick its fucking ass. I might make it my mewling, screaming bitch. Or it might be one of those normal things I can't have. There might be tons of ambiguous requirements, errands, busy work and obsequities that I can't navigate. I might be stuck doing well without support. I would be labeled as aptitude without attitude. Smart but lazy. How can I even get there if I can't even find a recommendation? Or know where to get the form to officially declare my major? Will it be UMass or Bennington? Friendship or Romance?
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
I've got to remember to blog about-
Monday, October 10, 2005
My fucking customers.
or
"The Chrome off a Trailer Hitch: A catalogue of annoying choads, wankers, fockers, cunts, and so on who are absolutely welcome to never come back."
By H. Barista
1. Carpet Salesman guy.
You pace. And you talk loudly. And you demand endless refills. And you want me to shake your refills in the shaker, which is nasty, and I won't. And you're an asshole. You complain about kids making noise, when you're playing big wheel at the cracker factory.
Newsflash: You're not hot shit. And, we've all seen you pick your nose. That's just nasty, guy.
2. Unshaken, Unsweetened, large iced coffee guy.
"No shakey, no stirry, no sweety, no special cuppy"
Sure, sure. And no matter how many times I've called it back to you using real words, you insist on ordering that way. It's not cute, not only because you're not at all cute. (No matter how many women claim to find Tony Soprano sexy, a greasy stained t-shirt encasing an ol
d coarse fat balding fuck isn't a charming stylistic statement, you oily wedge of tepid man-ham)
You are cordially invited to enjoy your next iced beverage
right here.------------------------------------>
3. Raspberry Iced Coffee broad.
Not funny, lady. Not at all. Somewhat insulting. I'm just trying to find a way to make you happy. So I give you your coffee with syrup, and equal, black. So you bring it over to the condiment bar. You spill out about an inch. Not even into the trash (which pisses me off enough), but onto the counter. You then take the whole milk OFF the condiment bar, bring it over to the bar area...and fix your coffee there. And leave a huge fucking mess. And tell me "Oh, this is pretty much empty, dear"
No, it's not.
You are.
Isn't it embarassing to be, well, too small potatoes to LIVE? You can't afford the 35 cents for the syrup you want? You'd just collapse from hunger or fall asleep at the wheel without that extra centimeter of coffee, milk, equal, and rasberry? You really need to make a point to me, your poverty stricken student barista, about how much of a pain it is to have to put milk in your own coffee?
I picture you perched with coworkers, drinking your iced coffee, telling them how you 'get your money's worth'.
Goddamn, lady. It must be NO fun to be you. Fuck off. For free.
4. Regular who steals.
But someone caught you stealing the other day. And they didn't say anything. That's how much we like you- we didn't want to embarass you. But we're concerned. Get help, lady. Stealing when not needed is definitely symptomatic of other problems.
5. Multiple Refills guy.
So now you not only demand refills of coffees you bought four, five, six months...maybe a year ago...you want new cups for the refills. Guy, it's the CUP that makes it a refill. Otherwise, it's just a coffee. A large coffee.
So if you've been paying 53 cents instead of 1.89.
And that's two refills at a time for at least a year. That's 992.80.
Which is one-tenth of what I made last year. How do you feel, guy? Does that make you feel better or worse? So you've made something like a 30,000% return on your investment. Does that make you feel like a big man?
It's a fucking pain is what it is. Your two refills and two coffees every night...that's sixty ounces of coffee. It's a fucking gallon, guy. Don't act all upset when we need to brew more for you. And don't pretend you really are so attached to 'bold'. You know how I know it doesn't matter to you, you just think it does? GUATEMALA WAS BREWED AS BOLD AND YOU DRANK IT, GUY. It doesn't magically change tastes because the bag is different. I've just flipped the tags when I saw you coming and poured you breakfast blend. You don't know what you like, guy. Fucking asshat. And there's never any coffee left for the person behind you. Selfish fuck.
And the whole thing...your thousand dollar profit...that's not bought by your slick-o planning. That's bought by your dependence on poor baristas being too embarassed to confront you on your refill abuse.
ASSSS.
PS. If you're going to tell people you won't go to a certain dentist because asians might go there too, buy a fucking toothbrush. I'm sick of looking at teeth that look like the insides of those skanky cups you bring in. And while you're at it, you might try bathing in WATER instead of cologne. That only fools frogs.
"The Chrome off a Trailer Hitch: A catalogue of annoying choads, wankers, fockers, cunts, and so on who are absolutely welcome to never come back."
By H. Barista
1. Carpet Salesman guy.
- Oh, carpet salesman guy. I know your name, but I'm not posting it here. Let it just be known, you suck. You suck so fucking much. You suck so much and so hard I'd love to replace that goddamned headset cellphone with a glory hole. Then at least you'd be making somebody happy.
You pace. And you talk loudly. And you demand endless refills. And you want me to shake your refills in the shaker, which is nasty, and I won't. And you're an asshole. You complain about kids making noise, when you're playing big wheel at the cracker factory.
Newsflash: You're not hot shit. And, we've all seen you pick your nose. That's just nasty, guy.
2. Unshaken, Unsweetened, large iced coffee guy.
- Notice my use of whole words when describing you. You see, I've been communicating in english for years. Except for emphasis, I even use full sentences. From my use of standard grammatical structures, it can be inferred that I COMPREHEND SPOKEN ENGLISH. That's why most of my customers feel comfortable not using pidgin.
"No shakey, no stirry, no sweety, no special cuppy"
Sure, sure. And no matter how many times I've called it back to you using real words, you insist on ordering that way. It's not cute, not only because you're not at all cute. (No matter how many women claim to find Tony Soprano sexy, a greasy stained t-shirt encasing an ol
d coarse fat balding fuck isn't a charming stylistic statement, you oily wedge of tepid man-ham)You are cordially invited to enjoy your next iced beverage
right here.------------------------------------>
3. Raspberry Iced Coffee broad.
- I have it on some authority that you're probably mentally ill. I'm guessing that you're a nurse. Either way, feel free to not come back. You get just enough syrup in your coffee to not pay for it. You want us to put the milk in your coffee. But you don't want to get any less coffee in your coffee. So you want us to make your coffee as if it were black, then add milk. Then you want the 'extra'.
Not funny, lady. Not at all. Somewhat insulting. I'm just trying to find a way to make you happy. So I give you your coffee with syrup, and equal, black. So you bring it over to the condiment bar. You spill out about an inch. Not even into the trash (which pisses me off enough), but onto the counter. You then take the whole milk OFF the condiment bar, bring it over to the bar area...and fix your coffee there. And leave a huge fucking mess. And tell me "Oh, this is pretty much empty, dear"
No, it's not.
You are.
Isn't it embarassing to be, well, too small potatoes to LIVE? You can't afford the 35 cents for the syrup you want? You'd just collapse from hunger or fall asleep at the wheel without that extra centimeter of coffee, milk, equal, and rasberry? You really need to make a point to me, your poverty stricken student barista, about how much of a pain it is to have to put milk in your own coffee?
I picture you perched with coworkers, drinking your iced coffee, telling them how you 'get your money's worth'.
Goddamn, lady. It must be NO fun to be you. Fuck off. For free.
4. Regular who steals.
- You're a sweet lady. Your daughter comes in. Your husband comes in. To get your drink.
But someone caught you stealing the other day. And they didn't say anything. That's how much we like you- we didn't want to embarass you. But we're concerned. Get help, lady. Stealing when not needed is definitely symptomatic of other problems.
5. Multiple Refills guy.
- It's refill, guy. Not infinifil.
So now you not only demand refills of coffees you bought four, five, six months...maybe a year ago...you want new cups for the refills. Guy, it's the CUP that makes it a refill. Otherwise, it's just a coffee. A large coffee.
So if you've been paying 53 cents instead of 1.89.
And that's two refills at a time for at least a year. That's 992.80.
Which is one-tenth of what I made last year. How do you feel, guy? Does that make you feel better or worse? So you've made something like a 30,000% return on your investment. Does that make you feel like a big man?
It's a fucking pain is what it is. Your two refills and two coffees every night...that's sixty ounces of coffee. It's a fucking gallon, guy. Don't act all upset when we need to brew more for you. And don't pretend you really are so attached to 'bold'. You know how I know it doesn't matter to you, you just think it does? GUATEMALA WAS BREWED AS BOLD AND YOU DRANK IT, GUY. It doesn't magically change tastes because the bag is different. I've just flipped the tags when I saw you coming and poured you breakfast blend. You don't know what you like, guy. Fucking asshat. And there's never any coffee left for the person behind you. Selfish fuck.
And the whole thing...your thousand dollar profit...that's not bought by your slick-o planning. That's bought by your dependence on poor baristas being too embarassed to confront you on your refill abuse.
ASSSS.
PS. If you're going to tell people you won't go to a certain dentist because asians might go there too, buy a fucking toothbrush. I'm sick of looking at teeth that look like the insides of those skanky cups you bring in. And while you're at it, you might try bathing in WATER instead of cologne. That only fools frogs.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Last Chance.
Last chance to weigh in on whether I should add something stupid to my already packed schedule. The schedule wherein I have less than one day off a week. The schedule wherein I don't have time to poo. The schedule wherein I wish I had more time to work so I could afford more heat later on. The schedule wherein I don't have enough time to both attend class and do the work for it. The schedule where it's as if the reply button on email doesn't exist.
I'd like to write something. Maybe. Mayyyyyyyybe. Maybe. Something in the area of what I used to write,long ago, when the world was young. Not as young as it was during my ill-advised poetry and long skirts period. I'd like to spend some time finding out if fiction doesn't make me throw up anymore. Not that it actually did- more like a cringing constipation more than anything else. And only while editing.
People have been telling me that I'm somewhat nonshitty at the writing thing. Pretty much since I left Bennington, I've been launched into this bizarre world where
1. Everyone thinks I'm stupid (Coworkers, certain professors customers, strangers, monkeys, cavemen...) and theorizes that I'm lazy.
2. Everyone thinks I can, maybe, write (Some professors, strangers, boyfriend, some customers, lemurs, pirates...) and theorizes that I'm lazy.
I fucking hate it when people think I'm stupid. I can deal with being plain. (Which, basically, I am.) I'm not pretty. But I get the benefits of being pretty that would be important to me...so I'm fine with it. But I'm so tired of being 'stupid'. My boss laughed at me the other day, for putting the iced tea in the fridge (actually, she did, and I saw her). "That's just the kind of thing she does!" Glee. Bonding. I die.
