My Gender Bothers Me, or Yes, I'm Messed Up.

I read an excellent post (to which I can sadly not link, as I do not recall whose blog it was, nor what series of magical links took me there) from a woman who wondered if she were a 'bad feminist' because she hated all things womanly, all things 'girly'.

This problem I know well.

My mother is bi-polar and also has borderline personality disorder just to make life a bit more interesting than the normal mood swings associated with bi-polar. My father is a rather stoic, unemotional man, save for the few fits of rage brought on by malfunctioning household appliances, bad drivers, and "oh, c'mon!" ref calls during the Bears' football games. He was also the rational, logical counter to my mother's extremely creative, hair-brained, overly emotional personality. So, as a child, I sought to fully emulate my father to the exclusion of everything 'girly.' Girly, to me, meant taking everything personally, worrying waaayyy too much about one's appearance, and worrying waaayyy too little about others. It meant my mother. And I did not want to be anything like her.

As a child, I had little ability to consciously sift through "womanly" traits and pick the ones which were not repulsive--rather, everything female was terrifying to me. So, I played with the boys, became morbidly depressed when forced to wear dresses, steeled myself to physical pain, and excelled in math and science. I was also horrified when it turned out that I would not be a waify tomboy in appearance, but would, rather, have (ARGH!) curves.

But now, I'm an adult female, and while I am proud that I am better than most men on the pool table, and certainly at taking a derivative or inverting a matrix, I find myself consistently repressing emotions in an attempt to avoid becoming the image of my hysterical mother, or any hysterical female, for that matter. So, when someone elicits feelings from me, I feel self-conscious and angry at myself for feeling an emotion. My inner monologue goes something like this:

"Don't be such a friggin' girl about it!"

But I am one. And that shouldn't be terrifying, but it still is. I still cringe at the thought of showing my emotions to others, or admitting when I love someone, or telling others that they've hurt me. And because I'm angry at feeling something, I usually lash out at the person because they've inadvertently forced perceived feminity--perceived weakness--onto me.

And anger is manly, so anger is fine.

So, as I try to sort through my feelings about femininty and emotions, I feel like I'm wandering around in a friggin' forrest of confusion. But since I haven't yet determined if confusion is feminine or masculine, I guess I'm okay here for now.

The Political Post

Yes, I am a political scientist. And I happen to study American politics. So here is your political post on Election Day.

First, I am not going to urge you to vote. You know why? I think abstention is a perfectly fine way of sending a signal in a 'consolidated' democracy. What do I mean? Our system is not going to crumble if we continue to have low turnout. It does not mean people are not interested in what's going on. It means, most likely, one of two things:

-->You don't like either party and are sending a signal to the Dems and Reps that you would like a "real" choice

-->You have a job and if the Reps or Dems would like your vote, then they need to make Election Day a National Holiday like so many of our European friends enjoy in their countries. Australia has gone the extra distance and, along with giving you a whole day off to pull that lever, actually impose a fine on your ass if you don't use your free vacation day for its intended purpose.

At the very least, let's keep the polls open for 24 hours! Are politicians really so out of it that they don't realize some people might possibly be busy between 7 am and 6 pm?

Now if you are a Democrat and really prefer them to Republicans, then for Gods sake, go vote! Republicans keep winning not with overwhelming support, but overwhelmingly better turnout. If you don't vote, don't bitch. So there. Vote for the right to bitch.

So, now that we've covered turnout, let's consider the actual lever-pulling.

There are a few propositions on the ballot here in Sunny (really really really sunny and despicably hot) California. Let's consider one, which seems to be a "no-brainer", Prop 89, which among other things, place limits of the contributions of lobbyists.