My coworkers don't understand, either. I can help them with essays for school, totally push the team around at Trivia night. They've heard about my grades...and yet, it's known that I'm a dim bulb. Totally flaky. Totally dumb. Doesn't get it. I'm so tired of being the comic relief. I can take some of the blame myself. A lot of the reason people think it's ok to openly admit that they think I'm stupid is because I do so myself. It's my schtick, as much as misogyny is. As much as self-deprecation used to be.
I wonder why I run myself down in public about the things that bother me most. When it was my looks, they were my running joke. Now, when it's my intellect, I put on the dunce act. It hurts me so much. I actually want to quit my job, find one I'd be good at. I love my coworkers, but I desperately need to get away from them. But since I can't do that, I'll have to find a way to do something I'm good at on the side, or at least work on something that clicks for me.
My work at school doesn't help. People who've gone to real colleges wouldn't understand. An A at Umass means virtually nothing. Praise on a paper means virtually nothing. It means competence, not excellence. It means a serviceable, grammatical, spell-checked series of paragraphs graded by an objective, accessible rubric and aligned with attendance and extra credit. I don't want to go on being extraordinarily good at being noone in particular.
So maybe I'll write something.
Stop me now.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
What the food in my fridge says about me (in bed)
Inspired by an article on Nerve .
In my fridge, right now, belonging to me:
Diet Coke (two liter, flat)
Eggs (one left of a six-pack, Eggland's Best)
Peanut Butter (Teddy)
Jam (Strawberry, smuckers, low sugar)
Hummus (real old- I should toss it out)
Frozen spinach (store brand, two packages)
Butter (store brand, one stick)
Mayonaise (Hellmans, in the upside-down bottle)
Nonfat Milk (Store Brand)
Chai Tea Concentrate (From work)
Sweet Potato (one)
First of all, just looking at that list, you can tell that this is a woman. And I am. And a young woman, probably. Definitely without a family. Definitely busy. All true.
Peanut Butter and jelly suggest that I'm childlike, innocent. Perhaps irresponsible. And I certainly am irresponsible. The long-left hummus certainly would support the hypothesis that I don't like to deal with the consequences of my actions. I leave leftovers way too long. There are many things in my fridge that will probably just spoil before they're eaten. I think I've never finished a package of eggs or quart of milk. I only bought eggs because I was baking brownies. I can't even make an omlet (or spell one). I certainly can't make scrambled eggs.
It also seems like I only eat things that can be spread on bread. That's just a phase I'm going through. I'm very contrary, actually. The more people tell me that giving up carbs, going lo-carb, cutting out bread, cutting out pasta and potatoes and all the wonderful beige, taupe, and tan foods that have sustained civilization for centuries is a good idea...the more I just want to gorge myself on sourdough, rye, pumpernickel. Anything sour. Anything soft. Anything with chew and flake and lovely crust. Sandwiches are just pretense for me, at this point. I'm in it for the bread. Bread and butter, bread and jam, bread with sliced tomatoes, bread with coffee, bread with tea...
I get into these things. It was pasta a while ago. Sandwiches (sammiches) before that. Pie always. I'm compulsive and obsessive, but I've got no sense of commitment. I can't commit to any particular brand of insanity. When I was four it was egg salad, which I haven't had since. I'm in general suspicious of those nominal salads- chicken, egg, ham...
I love the Teddy and Smuckers, though. The low-sugar (no artificial sweetener, either) strawberry jam is just like the inside of a poptart. Warm, on toast, it tastes like pie and sunshine. Cold it tastes like fruit. It's slightly sour, which is wonderful. The teddy is just greasy enough to make me feel like a child; it seems like the only females in this country who still know the sinless joy of buttery chins and slick fingers are under eight. I know I was. But fuck it. I likes m' senshul pleshures.
I use mayonaise for two things only: tuna sandwiches and refinishing furniture. I think that says enough. I'm so fucking crafty. And so finicky. I'm seriously difficult. Nobody knows the multitude of food rules I have. And food is such a small part of life. I won't eat a hawaiian pizza. Not for anyone. Not without pulling the toppings off, at least. It violates rules. I won't eat rice. I have to move the ham from one side of a McDonald's breakfast sandwich to the other side, before I can eat it. Rules.
I actually like nonfat milk more than regular. It tastes better to me. Some people say that this means I don't like milk. I also don't like water. So deal with that. I'm such a lazy drinker. I hate fluids. I get tired of drinking them. I'm into straight espresso, liquor instead of beer, and dehydration.
I used to eat a lot of pasta. Now I eat a lot of things I used to eat on pasta. It's not a low-carb thing, it's a lazy thing. It's also a set-my-bathrobe on fire thing. I eat dinner late. I cook dinner late. I do both of those things tired. Microwaving works well with my lifestyle. And I like spinach. I really do. I mostly put garlic and parmesan cheese and salt on it. Sometimes I mix it with canned tomatoes, which are the reason I don't have scurvy. The sweet potato goes along with the spinach. I can bake it when I get home from work. It's filling. I also put garlic, parmesan cheese, and butter on it. A lot of people put maple syrup and honey and shit on sweet potatoes. That's so fucking against my rules, I can't stand it.
So what does it say about me?
In my fridge, right now, belonging to me:
Diet Coke (two liter, flat)
Eggs (one left of a six-pack, Eggland's Best)
Peanut Butter (Teddy)
Jam (Strawberry, smuckers, low sugar)
Hummus (real old- I should toss it out)
Frozen spinach (store brand, two packages)
Butter (store brand, one stick)
Mayonaise (Hellmans, in the upside-down bottle)
Nonfat Milk (Store Brand)
Chai Tea Concentrate (From work)
Sweet Potato (one)
First of all, just looking at that list, you can tell that this is a woman. And I am. And a young woman, probably. Definitely without a family. Definitely busy. All true.
Peanut Butter and jelly suggest that I'm childlike, innocent. Perhaps irresponsible. And I certainly am irresponsible. The long-left hummus certainly would support the hypothesis that I don't like to deal with the consequences of my actions. I leave leftovers way too long. There are many things in my fridge that will probably just spoil before they're eaten. I think I've never finished a package of eggs or quart of milk. I only bought eggs because I was baking brownies. I can't even make an omlet (or spell one). I certainly can't make scrambled eggs.
It also seems like I only eat things that can be spread on bread. That's just a phase I'm going through. I'm very contrary, actually. The more people tell me that giving up carbs, going lo-carb, cutting out bread, cutting out pasta and potatoes and all the wonderful beige, taupe, and tan foods that have sustained civilization for centuries is a good idea...the more I just want to gorge myself on sourdough, rye, pumpernickel. Anything sour. Anything soft. Anything with chew and flake and lovely crust. Sandwiches are just pretense for me, at this point. I'm in it for the bread. Bread and butter, bread and jam, bread with sliced tomatoes, bread with coffee, bread with tea...
I get into these things. It was pasta a while ago. Sandwiches (sammiches) before that. Pie always. I'm compulsive and obsessive, but I've got no sense of commitment. I can't commit to any particular brand of insanity. When I was four it was egg salad, which I haven't had since. I'm in general suspicious of those nominal salads- chicken, egg, ham...
I love the Teddy and Smuckers, though. The low-sugar (no artificial sweetener, either) strawberry jam is just like the inside of a poptart. Warm, on toast, it tastes like pie and sunshine. Cold it tastes like fruit. It's slightly sour, which is wonderful. The teddy is just greasy enough to make me feel like a child; it seems like the only females in this country who still know the sinless joy of buttery chins and slick fingers are under eight. I know I was. But fuck it. I likes m' senshul pleshures.
I use mayonaise for two things only: tuna sandwiches and refinishing furniture. I think that says enough. I'm so fucking crafty. And so finicky. I'm seriously difficult. Nobody knows the multitude of food rules I have. And food is such a small part of life. I won't eat a hawaiian pizza. Not for anyone. Not without pulling the toppings off, at least. It violates rules. I won't eat rice. I have to move the ham from one side of a McDonald's breakfast sandwich to the other side, before I can eat it. Rules.
I actually like nonfat milk more than regular. It tastes better to me. Some people say that this means I don't like milk. I also don't like water. So deal with that. I'm such a lazy drinker. I hate fluids. I get tired of drinking them. I'm into straight espresso, liquor instead of beer, and dehydration.
I used to eat a lot of pasta. Now I eat a lot of things I used to eat on pasta. It's not a low-carb thing, it's a lazy thing. It's also a set-my-bathrobe on fire thing. I eat dinner late. I cook dinner late. I do both of those things tired. Microwaving works well with my lifestyle. And I like spinach. I really do. I mostly put garlic and parmesan cheese and salt on it. Sometimes I mix it with canned tomatoes, which are the reason I don't have scurvy. The sweet potato goes along with the spinach. I can bake it when I get home from work. It's filling. I also put garlic, parmesan cheese, and butter on it. A lot of people put maple syrup and honey and shit on sweet potatoes. That's so fucking against my rules, I can't stand it.
So what does it say about me?
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
A real feminist issue.
I got a pap smear today. I hate getting pap smears.
On the other side of the world, women wait in a hospital, some living in cardboard slums outside for months, waiting for an operation that will give them back their status as human beings.
Status they'd never have lost as even the poorest, most oppressed western woman. These women suffer from
Surgical repairs are mostly crude or absent, and efforts are underfunded. Occasionally, flesh from the labia majora is used to patch a hole in the vagina, and it continues to grow hair. Multiple operations are common. In some cases, full continence is never regained even after multiple surgeries. This problem is alleviated, a community at a a time, when routine obstetric care becomes both accessible and affordable.
We don't hear much about this. We hear much more about female genital mutilation. We hear about burkas. We hear about child marriage among the roma. We hear about the trafficking of young mac
edonian optimists to saudi arabian brothels. We hear about those things because they conform to our idea of the exotic other. They're sexier as social problems. They conform to our idea of the exotic, musky, smokey land beyond our mundane 9-5 lives. The first popular romance novel in this country was The White Sheik (later it was Fellini's first film- I've heard it's moderately worth watching). Social problems that seem to be, at least partly, romanticizable (totally not a word) are completely more digestable. Nobody really thinks it's hot to be made into an object, made into nothing but a collection of parts and values. It's enraging, nauseating, horrifying, to think that women are being cloistered within their own bodies; infibulated to ensure chastity; raped and broken for profit. But it's about sex. And we like that.Fistulas aren't about sex. They're about women's health. And they're about childbirth (something we, and I know I love to divorce from anything sexual). They're about piss and shit and fear of contamination. They're about political, economic, and pragmatic prioritization that neglects preventitive and urgent care, leaving some women with a chronic, sometimes debilitating condition that leaves them as lepers.
I hate getting a pap smear. I never want to have children. The latter is a choice; the former I can't prevent. I live in a country where gynecological care is nearly mandatory. I'm not trusted NOT to have children without a yearly check from a gynecologist. What absurd luxury. What ridiculous excess. What a world. A ceasarian section costs nine month's pay in Nigeria (Outreach programmes for obstetric fistulae. Kelly, J.. Journal of Obstetrics & Gynaecology, Mar2004, Vol. 24 Issue 2, p117, 2p-118) and my unneccesary yearly exam (that I bitch and bitch and bitch about) was free.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
I should be committed.
I went to the wedding of a friend this weekend. Here's an artist's conception of the difference
between my friend, getting married at 23, and how I would appear, getting married at 23.
Kristin is the Blonde.
Note the subtle differences in affect and expression. Note the attitude of peace and joy evidenced in the portrait of my friend, Kristin, on her wedding day. She wore her mother's wedding dress, carried chrysanthemums and sunflowers (a perfect combination for a late summer wedding). Now, if I'd been in her position, I'd have made some subtly different choices. Such as being so insanely overwhelmed by the concept of commitment that I become, instantly, afflicted with pyromania, trichotillomania, and excess salivary output. I would probably use the tasteful bouquet as tinder.
It's worth mentioning that Kristin is the one who taught me how to light a fire. She was a girl scout. She's a Fullbright scholar. She's bilingual and the most amazing optimist and idealist. She knits and sews and doesn't eat things that are coerced out of animals.
I love bacon and not fulfilling requirements. I may not have brushed my teeth today. I keep thinking I'll start a novel, but I'm afraid to commit to anything more than ten pages long. I lose sleep over my gym membership. I want a tattoo, but the thought of purchasing something that, ideally (barring regret and laser removal, or accident and amputation) I'll be wearing when I die, is just too morbid.
I don't want to get married at 23. I'm not sure I ever want to get married. I'm also resentful that I can't decide not to get married based on my insane fears and personal disdain for going out on any kind of emotional limb. I can't decide not to get married because I just can't get married. Twenty three isn't adult enough to get married around here. Life is just too expensive, and requires too much training. I can't pay my own car insurance, and have no serious hopes of being able to any time in the next couple years. I'm a student. Maybe soon I'll be a law student. That's years of schooling. That's years of extended adolescence. That's years of living the transient life of a bright nineteen-year-old, pizza and beer and coupons and classes.
I don't want to get married. But I want to have a life. I want to have an independent life. I want to support myself. I want to be an adult. It aches, a little, seeing my friend's adulthood affirmed. Her fornication is now fully societally endorsed. Her closest peer, her only backup, is someone she's chosen. I'm living in some sad gray area. I'm an undergrad, but so old to be one. I'm working a teenager's job for a teenager's salary. I'm in an alleged serious relationship, but haven't even had the endorsement of introducing that relationship to my family. My boyfriend hasn't introduced me to anyone, either. He's too old to bother, and I'm too young to feel comfortable. How am I supposed to introduce this person to my family, when I realize that the only reason he and I live even psuedo-equivalent lives is because of my family's generous bankrolling of my lifestyle?
I wouldn't be able to afford my apartment if my parents didn't help me with rent a little during the school year. I wouldn't be able to drive if my parents didn't give me car insurance for Christmas. I wouldn't have the privacy to disappear over the weekend to play grownups with this man, or even the means to get there, without my parents. I wouldn't have a hope of finishing college and starting a life without them. I'm a child allowed to play at being an adult, given the patient indulgence of my parents, and the benign, willful denial of my personally irresponsible circumstances by my boyfriend.
I want to be a real person, so desperately. This is getting Livejournal. Fuck it. I just wish I'd finished school at one go, at 21. I just wish I'd picked a path at 17 and stuck with it. I wish I had some of the optimism or independence or confidence or sheer BALLS that Kristin has.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
College: Waste of time or waste of money?
Salon.com has another article about higher education .
This one is about an anthropologist who decided to study american college students, as if they were pacific islanders or yanomamo or bushmen (apparently, you don't call them San anymore- that's bad). That is, ethnographically and inaccurately. Like Tom Wolf without focusing so much on felatio. Or the charming white suit.
I'm 23 and a college student. An undergraduate. This is my seventh or eighth year as a college student. If you do the math, that means I started college before I finished high school. I've been in college longer than I've been driving, fucking, working, or been able to make a decent pie. I've been in college longer than most american marriages last.
And I can say one thing to this anthropologist: As fourth-tier universities go, you've done a pretty good job- just stop being such an apologist.
I go to a fourth tier university. Most of my classmates shouldn't be attending university at all. This is evidence of two separate but related phenomena in our society:
1. Students aren't well prepared for college level work.
2. Students are pushed into college even when innapropriate for their goals and abilities.
College has become the new high school; you need a degree (or are told you need a degree) for any job that has a chance of offering a middle-class existance. This goes along with the increasing length of adolesence in the US. People are forced by obscene housing costs and underemployment to live with their parents into their mid to late twenties. There's no hope of marrying, having children, living alone, or any of the traditional markers of adulthood until the mid-thirties at least, so an extra four years of education doesn't seem like a significant delay.
Of course, it can be. And it's a huge expense for individuals and their families. And it's not appropriate for all individuals. Vocational education has been neglected in this country. If it were a dog, it would be bald, underfed, flea-bitten and left in a locked car with the windows closed in August. I went to a vocational high school. People could leave with an education that would prepare them for careers in auto body, plumbing, carpetry, nursing, early childhood education, metal work, and more. In a few years, my old high school will move to a new building, and the vocational facilities will not be rebuilt. Parents don't want to be told their child won't be preparing for college. Career education has become a dirty word. People think that it's somehow less than the other tracks; it's not. The days of slotting slower learners into practical classes are over. Parents don't want it, though. They want their children to go to college, no matter what.
So college has become the place to go. And with this influx of students who don't quite know what they want, who don't quite know what to do with a degree, who don't quite even know if they wanted to continue their education, are pushed into fourth-tier universities. They go for the experience, for the extended adolescence, because it's what is expected of them. They go because there is an impression that without college, they will be waiters and janitors and maids.
The kids who, five years ago, graduated my high school with a top-notch vocational education are solidly middle class now. They're in unions, they have a trade, and they're making more than three times what I do. And they're competant professionals with the same chance I have of a fulfilling life.
Their younger sisters and brothers in my classes at UMass aren't as lucky. The standard education obtained from my high school doesn't prepare you well for college. English focuses on the five-paragraph essay, useless after 12th grade. Science progresses from the outdated taxonomy of plants, fungus, animals, bacteria and viruses to a cursory hurtle through Newton's laws. History is a whirlwind of commitee designed curricula. Native Americans and their belief systems are stressed- whether the war of 1812 happened before or after the civil war is not touched upon. And these kids are in college. And they're the majority. And they're lost.
They want good grades but they don't know what they might mean. They're not planning on graduate school but have been given a vague impression that college is something they're meant to do well in. They want to do well on the tests but don't really understand what they're meant to get from the course. They grade-grub. They want an A for showing up and trying hard. They don't want to write too many papers. They want to connect with their professors, but don't really want to work too hard. They feel that doing well is something they are owed.
I've had people in my classes complain that they shouldn't have to write papers in a course that wasn't english or creative writing. It's not fair, they claim, to be graded on anything but knowledge of the subject. I've had people in my classes complain that there is no attendance grade- what do they get for showing up? I've had people complain that material is too hard, the reading is too long, and the lectures aren't interesting to them.
Students demand the questions for a test in advance; if not the questions, they want a study guide; they're positively up in arms if the professor doesn't post her notes online. Nobody takes their own notes anymore. People don't know how. They resent information presented in class that isn't found in the book. They aren't lazy. They aren't stupid. They're just not at college to learn. They're at college because everyone they've known has told them that a bachelors degree is a passport to a successful adult life.
Of course they resent their professors; they are the ones making it harder for them to get that degree. It must seem slightly sadistic to these bumbling undergrads when a professor requires deep thought and analysis rather than a 1,2,3 pass system.
But this is just the fourth-tier university students. This is just my current classmates. My old school was entirely different. My discontent is different. I've been at UMass about eighteen months, give or take. In that time I've taken many classes, in many disciplines. Not once have I been asked to write a paper more than five pages long. Not once have I been allowed to choose a topic for a paper myself. (No teacher at Bennington would DREAM of teaching a course without at least one free-topic paper). Not once has a teacher required insight or application of concepts in a paper. I feel my teachers have been somewhat beaten by their students. By the need for objectively graded exams for sticklers with litigious leanings. Beaten by the need to have a course that is both relevant to the brain-sparing sophomores and palatable to the burned-out seniors. Not once have I been able to give a teacher a full enough impression of my work in order to ask for a reccomendation.
I take courses at the Harvard Extension sometimes. I like the way that the profs there respond to their students. I like the way most of the students there seem to know how to be students. I like the way analytical writing can be treated like a joy rather than a chore. I like the way profs make personal comments on papers. I like the mutual respect evident in the classroom. I like the way it seems to matter that I wrote my paper, rather than someone else writing an equally good paper for the same assignment.
I miss being a real student.
This one is about an anthropologist who decided to study american college students, as if they were pacific islanders or yanomamo or bushmen (apparently, you don't call them San anymore- that's bad). That is, ethnographically and inaccurately. Like Tom Wolf without focusing so much on felatio. Or the charming white suit.
I'm 23 and a college student. An undergraduate. This is my seventh or eighth year as a college student. If you do the math, that means I started college before I finished high school. I've been in college longer than I've been driving, fucking, working, or been able to make a decent pie. I've been in college longer than most american marriages last.
And I can say one thing to this anthropologist: As fourth-tier universities go, you've done a pretty good job- just stop being such an apologist.
I go to a fourth tier university. Most of my classmates shouldn't be attending university at all. This is evidence of two separate but related phenomena in our society:
1. Students aren't well prepared for college level work.
2. Students are pushed into college even when innapropriate for their goals and abilities.
College has become the new high school; you need a degree (or are told you need a degree) for any job that has a chance of offering a middle-class existance. This goes along with the increasing length of adolesence in the US. People are forced by obscene housing costs and underemployment to live with their parents into their mid to late twenties. There's no hope of marrying, having children, living alone, or any of the traditional markers of adulthood until the mid-thirties at least, so an extra four years of education doesn't seem like a significant delay.