This is a.....BAD IDEA! Unless you're going to cap the amount of money a candidate can actually have, en sum, in his campaign account, this proposition is only going to obscure the trail from lobbyist to candidate. The campaign finance reforms in the House, perhaps you know and love it as the McCain-Feingold bill, has not dissuaded lobbyists or corporations from reaching for their wallets, but rather, has encouraged them to be a bit more clever in their deposits. Now, instead of being able to pull out the list of contributions for your candidate, you have these uber-PACS which run a shell-game for their pals' contributions, thus making it nearly impossible to track donation to candidate. Think of it as a hydraulic system--you push your finger down on lobbyists, and the money just rushes to middlemen (on their way to your candidate). The only way to actually limit contributions to candidates is to cap the amount they can spend on a campaign. Good luck on that one.


Another proposition being considered in CA: Prop 86--which would raise taxes on cigarettes by $3.00 per pack. This is a....BAD IDEA! Why? Listen, I smoke and would like to personally grab each child by the shoulders and scare them into never trying the disgusting things--e-ver! Smoking is already pretty un-fucking-cool, cigarettes are already $5/pack, and it is mostly the under-educated, over-poor working class which puffs away. I am over-poor, over-educated and thought I would surely be able to quite smoking when I moved from the Midwest (at $2/pack) to CA. Nope. I just don't eat as much. This is, in reality, a regressive tax. Most working class people who smoke (think your waiter or waitress, factory workers, etc) get additional breaks if they're a smoker (I sure did in all of my many suck jobs)-->that's where they get hooked. Unless some of this funding is going to go to free hypnotheraphy sessions or free patches (super expensive in the short-term, and we're mostly running hand-to-mouth here), then this just makes our poorer population poorer. It's not going to make them quit. It's already expensive! It's simply going to take a larger portion of an already small budget. And why is only 10% of this tax going to tobacco-related causes??? Dude, let's tax expensive whiskey or fine wine or fancy cuts of beef--heart disease ain't just for smokers.

***
Non-prop stuff:

I'm not going to tell you how to vote if you've decided to pull the lever today and don't know for whom you should tug. I also don't want to know how you voted. This is one of the great aspects of our election system--we went through a bit of a battle to get the Australian ballot so you didn't have to walk in today and ask in front of everyone, "I'd like the Democrat ballot, please". So take advantage of it.

More On Hall-ho-ween

I just remembered that I forgot to tell you all this: There were fifteen minutes in which I considered going as a Bolshevik. So, I searched google images for "Bolshevik" to get a picture of the flag, ideas for details, etc. I found this. Yep, Sexy Bolshevik.

Hall-ho-ween

Last night was linguist-rockstar Eric's and his wife Karen's annual Halloween bash. I had been told by several friends that the costume was not really optional...ugh. My first problem with Halloween is that I feel like I'm wearing a costume every day--some days I dress straight out of the 50's, with rolled up jeans and vintage shirts, some days I dress up like a hipster, and wear my big $3.00 sunglasses from the gas station, other days I'm meeting with the advisor so I pull out one of the three "nice" outfits I own--so I find it confusing to have a day set aside especially for costumes.

Second, I don't want to have to spend money on a costume. As I've blogged earlier, I frequently do not eat the last week of every month--or, I have "peanut butter and black beans" days. So I surely don't want to buy a witch's costume rather than half of another 'nice' outfit...or even a few loaves of bread. It just seems extraordinarily wasteful to me.

Third, and here's the money gripe, I'M TIRED OF SEEING 'SEXY NURSES' OR 'SEXY NUNS' OR 'SEXY TURTLES'!!! Seriously, why is everything so slutted up on Halloween? Are people repressing all of that inner sluttiness the other days of the year and just need a release? The Mrs. Clause suit just couldn't satisfy their exhibitionist needs, the turkey costume was too unweildy, and they never got to wear their Valentine's 'costume' in public...so Halloween became the holiday home of 'bringing sexy/slutty back'?

I rebelled last night. I was looking through all of my clothes, my art supplies and my hardware drawer, looking for possible costumes--and I happen to have a lot of librarian clothes. But I would be damned if I would be 'the Sexy Librarian.'

So, I washed my face clean of any makeup, then drew in a unibrow, used eyeshadow to give myself a little mustache, greased down my hair, put it into a straggly pony tail, clipped my bangs to my forehead, put on some black wool kneesocks with a blue shirt and wrapped my glasses frames in a bit of masking tape.