Of course, it can be. And it's a huge expense for individuals and their families. And it's not appropriate for all individuals. Vocational education has been neglected in this country. If it were a dog, it would be bald, underfed, flea-bitten and left in a locked car with the windows closed in August. I went to a vocational high school. People could leave with an education that would prepare them for careers in auto body, plumbing, carpetry, nursing, early childhood education, metal work, and more. In a few years, my old high school will move to a new building, and the vocational facilities will not be rebuilt. Parents don't want to be told their child won't be preparing for college. Career education has become a dirty word. People think that it's somehow less than the other tracks; it's not. The days of slotting slower learners into practical classes are over. Parents don't want it, though. They want their children to go to college, no matter what.
So college has become the place to go. And with this influx of students who don't quite know what they want, who don't quite know what to do with a degree, who don't quite even know if they wanted to continue their education, are pushed into fourth-tier universities. They go for the experience, for the extended adolescence, because it's what is expected of them. They go because there is an impression that without college, they will be waiters and janitors and maids.
The kids who, five years ago, graduated my high school with a top-notch vocational education are solidly middle class now. They're in unions, they have a trade, and they're making more than three times what I do. And they're competant professionals with the same chance I have of a fulfilling life.
Their younger sisters and brothers in my classes at UMass aren't as lucky. The standard education obtained from my high school doesn't prepare you well for college. English focuses on the five-paragraph essay, useless after 12th grade. Science progresses from the outdated taxonomy of plants, fungus, animals, bacteria and viruses to a cursory hurtle through Newton's laws. History is a whirlwind of commitee designed curricula. Native Americans and their belief systems are stressed- whether the war of 1812 happened before or after the civil war is not touched upon. And these kids are in college. And they're the majority. And they're lost.
They want good grades but they don't know what they might mean. They're not planning on graduate school but have been given a vague impression that college is something they're meant to do well in. They want to do well on the tests but don't really understand what they're meant to get from the course. They grade-grub. They want an A for showing up and trying hard. They don't want to write too many papers. They want to connect with their professors, but don't really want to work too hard. They feel that doing well is something they are owed.
I've had people in my classes complain that they shouldn't have to write papers in a course that wasn't english or creative writing. It's not fair, they claim, to be graded on anything but knowledge of the subject. I've had people in my classes complain that there is no attendance grade- what do they get for showing up? I've had people complain that material is too hard, the reading is too long, and the lectures aren't interesting to them.
Students demand the questions for a test in advance; if not the questions, they want a study guide; they're positively up in arms if the professor doesn't post her notes online. Nobody takes their own notes anymore. People don't know how. They resent information presented in class that isn't found in the book. They aren't lazy. They aren't stupid. They're just not at college to learn. They're at college because everyone they've known has told them that a bachelors degree is a passport to a successful adult life.
Of course they resent their professors; they are the ones making it harder for them to get that degree. It must seem slightly sadistic to these bumbling undergrads when a professor requires deep thought and analysis rather than a 1,2,3 pass system.
But this is just the fourth-tier university students. This is just my current classmates. My old school was entirely different. My discontent is different. I've been at UMass about eighteen months, give or take. In that time I've taken many classes, in many disciplines. Not once have I been asked to write a paper more than five pages long. Not once have I been allowed to choose a topic for a paper myself. (No teacher at Bennington would DREAM of teaching a course without at least one free-topic paper). Not once has a teacher required insight or application of concepts in a paper. I feel my teachers have been somewhat beaten by their students. By the need for objectively graded exams for sticklers with litigious leanings. Beaten by the need to have a course that is both relevant to the brain-sparing sophomores and palatable to the burned-out seniors. Not once have I been able to give a teacher a full enough impression of my work in order to ask for a reccomendation.
I take courses at the Harvard Extension sometimes. I like the way that the profs there respond to their students. I like the way most of the students there seem to know how to be students. I like the way analytical writing can be treated like a joy rather than a chore. I like the way profs make personal comments on papers. I like the mutual respect evident in the classroom. I like the way it seems to matter that I wrote my paper, rather than someone else writing an equally good paper for the same assignment.
I miss being a real student.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
I dreamed about zombies again last night.
So now I'm baking muffins.
I really like that dress. I think I need to wear lipstick, though. I missed a critical lipstick learning period in life, though, so I wonder if I'll never learn how to wear it, and what colors look good on me. It can't be that my coloring is too weird for lipstick. I'm pale. I need it. I just feel like a dork wearing it. I want to, but I can't.
Is anything less interesting than the above paragraph?
Monday, August 29, 2005
Bret Easton Ellis can fuck right off.
He went to my college. Not the one I'll be graduating from; the one I was kicked out of.
And his books aren't so great. Really, I promise they're not. I watched Rules of Attraction, as a movie. It kinda sucked. It was only worth it to watch someone overdose in a facsimile of a dorm I spent two years in. The campus didn't even look the same- that's where the producer fucked up. Bennington is a strange place. It looks strange. It does not look like a college. It doesn't look like anything. There's only one brick building on campus- all the dorms are white clapboard houses that look like farms or upscale new england group homes for addicts or neurotics. Which is basically what they are. I've read some of the books- they suck.
They're alright. But they're not so great. Not greater than anything I could write. Not greater than anything anyone with a snide sense of self-satisfaction and half a college education could write. This fucker, though, takes something anyone else could write, and smears himself, brands himself, markets himself all over it, until it's entirely covered in his goo. No one wants to read about rich kids debauching themselves with the tacit approval of a decadent college administration anymore. They've already READ it. And it's got Bret Easton Ellis all over it.
Which would be fine. If the books were great. But they're not. They're style. They're marketing. They're a product of the decade they were written in- all surface and coke and savage, glittery, acid materialism. Fuck him.
I'm 23, able to string together a half-decent sentence in english, and spent the requisite time at Bennington. Where's my 300,000 second novel advance? Where's my motherfucking FIRST novel, even?
Gay, folks. Gay. There's no opportunity in the world anymore. The eighties sucked half of it out, and the internet boom sucked the rest of it. There's no point in being 23 right now. Motherfuckers used it all up. Alex P Keaton fucking Dot Com fucking Real Estate fucking Social Security fuckers. I'm young, bright, hard working. And I'll be poor forever. Unless I go to law school. Which I probably will. But I'd rather write a shitty novel.
And his books aren't so great. Really, I promise they're not. I watched Rules of Attraction, as a movie. It kinda sucked. It was only worth it to watch someone overdose in a facsimile of a dorm I spent two years in. The campus didn't even look the same- that's where the producer fucked up. Bennington is a strange place. It looks strange. It does not look like a college. It doesn't look like anything. There's only one brick building on campus- all the dorms are white clapboard houses that look like farms or upscale new england group homes for addicts or neurotics. Which is basically what they are. I've read some of the books- they suck.
They're alright. But they're not so great. Not greater than anything I could write. Not greater than anything anyone with a snide sense of self-satisfaction and half a college education could write. This fucker, though, takes something anyone else could write, and smears himself, brands himself, markets himself all over it, until it's entirely covered in his goo. No one wants to read about rich kids debauching themselves with the tacit approval of a decadent college administration anymore. They've already READ it. And it's got Bret Easton Ellis all over it.
Which would be fine. If the books were great. But they're not. They're style. They're marketing. They're a product of the decade they were written in- all surface and coke and savage, glittery, acid materialism. Fuck him.
I'm 23, able to string together a half-decent sentence in english, and spent the requisite time at Bennington. Where's my 300,000 second novel advance? Where's my motherfucking FIRST novel, even?
Gay, folks. Gay. There's no opportunity in the world anymore. The eighties sucked half of it out, and the internet boom sucked the rest of it. There's no point in being 23 right now. Motherfuckers used it all up. Alex P Keaton fucking Dot Com fucking Real Estate fucking Social Security fuckers. I'm young, bright, hard working. And I'll be poor forever. Unless I go to law school. Which I probably will. But I'd rather write a shitty novel.
"We're happy to serve YOU!!"
My supermarket receipt claims that they were happy to serve me.
Me? Lil' ole' me?
fucking doubtful.
I'm not even happy to serve people and I'm a customer service whore. I would be much happier, sitting at home, fucking around on the internet, baking cookies, and in general living my life rather than doing my job. I assume that's true of the great majority of people alive and working.
This whole "happy to serve you" thing is fucking ubiquitous. It's everywhere. It's become the "have a nice day" of the 21st century. Why don't people say what they mean anymore? What's so bad about "We appreciate your business."
I guess it's because the whole world is now supposed to be a GFE. We all want kisses with our blowjobs; nobody wants to confront the fact that the person you're paying to do something for you is doing it because it's their job; and the reason the company they work for exists is not to make you feel good, but to make a profit.
I like my customers, by and large (Except one guy-this one guy can go to hell). They're mostly considerate, polite, pleasant people. I'd like them just as much, probably, if they weren't my customers. But I don't forget that they are customers. And they don't forget, either, judging by tips. But the line is blurred. Customers have favorite baristas, baristas have favorite customers. But my business is a lot different from the grocery store.
I don't know the woman who rang up my groceries. She did it well, and quickly, but there's no secret that she'd rather be somewhere else. That's what working in a grocery store is. It's not a vocation. It's a job. It's menial and tedious and there's no intellectual stimulation or cozy conversation with regular customers. She's not delighted to serve me; she's TIRED. She served me well, though. No mistakes. Fine service, really. But, delighted? eh. And that's fine.
So maybe we can stop pretending. Maybe we can stop asking people to pretend to be our friends for minimum wage. How lonely are we, as a society? How in desperate need of reassurance are we that anyone we give money to has to be 'happy to serve YOU!"? Can't competance ad professionalism replace chumminess? At least competance rings true, if you have it.
Again, I really like a lot of my customers. I treat them well, they treat me well; I had more customers than friends ask me how my grades came out at the end of last term. (3.85, if you're interested) I remember who is working on a book, whose children are young enough to exhaust them, who is studying to go back to school. We're acquaintances, by this point- but behind the counter remains behind the counter, and in front is in front. I'm always a little bit happier, a little bit less tired, a little bit more optimistic at work. And these customers respond, in their part, by tipping. They pay for their coffee; they tip for the service. It's a personal interaction, but a business context. I'm comfortable with that.
Can someone else be comfortable with that?
Me? Lil' ole' me?
fucking doubtful.
I'm not even happy to serve people and I'm a customer service whore. I would be much happier, sitting at home, fucking around on the internet, baking cookies, and in general living my life rather than doing my job. I assume that's true of the great majority of people alive and working.
This whole "happy to serve you" thing is fucking ubiquitous. It's everywhere. It's become the "have a nice day" of the 21st century. Why don't people say what they mean anymore? What's so bad about "We appreciate your business."
I guess it's because the whole world is now supposed to be a GFE. We all want kisses with our blowjobs; nobody wants to confront the fact that the person you're paying to do something for you is doing it because it's their job; and the reason the company they work for exists is not to make you feel good, but to make a profit.
I like my customers, by and large (Except one guy-this one guy can go to hell). They're mostly considerate, polite, pleasant people. I'd like them just as much, probably, if they weren't my customers. But I don't forget that they are customers. And they don't forget, either, judging by tips. But the line is blurred. Customers have favorite baristas, baristas have favorite customers. But my business is a lot different from the grocery store.
I don't know the woman who rang up my groceries. She did it well, and quickly, but there's no secret that she'd rather be somewhere else. That's what working in a grocery store is. It's not a vocation. It's a job. It's menial and tedious and there's no intellectual stimulation or cozy conversation with regular customers. She's not delighted to serve me; she's TIRED. She served me well, though. No mistakes. Fine service, really. But, delighted? eh. And that's fine.
So maybe we can stop pretending. Maybe we can stop asking people to pretend to be our friends for minimum wage. How lonely are we, as a society? How in desperate need of reassurance are we that anyone we give money to has to be 'happy to serve YOU!"? Can't competance ad professionalism replace chumminess? At least competance rings true, if you have it.
Again, I really like a lot of my customers. I treat them well, they treat me well; I had more customers than friends ask me how my grades came out at the end of last term. (3.85, if you're interested) I remember who is working on a book, whose children are young enough to exhaust them, who is studying to go back to school. We're acquaintances, by this point- but behind the counter remains behind the counter, and in front is in front. I'm always a little bit happier, a little bit less tired, a little bit more optimistic at work. And these customers respond, in their part, by tipping. They pay for their coffee; they tip for the service. It's a personal interaction, but a business context. I'm comfortable with that.
Can someone else be comfortable with that?
Friday, August 26, 2005
Zombies.
I just looked back at recent blog entries. Too many women's issues. Too much body-image related crap. For things I rarely think about, they make a curious preponderance of my internet spoo.
So here's something really important to me, that I'm pretty concerned about.
I dream about zombies. A lot. More than anyone really should. I dream about zombies more than I dream about my boyfriend. Way more than I dream about sex. More than I dream about flying or falling or losing teeth. More than I dream about anything that some coke-addicted austrian could file under symbols of an Electra complex.
That's not my concern, though. I don't mind dreaming about zombies. They're usually not nightmares, even though, I have to admit, sometimes I think about zombies when I'm awake, and it scares me. Recently, though, right when I got back from vacation, I had a nightmare about zombies. I dreamed they took over my college, at commencement. I dreamed my whole family was there to watch me graduate, and the zombies came. The dream was ridiculously sped up from there on in; scenes were cut with really scary montages that indicated the passage of time. (Note to H.B- watch slightly less TV). We tried to flee to an abandoned lighthouse, up a muddy hill, to no avail. After another really disorienting montage, we were hiding in the basement of a mall in the UK (a place I've never been) that was beset with zombies and zombie dogs. It was upsetting, and I woke up sweating and scared. I was actually worried about the inner door not being locked; what if my neighbors were zombified? I wound up flipping through the channels on my TV, trying to find something to distract me at three am.
What upsets me is not the nightmare (it's a relief to have nightmares, I normally have guiltmares), nor the zombies, but that it was a nightmare about zombies. When I dream about zombies, it's like I'm in on the joke. They're normally semi-lucid dreams, family not involved, where I go around fleeing zombies and gathering survivors and having a great time. Just like the movies, but really pleasant. And well-lit.
I'm really not used to being afraid of zombies when I'm asleep. When I'm awake, like this, I normally think too much about zombies and scare myself. I'm doing it right now. It's worst when I'm opening at work, because everybody knows, in a traditional zombie movie, you first see them the morning of. Like how you know you have a problem with mice. So when I go to work, right around dawn, in the strange green light that (when I was young and vital, not old and decrepit like now) I was used to seeing from the other side, it's really eerie. The light from my back porch doesn't reach to my car, and when I'm parked out front, there's not enough light to keep the hallway from being pitch black (my upstairs neighbors keep stealing our bulb). I should be more scared of skunks and raccoons in the first case and stumbling over my bike in the second, but...the primate brain fears what it fears.
My customers don't always help my fears that the zombies are coming. People who need coffee at five thirty in the morning, and haven't had coffee at five thirty in the morning, do seem a lot like zombies. One morning I was starting to make some ice tea for the day when I looked out the window, and people were beginning to stagger towards the building. When I looked up again, there were twice as many. They were distributed, lit, and clothed perfectly for a zombie movie.
Except there was no obligitory zombie in a bridal gown. What's up with the bride zombie? She's always there. Was she buried in her wedding gown and rose, or gotten during the reception, late the night before, or did she decide, undead or no undead, she's having her wedding and then get turned?
So here's something really important to me, that I'm pretty concerned about.
I dream about zombies. A lot. More than anyone really should. I dream about zombies more than I dream about my boyfriend. Way more than I dream about sex. More than I dream about flying or falling or losing teeth. More than I dream about anything that some coke-addicted austrian could file under symbols of an Electra complex.
That's not my concern, though. I don't mind dreaming about zombies. They're usually not nightmares, even though, I have to admit, sometimes I think about zombies when I'm awake, and it scares me. Recently, though, right when I got back from vacation, I had a nightmare about zombies. I dreamed they took over my college, at commencement. I dreamed my whole family was there to watch me graduate, and the zombies came. The dream was ridiculously sped up from there on in; scenes were cut with really scary montages that indicated the passage of time. (Note to H.B- watch slightly less TV). We tried to flee to an abandoned lighthouse, up a muddy hill, to no avail. After another really disorienting montage, we were hiding in the basement of a mall in the UK (a place I've never been) that was beset with zombies and zombie dogs. It was upsetting, and I woke up sweating and scared. I was actually worried about the inner door not being locked; what if my neighbors were zombified? I wound up flipping through the channels on my TV, trying to find something to distract me at three am.
What upsets me is not the nightmare (it's a relief to have nightmares, I normally have guiltmares), nor the zombies, but that it was a nightmare about zombies. When I dream about zombies, it's like I'm in on the joke. They're normally semi-lucid dreams, family not involved, where I go around fleeing zombies and gathering survivors and having a great time. Just like the movies, but really pleasant. And well-lit.
I'm really not used to being afraid of zombies when I'm asleep. When I'm awake, like this, I normally think too much about zombies and scare myself. I'm doing it right now. It's worst when I'm opening at work, because everybody knows, in a traditional zombie movie, you first see them the morning of. Like how you know you have a problem with mice. So when I go to work, right around dawn, in the strange green light that (when I was young and vital, not old and decrepit like now) I was used to seeing from the other side, it's really eerie. The light from my back porch doesn't reach to my car, and when I'm parked out front, there's not enough light to keep the hallway from being pitch black (my upstairs neighbors keep stealing our bulb). I should be more scared of skunks and raccoons in the first case and stumbling over my bike in the second, but...the primate brain fears what it fears.
My customers don't always help my fears that the zombies are coming. People who need coffee at five thirty in the morning, and haven't had coffee at five thirty in the morning, do seem a lot like zombies. One morning I was starting to make some ice tea for the day when I looked out the window, and people were beginning to stagger towards the building. When I looked up again, there were twice as many. They were distributed, lit, and clothed perfectly for a zombie movie.
Except there was no obligitory zombie in a bridal gown. What's up with the bride zombie? She's always there. Was she buried in her wedding gown and rose, or gotten during the reception, late the night before, or did she decide, undead or no undead, she's having her wedding and then get turned?
Good Shows
Starved and Weeds.
Finally, after four hundred years or something ridiculous that I don't have the critical thinking to process right now, we're doing tragicomic theater again. And this time, they've got women playing women instead of the director's ephebic catamites playing women. Come to think of it, though, I haven't seen Mary Louise Parker's box, and her breasts are kind of small. I will probably delete that sentence and add some commas to the one above it in the morning. Right now, though, I'm over-caff'd, and (suddenly using commas to excess)not terribly coherent.
Why you should watch Starved: (Even if you don't have a sense of humor) It's the first honest portrayal of eating disorders I've ever seen in my life. I've lived with people with eating disorders; first my sister, and then a multitude of fainting modern dancers, actresses, and one philosophy student in college. I've been virtually simmered in people who've written to Crest demanding to know the caloric content of toothpaste, just in case.
The characters on Starved are completely unsympathetic, worthless, ego-centric, fat-phobic choads. And it's delightful. Since Seinfeld, we've known that assholes are good entertainment. Any protagonist who cares about the big things too little and the little things too much is one who will go far in the current cultural milieu, where nobody cares about anything.
Starved just gets it right. It's on target. It's genuine, even though the characters themselves are anything but. They're wildean in their insincerity.
And if you do have a sense of humor, it's funny. It's hilarious. The male characters weigh their dicks on a scale. The female character responds, not with horror, but with accusations of their homosexuality. The whole exchange rings more true than anything I've seen on network television.
And Weeds is just pretty great, too.
Finally, after four hundred years or something ridiculous that I don't have the critical thinking to process right now, we're doing tragicomic theater again. And this time, they've got women playing women instead of the director's ephebic catamites playing women. Come to think of it, though, I haven't seen Mary Louise Parker's box, and her breasts are kind of small. I will probably delete that sentence and add some commas to the one above it in the morning. Right now, though, I'm over-caff'd, and (suddenly using commas to excess)not terribly coherent.
Why you should watch Starved: (Even if you don't have a sense of humor) It's the first honest portrayal of eating disorders I've ever seen in my life. I've lived with people with eating disorders; first my sister, and then a multitude of fainting modern dancers, actresses, and one philosophy student in college. I've been virtually simmered in people who've written to Crest demanding to know the caloric content of toothpaste, just in case.
The characters on Starved are completely unsympathetic, worthless, ego-centric, fat-phobic choads. And it's delightful. Since Seinfeld, we've known that assholes are good entertainment. Any protagonist who cares about the big things too little and the little things too much is one who will go far in the current cultural milieu, where nobody cares about anything.
Starved just gets it right. It's on target. It's genuine, even though the characters themselves are anything but. They're wildean in their insincerity.
And if you do have a sense of humor, it's funny. It's hilarious. The male characters weigh their dicks on a scale. The female character responds, not with horror, but with accusations of their homosexuality. The whole exchange rings more true than anything I've seen on network television.
And Weeds is just pretty great, too.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Big Booty Bitches...
So nike has this new ad campaign about bodily imperfections. The jist of it is that it's alright to not have the body of a supermodel, as long as you have the body of an athlete. Having back is fine- it just has to be the product of genes and fitness centers, rather than genes and nougatty centers.