My costume? The UNSEXY LIBRARIAN. I think the people who didn't know me just thought I had poor taste and a nasty facial hair problem... And to my great relief, I don't think there was one 'sexy anything' there last night; sure, there were a few ladies with kitten ears and tails, but I saw nary a nipple and neither a cooch. A good Hall-ho-ween in my book.


Favorite other costume at the party? a boy came in wearing a cardboard, markered mask and a white t-shirt which said, "I too am a Moon Monster."

If Only Tantrums Weren't So Passe

I was outbid on my lovely little Corona typewriter with 5 seconds left on the auction clock. After a few mouseclicks, I learned that an on-line typewriter store bought my typewriter (for $41.00--$1.00 over my bid) to re-sell it for the non-bargain price of $350.

I am sad.

that is all.

I Never Believed in Santa Clause (or "I Feel Cynical")

It's true. I remember being a youngin' and wondering how all of the other kids could believe in such rubbish. Every year until I was around eight years old, I heard my classmates talking about what Santa would bring them for Christmas, getting excited to sit on Santa's lap and tell him in person what they'd written in the epic letters. I was busy looking in the trunk of the car, the basement, the attic, my dad's church across the parking lot...anywhere my non-Santa parents might have hidden away my presents.

I also remember wishing desperately I could belong to their faith--believing in magic, the Easter Bunny, fairy tales and unicorns. Wanting so terribly to be one of those children, I invented an imaginary friend, a mouse named Alex. I hoped that perhaps once you had created such a thing, like a chia pet, over time it would grow and become more real.

To my great disappointment, I was always painfully aware of Alex's non-existence. But pretending to believe in him made me feel like I belonged. And I realize now that I used this strategy in a great many arenas: Perhaps if I pretend to believe in Jesus, someday I'll feel that spirit moving inside me which struck a great many old ladies around Easter time. Perhaps if I pretend to believe in love, one day I'll feel that magic that seems to strike an increasing number of my friends.

But I haven't yet felt it. Instead, I feel like I'm living in My world and moving through Theirs--those enchanted idiots with secret smiles spreading across their lips as they meet others who've been struck, baptized--other believers.

And still, some part of me still hopes desperately that it does exist, and I'm simply a cynical creature for whom it's not too late. I'll raise my arms and shout ten thousand hallelujahs if only it will one day reveal itself to me, if I can only one day join their kind.

Plan B

Yes, that's what they're calling the over-the-counter version of the emergency contraceptive, which, if taken within 72 hours of 'a sexual accident', prevents the embryo from attaching to the uterine lining, and growin' into a big bundle of headaches and diapers.

I think the name is kinda catchy, myself. But apparently, this is highly offensive to many a Right-Winger. In fact, this is just making it that much easier to kill babies. This woman's story? Just another tale of a harlot who uses abortion as birth control--and would have had an easier time of it with an OTC pill! Well, in good Puritan fashion, thank goodness we're making this difficult decision as painful as possible--if only whipping were still legal...

I'll tell you why this whole saga pisses me off. First, I think a lot of 'opinion' becomes fact when these arguments flare up. I've heard the "life starts at conception", um, "argument", and while this may be a legitimate opinion, it ain't fact! But, when these opinions about 'when life starts' appear, there's so much conviction attached to the belief that "every embryo is a life" and further, "every life has value." {I'll leave the incompatability of "every life has value" and "let's kill serial murderers" (which is so often the winning campaign platform of Conservative Coalition folk) aside, and proceed with our discussion of Plan B.}

Bring up the question of traumatic pregnancies (rape, incest, etc)? The response is generally two-fold: a) they're selling Plan B to harlots, not rape victims and b) even that rape-baby's life has value.