This is the problem with being a woman in today's society. It's not that the beauty standards are imposed arbitrarily, elevating one body type above all others; it's that society requires alteration and asceticism as virtue. We abhor indulgence; we prefer consumption.
Products lead to beauty. Dove hocks cellulite cream, promising that with their regime, any body can be made acceptable. Nike hocks sports bras and shoes, promising that the products will change unauthorized curves, those from sensual experiences and refusals of self-denial, into acceptable ones. No one will be held accountable for an ass put through the ringer in spin class three times a week. Thighs rounded from marathon running, instead of shameless ingestion of products containing carbohydrates and butterfat in wanton proportions, can be accepted in our puritanical society.
Fat isn't even the beginning of it, and people pretend that it is. If fat were the only enemy of womankind,the only betrayer of the true saggy, squashy, hairy, smelly, flaky, secret that women are organic creatures; then womens magazines would masquerade as fitness magazines same as men's do. But fat isn't all. Women also need to be hairless. I promise, we don't start out that way. Does this mean that we'll soon have Nair and Surgicream ads, with women singing the praises of their stiff upper lips?
"I've got full lips. I'm proud of them. I never stop running my mouth" A greek, italian or slavic woman purrs at the camera.
Announcer's voice "Nothing goes with outspoken feminism like a hairless upper lip: Nair"
Actually, that's a pretty clumsy and a shitty metaphor. Of course, the issue remains that beauty is becoming more and more the sum of purchased products, applied faithfully, to banish any momentary bodily indiscretions (flaky skin, oily skin, red marks, under-eye circles, stray hairs, flat hair, frizzy hair, cellulite, vaginal odor, bloating, off-white teeth, bushy eyebrows, chapped lips) only noticed by other women. And it's that fact that remains mostly ignored. These girl-power ads are all subterfuge. It's not some cultural imperitive that women do these things to be sexually attractive to men; women buy these products to armor themselves against the criticism of other women. Women buy these products, not to achieve beauty (which these ads nearly acknowledge- the women in them claim to already feel beautiful), but to achieve the impression of normal (flawless) femininity.
This is the problem with being a woman in today's society. It's not that the beauty standards are imposed arbitrarily, elevating one body type above all others; it's that society requires alteration and asceticism as virtue. We abhor indulgence; we prefer consumption.
Products lead to beauty. Dove hocks cellulite cream, promising that with their regime, any body can be made acceptable. Nike hocks sports bras and shoes, promising that the products will change unauthorized curves, those from sensual experiences and refusals of self-denial, into acceptable ones. No one will be held accountable for an ass put through the ringer in spin class three times a week. Thighs rounded from marathon running, instead of shameless ingestion of products containing carbohydrates and butterfat in wanton proportions, can be accepted in our puritanical society.
Fat isn't even the beginning of it, and people pretend that it is. If fat were the only enemy of womankind,the only betrayer of the true saggy, squashy, hairy, smelly, flaky, secret that women are organic creatures; then womens magazines would masquerade as fitness magazines same as men's do. But fat isn't all. Women also need to be hairless. I promise, we don't start out that way. Does this mean that we'll soon have Nair and Surgicream ads, with women singing the praises of their stiff upper lips?
"I've got full lips. I'm proud of them. I never stop running my mouth" A greek, italian or slavic woman purrs at the camera.
Announcer's voice "Nothing goes with outspoken feminism like a hairless upper lip: Nair"
Actually, that's a pretty clumsy and a shitty metaphor. Of course, the issue remains that beauty is becoming more and more the sum of purchased products, applied faithfully, to banish any momentary bodily indiscretions (flaky skin, oily skin, red marks, under-eye circles, stray hairs, flat hair, frizzy hair, cellulite, vaginal odor, bloating, off-white teeth, bushy eyebrows, chapped lips) only noticed by other women. And it's that fact that remains mostly ignored. These girl-power ads are all subterfuge. It's not some cultural imperitive that women do these things to be sexually attractive to men; women buy these products to armor themselves against the criticism of other women. Women buy these products, not to achieve beauty (which these ads nearly acknowledge- the women in them claim to already feel beautiful), but to achieve the impression of normal (flawless) femininity.
Goddamned Yuppie Bitch.
This cunt is what's ruining Boston.
This cunt is what's fucking up the suburbs, too.
This cunt is what's making it impossible for people my age to become adults.
This cunt is a motherfucking real estate speculator. She buys a property, and, as the article so cutely puts it "flips" it. She's soooo anxious about getting in while the market is still "hot".
What's this cunt really doing?
This cunt is taking affordable housing stock, valuable multi-family rental property that communities won't zone for anymore (rentals being oh-so-gauche, oh-so-unpleasant! and the ELEMENT they bring in! Why, they're barely upper-middle-class at all!) adding cheap little touches like countertops and shiny woodwork, condoing it, and taking all the profit back to her tony little McMansion.
This cunt is why I live in a one-bedroom, with a roommate, and consider myself lucky for the privelege. This is why I don't KNOW anyone my age, except for my roommate, who doesn't live with their parents. Well, this cunt, and a bunch of other cunts with other tricks up their sleeves.
How about working mommy cunts, who take all their earnings and use them in bidding wars to drive up housing prices in school districts where little Shamison will get the opportunities she needs to play lacrosse and learn french and score well on the MCAS and never meet any black people.
How about snob zoning cunts, who love to cut up parcels that can only be used for sprawling 5-bed, 4-bath, 3 motherfucking car garage MANOR HOUSES, and refuse to zone any more multi-family housing?
How about all the cunts who condo to keep out college students, all the college student cunts whose mommies and daddies pay absolutely anything in rent to save on room and board, thus pushing the rental market even higher?
How about cunty cities that sleeze out of 40B requirements? How about cunty 40B requirements that don't actually create any affordable housing?
But this cunt...oooooo. This cunt. And this paper. Boston Globe, theoretically a liberal, thoughtful paper, read by nearly everyone in the city, shamelessly congratulating this cunt on getting hers. Yes, she certainly will turn a profit on this. But where does the profit come from? Money always comes from somewhere, cunt. It comes from everyone below her.
It comes from the shameless shlubs who buy the condo, who'd rather buy a house but can't afford it. It comes from the former tenants she probably pushed out of their insufficiently tasteful, but probably sufficiently affordable housing. It comes from everyone who can't find a place to live in a city preyed on by goddamned yuppie cunt speculators.
Lady, listen to me. I don't care that you want to make money. We all want to make money. Some day, I'd like to have some. I'll touch it and stroke it and put it under my pillow. And sure, you like playing the real estate game. And really, the people who buy your condos will get something out of the deal. Maybe they'll even be worthless yuppies like yourself. But there is a way to take advantage of like-minded yuppie trash without degrading affordable housing stock. Sure, it's a little HARDER, and it's a little more TECHNICAL (math make mommies head hurt?), but it doesn't take advantage of a situation that is currently strangling everyone making less than 60,000 a year. See, lady, what you do, is you find some shitty old mill buildings. Then you pump your stainless-steel and knockoff corian into there like it was going out of style (and it will). You make loft condos. You create new housing stock for your worthless, hyperpriveleged n-riche brethren. Draw them into the artful former ghetto.
And leave the falling down-triple deckers to us poor people, cunt.
This cunt is what's fucking up the suburbs, too.
This cunt is what's making it impossible for people my age to become adults.
This cunt is a motherfucking real estate speculator. She buys a property, and, as the article so cutely puts it "flips" it. She's soooo anxious about getting in while the market is still "hot".
What's this cunt really doing?
This cunt is taking affordable housing stock, valuable multi-family rental property that communities won't zone for anymore (rentals being oh-so-gauche, oh-so-unpleasant! and the ELEMENT they bring in! Why, they're barely upper-middle-class at all!) adding cheap little touches like countertops and shiny woodwork, condoing it, and taking all the profit back to her tony little McMansion.
This cunt is why I live in a one-bedroom, with a roommate, and consider myself lucky for the privelege. This is why I don't KNOW anyone my age, except for my roommate, who doesn't live with their parents. Well, this cunt, and a bunch of other cunts with other tricks up their sleeves.
How about working mommy cunts, who take all their earnings and use them in bidding wars to drive up housing prices in school districts where little Shamison will get the opportunities she needs to play lacrosse and learn french and score well on the MCAS and never meet any black people.
How about snob zoning cunts, who love to cut up parcels that can only be used for sprawling 5-bed, 4-bath, 3 motherfucking car garage MANOR HOUSES, and refuse to zone any more multi-family housing?
How about all the cunts who condo to keep out college students, all the college student cunts whose mommies and daddies pay absolutely anything in rent to save on room and board, thus pushing the rental market even higher?
How about cunty cities that sleeze out of 40B requirements? How about cunty 40B requirements that don't actually create any affordable housing?
But this cunt...oooooo. This cunt. And this paper. Boston Globe, theoretically a liberal, thoughtful paper, read by nearly everyone in the city, shamelessly congratulating this cunt on getting hers. Yes, she certainly will turn a profit on this. But where does the profit come from? Money always comes from somewhere, cunt. It comes from everyone below her.
It comes from the shameless shlubs who buy the condo, who'd rather buy a house but can't afford it. It comes from the former tenants she probably pushed out of their insufficiently tasteful, but probably sufficiently affordable housing. It comes from everyone who can't find a place to live in a city preyed on by goddamned yuppie cunt speculators.
Lady, listen to me. I don't care that you want to make money. We all want to make money. Some day, I'd like to have some. I'll touch it and stroke it and put it under my pillow. And sure, you like playing the real estate game. And really, the people who buy your condos will get something out of the deal. Maybe they'll even be worthless yuppies like yourself. But there is a way to take advantage of like-minded yuppie trash without degrading affordable housing stock. Sure, it's a little HARDER, and it's a little more TECHNICAL (math make mommies head hurt?), but it doesn't take advantage of a situation that is currently strangling everyone making less than 60,000 a year. See, lady, what you do, is you find some shitty old mill buildings. Then you pump your stainless-steel and knockoff corian into there like it was going out of style (and it will). You make loft condos. You create new housing stock for your worthless, hyperpriveleged n-riche brethren. Draw them into the artful former ghetto.
And leave the falling down-triple deckers to us poor people, cunt.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Pictures soon.
Yesterday, I crawled through a 40 foot colon.
I think that's great, for two reasons.
1. Colon cancer awareness is important. Breast cancer gets so much attention these days, with te pink ribbons and celebrity endorsements. You can buy breast cancer awareness mints, breast cancer awareness scarves, breast cancer awareness bathing suits- I'm sure, soon, there will be a breast cancer edition ford explorer. It will be candy pink and have one lumpy tire. If you can't tell the dealer which tire was lumpy at the 6,000 mile check, you lose both front tires. That'll show you.
But there is no brown ribbon for colon cancer. There's no video you can order for free from Lifetime television that encourages you notice changes in your stool and get a colonoscopy when neccessary. Colon cancer just isn't sexy. It's not marketable. Any celebrity that encourages you to get a professional to insert costly electronics into your ass soon finds themselves coasting onto the b-list. (Sorry, Katie Couric- you tried).
2. I crawled through a giant DISEASED colon.
It was at the Mall of Warwick, in Rhode Island. Also in attendance was Eneman. Yes, Eneman. Eneman is the real, actual, not tongue-in-cheek, sincere, genuine, Tobey McGuire earnest, Ronald McDonald charismatic, mascot of Fleet. Eneman is an over-six foot, smiling enema. He wears a cape and would LOVE to shake your hand. (I promise, pictures as SOON as I develop them) He was also giving out small stuffed replicas of himself.
At the same time, at the mall, I saw another memorable celebrity. Miss Rhode Island.
More later.
I think that's great, for two reasons.
1. Colon cancer awareness is important. Breast cancer gets so much attention these days, with te pink ribbons and celebrity endorsements. You can buy breast cancer awareness mints, breast cancer awareness scarves, breast cancer awareness bathing suits- I'm sure, soon, there will be a breast cancer edition ford explorer. It will be candy pink and have one lumpy tire. If you can't tell the dealer which tire was lumpy at the 6,000 mile check, you lose both front tires. That'll show you.
But there is no brown ribbon for colon cancer. There's no video you can order for free from Lifetime television that encourages you notice changes in your stool and get a colonoscopy when neccessary. Colon cancer just isn't sexy. It's not marketable. Any celebrity that encourages you to get a professional to insert costly electronics into your ass soon finds themselves coasting onto the b-list. (Sorry, Katie Couric- you tried).
2. I crawled through a giant DISEASED colon.
It was at the Mall of Warwick, in Rhode Island. Also in attendance was Eneman. Yes, Eneman. Eneman is the real, actual, not tongue-in-cheek, sincere, genuine, Tobey McGuire earnest, Ronald McDonald charismatic, mascot of Fleet. Eneman is an over-six foot, smiling enema. He wears a cape and would LOVE to shake your hand. (I promise, pictures as SOON as I develop them) He was also giving out small stuffed replicas of himself.
At the same time, at the mall, I saw another memorable celebrity. Miss Rhode Island.
More later.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
You are my customer
This week, I've worked five eight-hour shifts in a row. Only one of them has started after 6am and ended before 10pm. I can make 9,000 different variations on coffee, with or without milk, sugar, milk substitutes, sugar substitutes, steaming, foaming, icing, blending, pressing, straining- in addition to several tea and juice drinks. Every ten minutes, every surface that touches either food, drink, or my hands, is wiped down with dilute bleach, shined, and neatened. We also sell something like thirty different whole-bean coffees. I can tell you the origin, processing, and characteristics of each bean.
I can lead you through coffee like its wine. I can tell you why you don't like what you don't like, and why you like what you do. I'm always happy to see you, and remember your name, your order, your husband's order. Your whole office's order. I can take your order in several languages, I can make a drink your picky five-year-old won't know isn't fruit punch. I'll agree with your problems and flirt with your one-eyed grandpa.
I can do all of this, and you'll still think I'm mindless. You'll be surprised to hear that I'm a college student. When I get your joke about madeleine cookies and marcel proust, you'll be shocked. You'll be more shocked to hear that this isn't all I can do. I've worked in offices. I've worked in marketing, and I've done the admin thing. I don't LIKE it. I've worked in theater. And I don't LIKE it. I'm tired. I don't want to do a job sitting down, doing not much. I don't want to cater to egos. I don't want to defer to someone on everything, or spend my time falsifying time cards and fucking around on the internet.
There is a great divide in this country, though. The division is between people who can wear their own clothes to work, and people who can't. I can't. I have a dress code to follow. When I have my work clothes on, I am no longer myself- college student, sarcastic, funny, bright, emotional, cynical, a dilletante of the third type, liable to be rude, angry, forgetful, superficial, mopey, and shy. I am none of those things- I am polite and considerate. I am your barista. You can tell, because, for your comfort, I dress differently from you. I belong to the milk steaming caste, suburban order.
I wear colors designated for me by others, under an apron that I don't own. I wear shirts I would otherwise not own, light makeup that slips down my face in the steam, and small, tasteful earrings. This is all to delineate my separation from you. Because I do not type for a living, and theoretically don't think for a living, I am marked by my knit, collared shirt. I wander through stores and gawk at the clothes it would suddenly be impractical for me to purchase. How can a person possibly own JEANS? Low-cut tank tops? Flippy skirts and open-toed shoes? I lust after wrap dresses, uneven hemlines, jewel tones, polka-dots, sweetheart necklines, kitten heels, jeans and tees and sneakers. Cords. Clothes from the salvation army and savers. I want to wear my red-brocade smoking jacket. I want to slip it on over a threadbare teeshirt and well-fitting jeans. And I don't want to have to look forward to dressing myself as myself all week.
I bought some clothes yesterday. I spent a hundred dollars. A hundred dollars is a LOT of money for me. A lot. I don't make a thousand dollars a month. I didn't buy one item I could wear to work. I bought a knit dress, mid-calf length, with an old-couch wedgewoody blue print. I bought a floaty hippy dress that would look lovely with a denim jacket or my vintage tweed blazer. I bought a nice cap-sleeve dress, brown, with a teensy print, and a beige low-cut top. I also bought a sexy strapless bra. I am wracked with guilt over these purchase, not only did I spend too much money; I feel like I can't live up to them. I can't anticipate more than two days off a week.
People come into my cafe in anything. Men in suits, women in sundresses and gym clothes, heels, sneakers...anything. High school girls in short skirts and uniforms, college students in uniformly shrunken and ironic tee0shirts.. They come in the middle of the day, late at night- any time. I marvel at these people. I wonder what it would be like to run my own day, to wear my own clothes, to talk like myself for just a moment.
I can lead you through coffee like its wine. I can tell you why you don't like what you don't like, and why you like what you do. I'm always happy to see you, and remember your name, your order, your husband's order. Your whole office's order. I can take your order in several languages, I can make a drink your picky five-year-old won't know isn't fruit punch. I'll agree with your problems and flirt with your one-eyed grandpa.
I can do all of this, and you'll still think I'm mindless. You'll be surprised to hear that I'm a college student. When I get your joke about madeleine cookies and marcel proust, you'll be shocked. You'll be more shocked to hear that this isn't all I can do. I've worked in offices. I've worked in marketing, and I've done the admin thing. I don't LIKE it. I've worked in theater. And I don't LIKE it. I'm tired. I don't want to do a job sitting down, doing not much. I don't want to cater to egos. I don't want to defer to someone on everything, or spend my time falsifying time cards and fucking around on the internet.
There is a great divide in this country, though. The division is between people who can wear their own clothes to work, and people who can't. I can't. I have a dress code to follow. When I have my work clothes on, I am no longer myself- college student, sarcastic, funny, bright, emotional, cynical, a dilletante of the third type, liable to be rude, angry, forgetful, superficial, mopey, and shy. I am none of those things- I am polite and considerate. I am your barista. You can tell, because, for your comfort, I dress differently from you. I belong to the milk steaming caste, suburban order.
I wear colors designated for me by others, under an apron that I don't own. I wear shirts I would otherwise not own, light makeup that slips down my face in the steam, and small, tasteful earrings. This is all to delineate my separation from you. Because I do not type for a living, and theoretically don't think for a living, I am marked by my knit, collared shirt. I wander through stores and gawk at the clothes it would suddenly be impractical for me to purchase. How can a person possibly own JEANS? Low-cut tank tops? Flippy skirts and open-toed shoes? I lust after wrap dresses, uneven hemlines, jewel tones, polka-dots, sweetheart necklines, kitten heels, jeans and tees and sneakers. Cords. Clothes from the salvation army and savers. I want to wear my red-brocade smoking jacket. I want to slip it on over a threadbare teeshirt and well-fitting jeans. And I don't want to have to look forward to dressing myself as myself all week.
I bought some clothes yesterday. I spent a hundred dollars. A hundred dollars is a LOT of money for me. A lot. I don't make a thousand dollars a month. I didn't buy one item I could wear to work. I bought a knit dress, mid-calf length, with an old-couch wedgewoody blue print. I bought a floaty hippy dress that would look lovely with a denim jacket or my vintage tweed blazer. I bought a nice cap-sleeve dress, brown, with a teensy print, and a beige low-cut top. I also bought a sexy strapless bra. I am wracked with guilt over these purchase, not only did I spend too much money; I feel like I can't live up to them. I can't anticipate more than two days off a week.
People come into my cafe in anything. Men in suits, women in sundresses and gym clothes, heels, sneakers...anything. High school girls in short skirts and uniforms, college students in uniformly shrunken and ironic tee0shirts.. They come in the middle of the day, late at night- any time. I marvel at these people. I wonder what it would be like to run my own day, to wear my own clothes, to talk like myself for just a moment.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
I'm very happy.
This is a terrible, terrible picture of me. I'm so happy in it, though. I like it. Fuck all yall.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Antoine is gone.
Antoine Walker is now officially not a Celtic.
He's on the Miami Heat.
With Shaq. And that other guy. And there's absolutely no one on that team I can think of him becoming friends with, eating pie with, maybe taking a hot, soapy shower with.
He will be missed.
Here are the two major predicted effects this will have on my life. (Other than sadness, betrayal, muttered threats against Danny Ainge, worries about Paul Pierce, and more frequent dreams about basketball than zombies for a while)
1. The New Jersey Nets (otherwise known as the devil) will not ascend to the NBA finals for a few years. The strengthened Heat will keep the evil men from the Meadowlands down for a while, with the help of the valiant Mr. Walker. (and not entirely unaided by the stalled trade for Shareef) This is a good thing. I am overcome by bittersweet feelings of abandonment and hope. Maybe I'll listen to some Simon and Garfunkle or something.
2. I will, in a gesture of deep sadness, eat three pounds of M&M's. In one day. People have told me that this is impossible. People have advised me not to even try. I think these nay-sayers are simply confusing the meanings of 'can't' and 'shouldn't'. I certainly SHOULDN'T eat three pounds of M&M's, but I certainly CAN.