I try to work this around in my brain to make sense, but I just can't. If every life has equal value, then the woman's and 'baby's' life are of equal value. Therefore, every woman who wants Plan B (or Plan C, for that matter), should get the option of flipping a coin when she enters a pharmacy. If she gets a heads, she gets Plan B. If she gets tails, it's off to another pharmacy, fingers crossed for a better flip. Seem silly? Well, it's just as silly as forcing a woman to weave her way through a bureaucracy guilded with false morals and irrational sentiment, all the while hoping to find a doctor or pharmacist who values her life as much as the bundle of cells in her uterus.

Finally, the Conservative Coalition/pro-lifers generally stop the argument at birth. So, they'd like to meddle in the 'baby's' life as long as the baby doesn't have its hands reaching into their wallets...Where are these people when the baby needs diapers, food, or someone to cradle it in the middle of the night? Where are they to protect that child's value then? These people who are protesting at abortion clinics would better serve their public, their God and even their cause if they were to picket the White House Lawn to provide better support services for pregnant women, free health coverage for all mothers and children, and better childcare options for working mothers.

Yes, I am aware that many pro-life groups actively encourage adoption. But that gives me nightmarish flashes from The Handmaid's Tale...

The Vein in My Neck Will Surely Bust

if I hear yet one more jerk say thus: "oh, do you want to go into politics?!?"

I do political science. I prefer not to lie to people. When people ask me what I do, I tell them. I am a graduate student in political science.

Now, the three most common responses, in order of frequency, and, as it happens, level of irritation induced upon asking, are:

1) So, do you think you'll run for office some day? (or, the above-cited, "do you want to go into politics?")

2) Oh, do you want to be a lawyer?

3) Oh! I love to talk about politics. Tell me, what do you think of Joe B. Nobody who's running in Nowhere, Nohow for dogcatchter?/Tell me, what do you think of the current situation in Lebanon....blah blah blah

The first is irksome because, well, how many politicians with PhD's in political science are you aware of? I can think of Woodrow Wilson and...Nope, that's it.

The second...damn, people--if I wanted to be a lawyer, I'd be in law school!!! I don't think people get the distinction between college student and graduate student. My bitterness at this response resides in my inability to forget that distinction, what with the poor pay, terrible work conditions and yelling screaming advisors and all.

The last... if I told you I were a math grad student, would you try to get me to discuss algebra? Prolly not. You would assume that my knowledge superceded yours, and that I might be bored speaking on a topic you could understand, and you might be bored if I got to speak on what I actually do.

That does it. From now on, I'm a math grad student. And if you look down on me because I'm lying to people, well...damn, at least I'm not a lawyer or a politician!!


PS:
I used to be an economics grad student. Upon learning this, numerous strangers would enquire as to their stock options, the state of the economy, the exchange rate of the Euro, etc etc. I studied at an institution which specializes in deeply abstract theory. The most useful bit of information I could offer someone? Well, I tell you now of the_most real-world scenario we were learned:

"listen, if you're ever on an island with one other person, and it's somehow ordained by God that one of you is in charge of all the coconuts, and one is in charge of all the fish, and you give me your utility function for cocunuts and fish (preferrably in log-linear form), then I can tell you the optimal trade to make with your partner."

Say it Ain't So!

I recently read that men don't_actually_want_a_funny_gal to date. The article cites studies which suggest that when we're fillin' out those ubiquitous on-line profiles and asking for someone with a "good sense of humor", men mean one thing and women, another. Specifically, it seems women want a guy who's witty, can tell a good knock knock joke, make 'em laugh 'til they get a cramp. Men, however, just want a girl who will laugh at their jokes. So, to summarize:

For women: good sense of humor=ability to make said girl laugh.
For men: good sense of humor=ability to laugh at said man's jokes.

See the asymmetry, folks? This is a bit horrifying to me--I'm usually the "funny one" amongst my friends. Apparently, that is actually synonymous with "has a good personality." I.e., your parents will probably like her, but you sure don't want to f*&^% her.

Now, I've already blogged on the "possibility" that men want women who are intellecutally inferior--this witty observation must certainly come out of the same bag of beans. And that bag of beans must be what Steve ate...