He's on the Miami Heat.
With Shaq. And that other guy. And there's absolutely no one on that team I can think of him becoming friends with, eating pie with, maybe taking a hot, soapy shower with.
He will be missed.
Here are the two major predicted effects this will have on my life. (Other than sadness, betrayal, muttered threats against Danny Ainge, worries about Paul Pierce, and more frequent dreams about basketball than zombies for a while)
1. The New Jersey Nets (otherwise known as the devil) will not ascend to the NBA finals for a few years. The strengthened Heat will keep the evil men from the Meadowlands down for a while, with the help of the valiant Mr. Walker. (and not entirely unaided by the stalled trade for Shareef) This is a good thing. I am overcome by bittersweet feelings of abandonment and hope. Maybe I'll listen to some Simon and Garfunkle or something.
2. I will, in a gesture of deep sadness, eat three pounds of M&M's. In one day. People have told me that this is impossible. People have advised me not to even try. I think these nay-sayers are simply confusing the meanings of 'can't' and 'shouldn't'. I certainly SHOULDN'T eat three pounds of M&M's, but I certainly CAN.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Feminism: Not just a dessert topping anymore.
So there's this story on Salon this week... here's the link- Feminist Article - the jist of the article is, though, that young women, when professing traditionally feminist sentiments, deny that they are feminists.
I do it.
I believe in abortion on demand, without questions, for anyone who finds themselves afflicted with an embryo or fetus.
I believe in equal work for equal pay.
I believe that men and women should be equally protected and prosecuted by the law.
I am not a feminist. I believe in social justice. I believe in a basically libertarian worldview, with exceptions that would protect the destitute and otherwise marginalized. I don't believe in the factionalized circus that is modern feminism. I love Camille Paglia. Andrea Dworkin (RIP, etc) gives me heartburn. Susan Sontag leaves me cold. The vagina monologues left me feeling like the only kid in the class without an imaginary friend. My vagina wouldn't wear a hat or say anything. Eve Ensler said, this past election, that women vote with their vaginas. I use the pen provided in the booth, actually.
I have a loathing for most of the institutions of female culture. I don't like the cattiness, the obsessions with appearance, the consumerism, the fundamental superficiality of it all. Even feminists are obsessed with appearance. They talk about 'the male gaze', body image, whether pornography liberates or opresses. Balls to all that, and I goddamned well don't mean ovaries. Feminism seems to argue that women are pushed into this outward (to the mall) and downward (at their bodies) facing culture as a substitute for fulfillment. Women aren't pushed. They run. It's so much easier to care about how you look than what you do. It's so much easier to blame society for asking too much. I'll agree with feminists that women are poisoned by culture; but women chug that strychnine because it's cheap and goes down so smooth.
My sister is an anorexic. She almost died. She had osteoporosis at sixteen. She menstruates dust and ghosts. She still doesn't eat well. She didn't catch it from a magazine (or a toilet seat). She got it herself. She studied it. She watched the lifetime movies and read 'Reviving Ophelia' (a gorgeous manual for any teenage girl seeking instant drama and artistic depth, it gives you the inside track on eating disorders, self mutilation, and all kinds of fun ways to make people realize it's SO hard to be you!). And she got it. And the therapy. And the group hugs. And all of a sudden, her life was simple. Her life was anorexia. Grades, after-school jobs, getting her license, all fell away. My sister is a feminist.
I am not a feminist. I'm pro-abortion (fuck choice- I'll say it- I'm glad abortion exists. Abortion is a truly feminist act. It frees women from a biological inevitability that opresses more than any inadequate girl's soccer budget) I'm pro-woman, insofar as a woman is a person. I'm glad that the feminist movement existed, and that the pill (which I love, which I worship, which I exalt) is covered by health insurance in my state. I donate to Planned Parenthood and NARAL, even though I can't afford to. I hated the Taliban, and Female Genital Mutilation and AIDS in Africa are feminist causes I can get fully behind.
But feminism doesn't seem to be about helping a 4 year old in the Sudan, or a 15 year old in South Africa. It seems pre-occupied with cushioning the world for middle-class women. They want date-rape counselors on every street corner in Ohio, but condoms in the hands of prostitutes in Sierra Leone is too far away, and too hard. They want stiffer sexual harassment laws, but teaching women to read (which reduces infant mortality), or offering micro-loans to families in the third world (an aid program that works)- aren't on the list. Feminists should toughen up, live their lives, take responsibility for their own happiness, and turn outward. When being a feminist means that you're for the basic rights of women everywhere in the world before your own ego and neuroses, I'll be a feminist. Until then, I'm a domestic misogynist, and international feminist.
I do it.
I believe in abortion on demand, without questions, for anyone who finds themselves afflicted with an embryo or fetus.
I believe in equal work for equal pay.
I believe that men and women should be equally protected and prosecuted by the law.
I am not a feminist. I believe in social justice. I believe in a basically libertarian worldview, with exceptions that would protect the destitute and otherwise marginalized. I don't believe in the factionalized circus that is modern feminism. I love Camille Paglia. Andrea Dworkin (RIP, etc) gives me heartburn. Susan Sontag leaves me cold. The vagina monologues left me feeling like the only kid in the class without an imaginary friend. My vagina wouldn't wear a hat or say anything. Eve Ensler said, this past election, that women vote with their vaginas. I use the pen provided in the booth, actually.
I have a loathing for most of the institutions of female culture. I don't like the cattiness, the obsessions with appearance, the consumerism, the fundamental superficiality of it all. Even feminists are obsessed with appearance. They talk about 'the male gaze', body image, whether pornography liberates or opresses. Balls to all that, and I goddamned well don't mean ovaries. Feminism seems to argue that women are pushed into this outward (to the mall) and downward (at their bodies) facing culture as a substitute for fulfillment. Women aren't pushed. They run. It's so much easier to care about how you look than what you do. It's so much easier to blame society for asking too much. I'll agree with feminists that women are poisoned by culture; but women chug that strychnine because it's cheap and goes down so smooth.
My sister is an anorexic. She almost died. She had osteoporosis at sixteen. She menstruates dust and ghosts. She still doesn't eat well. She didn't catch it from a magazine (or a toilet seat). She got it herself. She studied it. She watched the lifetime movies and read 'Reviving Ophelia' (a gorgeous manual for any teenage girl seeking instant drama and artistic depth, it gives you the inside track on eating disorders, self mutilation, and all kinds of fun ways to make people realize it's SO hard to be you!). And she got it. And the therapy. And the group hugs. And all of a sudden, her life was simple. Her life was anorexia. Grades, after-school jobs, getting her license, all fell away. My sister is a feminist.
I am not a feminist. I'm pro-abortion (fuck choice- I'll say it- I'm glad abortion exists. Abortion is a truly feminist act. It frees women from a biological inevitability that opresses more than any inadequate girl's soccer budget) I'm pro-woman, insofar as a woman is a person. I'm glad that the feminist movement existed, and that the pill (which I love, which I worship, which I exalt) is covered by health insurance in my state. I donate to Planned Parenthood and NARAL, even though I can't afford to. I hated the Taliban, and Female Genital Mutilation and AIDS in Africa are feminist causes I can get fully behind.
But feminism doesn't seem to be about helping a 4 year old in the Sudan, or a 15 year old in South Africa. It seems pre-occupied with cushioning the world for middle-class women. They want date-rape counselors on every street corner in Ohio, but condoms in the hands of prostitutes in Sierra Leone is too far away, and too hard. They want stiffer sexual harassment laws, but teaching women to read (which reduces infant mortality), or offering micro-loans to families in the third world (an aid program that works)- aren't on the list. Feminists should toughen up, live their lives, take responsibility for their own happiness, and turn outward. When being a feminist means that you're for the basic rights of women everywhere in the world before your own ego and neuroses, I'll be a feminist. Until then, I'm a domestic misogynist, and international feminist.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Germans? Sexually deviant? No!
"Do you love children more than you want to?"
So, apparently, in Germany, there's a campaign of print ads and posters that exhort pedophiles to seek treatment rather than sweet young...rather than offending for a first time. This campaign, while well meaning, raises a lot of questions on further contemplation.
For example, in what publication would you place an advertisement aimed at pedophiles? What magazine would admit that was their demographic? "Why, yes, we DO seem to be found in the background of your finer child-porn shoots..." and, what readership, upon finding that in their publication, wouldn't be offended? I've read in my psychology classes that pedophiles tend to gravitate towards publications meant for children, and those about children. Would the readers of german parents magazines be comfortable with the thought that someone might be reading that article on diaper rash more recreationally than educationally? And what about a Highlights for children? Who wants to explain to little Hans, on the way to Goofus and Goebbels or whatever, a full page ad suggesting that you not touch Johnny.
I believe, by the way, that parents SHOULD confront the fact that their reading material is entertainment for a disordered few. Parents should admit that there might be a stranger in the audience of the school play, and that there's definately some people with illicit interests in little girl's pageantry. So those ads, I think, ought to be in publications aimed at parents that might be purchased by people with other interests in children. Of course, when parents are asked to confront the dangers that children might face (even with the knowledge that the actual risk is statistically insignificant), they react with righteous anger, outrage, and enough foam childproofing to create a life-size model of those fat motorcycle twins. Child molestation is awful. It shouldn't happen. Pedophiles should seek treatment. But the fact is that most sexual abuse happens within the context of the family, and familiar car is more dangerous than a menacing stranger. But kids don't walk to school these days (that's why they're all so goddamned fat- seriously. Most kids are so fucking fat. That's one way to combat pedophilia, I suppose. Who wants a little porker, right?), because their parents think it's not safe. They don't play outside, or make up their own games, or interact with anything not approved by four councils and two magazines as safe. Increasing the parental fear quotient will do more harm than good, I fear.
Another thing- these ads rely on the pedophile to identify his behavior as deviant. The problem is addressed as one of personal choice, convenience. It asks "Do you love children more than you want to?" , framing pedophilia as an inconvenient habit. "Do you smoke more than you want to?" A dangerous pedophile is not the one who is already tormented by his compulsions; a dangerous pedophile is the one who's already built a system of justifications around it. The pedophile fortified with thread after thread of message boards comparing child molestation to s and m or lesbianism, is the dangerous pedophile. And he's not going to be convinced by an advertisment in 'Sesame Street Parent' or 'Modern Veal' or 'Prenatal Fun' to seek treatment for something he enjoys. The pedophile who wants to discontinue his behavior will be directed towards treatment by these ads, but the bottom line is, they just perpetuate the idea that sexual abuse is mostly strangers in dark alleys, not Uncle Jimmy in the rumpus room.
[germans]
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