Why I Broke Up With Internet Dating

okay, so i'm considering dating again. BUT, the aid of the internet shall not be used this time 'round. I have a massive crush on the boy at my bike shop. He is British and lovely and would know how to fix my bike if something were to go awry on our bike tour of Brazil.

So, bike boy crush aside, here is why the internet failed to work for this gal:

1. The composition of people using the internet to people-shop has changed drastically in the last three or so years. When I first began the wonder of internet dating (introduced to me by none other than Mr. B-Baltimore), the pool of contestants vying to win a date with me consisted of mainly fellow braniacal, part geek-part hipster, tech-savvy people. Now, I'm not saying that the total number of cool people in the universe has changed, nor that all of the cool people have now coupled up and no new cool people have been spawned to replace them; rather, the pool has been flooded by unwanted, unoriginal, dean koontz-reading, "insert witty headline here"-writing, semi-literate folk. It's not that I don't want these people to find love and spawn more humans whose most humbling moment is filling out an internet dating profile, I just don't want to have to wade through their profiles to find a decent date, yo.


2. This problem is even more irritating when coupled with a poor locale. I now live just across the Mexican border in sunny San Diego. I've been demoted from concrete playgrounds and fake breasts (LA) to a surreally beautiful wonderland of brainless and chill "dudes and babes." The boys here really_do_want an activity partner--in the strictest, most hiking biking surfing sense of the word. So, being the adventurous young gal I am, I cast my net wider. I started searching extra-locally.

Internet dating seems to encourage this sort of search parameter expansion...I would spend more time defending my choices to date fellows in Boston, San Fran and Ohio, but given that there are numerous people at-tempting the same fate, I feel it's unnecessary. However, I will caution others against this game. You see, should you find someone amazing cross-country, or perhaps cross-Atlantic, you will spend much time emailing and speaking to this person on the phone...all the while, you will most likely become more and more neurotic about the other's expectations of you, as well as your expectations of the other. "Oh Lord, he said I was hot--do I really look like the picture in my profile?" "He's never smiling in his picture--does he have all of his teeth?" Further, conversations are easy on the phone--cake on email--but in person...oh, my.
Also, this will have carried on for quite some time, most likely, before an attempt at The Big Meet takes place. So, now, at least one of the contestants is a neurotic mess, and you now have, at minimum, two days of staring at the other person, expectations met or not. A normal first date would last, at maximum, five hours. I was staring down the barrel of four days with Ohio, and a whole week with Boston. For a little introvert like me, that was enough to drive me crazier than a cat with a tuna strapped to its back.



Basically, when an attraction grows organically, there's much more leeway for quirks such as I have. But there was always so much pressure with internet dating...when I was locally internet-dating, I always always always met the person at a dive bar with pool tables; that way, I could continue to play pool if the person wasn't interesting/was weird/happened to think the Nazis were "hot." (Dive bars are play-to-win----I always win-->an easy, passive-aggressive out.) But even so, everyone was always trying SO hard to "make a connection" in the first twenty minutes. I just don't work that way. My first long term relationship occurred after five months of mutual flirting and friendship. The only LTR ever borne from internet dating was five months of intensity, marriage proposals, and then the fizz just went flat all of a sudden.

Conclusion: internet dating screws with the time line of dating and relationships by skewing the expectations, intensity and pace of attraction.

Sooo, tomorrow I will bike down to my cycle shop to drool a bit more over BikeBoy. Who knows? Perhaps five months from now one of us will work up the courage to wink at the other.

Do You Feel Lucky, Punk?

Well, do ya?

I've been bothered recently by the use of "luck" to describe everything. Sooo, being the embittered (read lazy), but well-trained academic that I am, I looked up the definition of luck:

1. The chance happening of fortunate or adverse events; fortune: They met one day out of pure luck.

2. Good fortune or prosperity; success: We wish you luck.

3. One's personal fate or lot: It was just my luck to win a trip I couldn't take.

These definitions may be Webster-sanctioned, but I ain't buyin'. The first seems to hit closest to the mark, but let's clean it up a bit, shall we? To me, luck is a deviation from events which have highest statistical mass associated with them which, further, either confers some benefit upon you or exacts some cost; for instance, let's say you walk to the grocery store every day, and one bright shining day, you happen upon $100. That's lucky. It's an even which happens infrequently if ever, and for reasons beyond your control, you experience an event contained in the outer tails of probability distribution. Yes, you could also pass by a turkey one day, or a giant wooden ship parked in the parking lot for no particular reason; we would not assign the word luck to these events unless you're a turkey or ship hunter or have a morbid fear of turkeys and or wooden ships.

Now I get irritated by lots of uses of particular words, but I'm especially irritated with this case because people keep applying it to my life stories all the frickin' time, yo. Examples (drawn from my life and other sources):

1) My cell phone was stolen, but not my wallet. Response from many: "Wow, you got really lucky!"
2) On the news, I learned that a group of construction workers happened upon an unknowingly live mortar shell (bomb). They did not die. Response from reporter: "Yes, they certainly were lucky."
3) When watching the Katrina disaster stories on tv, many victims stated how lucky they were that they only lost their dog, their old uncle, their homes.

Maybe you see where I'm headed, dear reader. The above events are statistically improbable in some way; however, the net outcome is generally unlucky if anything. Luck is being incorrectly used here to compare two statistically improbable events, one of which occurred and one which did not. Now unless you're reaching into the far past of probability, we assign probability to events before they occur. So, just because one event occurs (which was assigned a small chance of occurence a priori) and one does not, does not mean we should count the first event as a statistically probable event; nor should we turn our attention to the second, unrealized event and declare "Ah! What luck!" The basic reasoning is: "Well, I never would have expected this sucky thing to happen; but at least a suckier thing didn't happen."

Having my wallet not stolen is not lucky. I generally don't expect my wallet to be stolen. Having my cell phone stolen is unlucky. The same applies, but it sucks and it happened.

Happening upon a live bomb and surviving is not lucky. Happening upon a live bomb is unlucky. Not dying is pretty much what I'd expect on a given day. Now, in this case, you might use some sort of Bayesian updating argument--Given that I have happened upon a live bomb, my probability of dying rises exponentially. That I do not, in fact, die, is then lucky.

Okay. But really--the first event (bomb) was pretty damned unlucky--let's not forget that.

And finally, while I admire the optimism displayed by many of the hurricane victims, let's think about this use of luck. Is it really lucky to be hit by a hurricane and have your dog die? It's no doubt better than dying with your whole family in the flooded basement, but neither event is statistically probable; the first occurs. Do we then say, thank goodness the other statistically improbable event didn't occur?

Think how bizaare it would be if everytime you shared a story of suck from your life, someone said to you, "Oh, but how lucky you didn't get attacked by a pack of wild hyenas today!"

Um, yeah, I guess, fuck-o.

So, is this use of luck (which is really really pervasive--start lookin' for it and you'll be inundated with so much "good luck" you'll run out to buy a lottery ticket) just our meagre attempt to make_ life_ happy? To see the glass half full? (when it's really on a quarter-full?) Or are people hip to a new psychosis I just haven't gotten hold of yet?

Why I Hate Keroac

Yep. that's right. i said it. and i'll say it again: I hate Keroac. This will come as no surprise to Miss B-London, as she and I attended the same damned class that made us read it (the one beautiful thing coming out of that class was my friendship with Miss B). She thought I was cross-eyed for some time because, well, Keroac made me cross my eyes a lot in disgust...

I digress.

So Keroac. I was reshelving books today and my hand lit upon my Beat Reader. Now, I know what I'm about to say may apply to many of the Beats, but for some reason, my rage is focused upon Keroac. And I feel okay about that. Keroac romanticizes and enforces the Otherness of all minorities--and he's a mysoginist to boot. In his weird idol-worship of black musicians, he strips them of their humanity; I suppose it's the same sense I get when I hear people speaking of "the wonderful people of Africa"--as though the people of this huge continent are a homogeneous, smiling bunch of gracious souls. Watching Oprah the other day (you have your hobbies, I have mine), I saw Oprah and several rich white people discussing the beautiful spirit of the "African people." "They have so little, but they're so happy with life." Wow. First problem: "They". Second problem: so they don't have much but they're happy--why should we work to improve "their" economic condition, then? Shouldn't we preserve their "primitive" ways and conditions so that they'll not be tainted by the materialism of the West? ARGGGH!

It's always seemed strange to me that positive stereotypes are so readily accepted, while negative ones make us cringe. They should both make you cringe. Or cross your eyes, at the very least.

Uh...Wow.

I've told you all before that I will watch anything on t.v.--especially when I'm coding the constitutions and parliamentary rules of Argentina. So, today, I looked up from my coding to see David Lee Roth on The View. (stop judging me!!) Anyway, he performed with his new bluegrass band. yep, his bluegrass band. And what did he perform? Why "Jump!", of course. 'Cause that song just sounds so natural against a backdrop of fiddles, banjos and acoustic guitars.

I think a little part of me died today.

Why I'm Considering Becoming a Nudist.

Clothing sizes. Dagger Aleph recently blogged on the craziness of size zero. Actually, there's lots of craziness relating to clothing, and it doesn't end with size zero.

First, I hate clothing sales because going to them always reminds me that I must wear the most common size in the US--size 10. Sales at the Gap, Banana, etc., always have piles of size 0-4, and sizes 16-20 left for their sales. Hey, guys, let's update our beliefs about size and distribution! Maybe if they stocked more clothes for normal people (normal in the distributional sense), they'd, gasp, make more money! It just seems so obvious.

Second, I recently went with my pal Mary on a mini-shopping spree. We went to the apparrel stores, where I bought size 10 pants. Then we went to a sporting goods store, where I bought track pants in a size 14. It's quite clever, really: At a sporting goods store, they want you to think you're larger than you actually are (or at least thought you were)--solution? Buy more stuff from their gadgets and gizmo section to help you work off those extra pounds! Clever, clever people.

Finally, Mary and I also hit a trendy, high-priced store--more for research than actual purchasing. There, I don't think they made any clothes for me--Mary, on the other hand, a small girl, could squeeze into their size 10 jeans (Mary is usually about a size 2 or 4). Now this type of sizing has to do with exclusivity. Stores of this sort are catering to the model-wannabes, and the tiny rich Asian population. Soo, they don't want to suggest to their clientelle that just anyone can wear their clothes--that's why the clothes are so appropriately and exhorbitantly priced! Because 'only models shop here.'

You know, in general, I'm pretty happy with my figure. I don't own a scale, but I do the jiggle test once in awhile (stand naked in front of mirror, and holding my breasts down, jump up and down to see where I need to focus my exercises), and I'm in pretty darned good shape. But shopping almost always makes me feel like a giant freakshow monster with abnormally large hips and breasts who apparently doesn't deserve to wear the super-sexy jeans or too-cute cardigans.

Since when did hitting puberty mean the end of sexy clothes?

I Fear for the Future

Perhaps my private schooling insulated me from the cold, hard truth: society is brimming with idiots. And they ain't just dumb, they're lazy to boot.

I am teaching intro to political science, and the essays I've received are so awful, they're not even laughable. They were told to include 6 to 8 academic cites; in their works cited, a few of my students have cited the same work three times, with different page numbers for each of the three cites...that's a strategy, I guess.

Wikipedia. Let's talk about it, shall we? It's not an academic cite! Not only am I telling all of you this (who probably don't care), I've told them this. Several times. With emphasis. And conviction. I told them, "Do not cite this anywhere in this paper, nor any paper you ever write here in your college career. It is akin to citing your Grandpa; and may, in fact, be citing your Grandpa. It is open source--this means you have no idea if a professor wrote the entry, or your drunken roommate on a dare."

And yet, my students are citing Wikipedia like it's a guaranteed A.

I had to give a student an F today. I hate failing students. I mean, this person put in effort to paraphrase a book, type up this paraphrasing, and approximate a works cited page (which includes several cites which are just titles...that's it--no author, no publication date). But when the amount of effort put into the paper is less than the amount of effort I have to put into grading and attempting to correct his/her grammar, then I feel I have no choice. (Don't worry, it was not only sloppy, it was mostly wrong, too).

I think this angers me so much because I struggled so hard throughout high school to try to win scholarships and financial aid to attend a good school--and once there, I worked my ass off to earn my education. I value education--in terms of both its intrinsic value, and the value I've assigned to it through my own efforts and struggles. And it seems that most of my students are here because they wanted to live near the beach, their parents were willing to pay the full tuition, and going to college seemed like the *cool* thing to "do." But they're not doing it! They're barely even faking it!

I'm also pissed because I know I'm going to see these failed students in my office later, where they will expend more effort whining for a better grade than they put into their papers originally.

Hell has a soundtrack

and, coincidentally, it happens to be the same soundtrack they play at the mall!

today, i share a lengthy quote from Mamet's book, The Cabin, which i'm currently enjoying immensely:

"I am offended by the universality of recorded music being played in situations where the listener is powerless to escape.
"I do not find it necessary that restaurateurs, businesspeople, and captains of transportation should elect to fill the arguably nonmusical moments in my day with their notion of the correct theme.
"I would prefer the street sounds, general, quiet, or the lovely rhythm of human conversation to music played in a restaurant. Why should the tastes of some restaurant 'consultant' predominate over my own predilection for silence?
"One might argue that said music is simply background, but it is not so for me. I love music. I play music, I write music, and when it is being played I am unable to tune it out. I am listening to it against my will, distracted from my thoughts, my book, my work, and hating the choice, the fact, and the arrangement, of the music, and the arrogance of those who have subjected me to it. Can it be that those of a certain class cannot imbibe their alcohol or chew their food without hearing Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday, would feel cheated if the synthesizer arrangement of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds were not playing while they rifled through the men's department?
"I suggest that no one enjoys that music. That it is there because it is there, and that most peoiple either do not notice it or have come to accept it as the correct background noise for the above activities."

Amen, Brother David.

I think they play the worst "music" possible--so unique in its un-musicalness, it has been termed muzak--so that everyone suffers equally; if no one is enjoying the music, then no one feels individually slighted--all of humanity is suffering the burden of Kenny G's butcherings.

i always feel badly for the musicians, most of whom are, arguably, technically sophisticated if a bit soul-less, and not one of them could be enjoying the process of recording that crap. sure, they're getting a paycheck, but it would be akin to being an actor and landing a gig playing Santa at the mall.

Civilization has gone horribly awry.

Perfume Should Be Banned.

I'm not a rude person. Really. I try to let the rows of people ahead of me on the shuttle exit first. I usually wait politely while they tug at their bags, which squeezed into the footspace easily enough, but will not, for some reason, pull out. I always wait for the wizened old woman who seems to share my schedule and her quarter-steps to the stairs while forming a human barrier between her and the other anxious commuter cattle, eager for a stampede.

Today, I bolted.

You see, I had been held captive for half an hour in some girl's radius of perfumed hell. All the seats but one on the shuttle had been filled when she stepped on, bringing with her a flowery stench which immediately assaulted my nose. I panicked. The only empty seat left was right in front of me.

I tried in vain to distract myself. I focused intently on my book. I turned up my ipod--maybe music would affect my sense of smell as it does my sense of sight. I even tried breathing through my polyester sweater.

No dice.

I began to feel nauseous. I started thinking about how I might finance an automobile, so that I could avoid her in the future. I glared (at the back of her head--Feel My Death Rays of Hate and Disapproval!!). I looked around--did anyone else seem affected by this offense? Am I actually a superhero in possession of super-scent powers? And if so, why in the hell did I get such a lame superpower? Don't they have dogs for that? God, why is she doing this? Did she not take a shower? Trying to hide equally offensive halitosis? Is her nose numb after years of dousing herself in this impossibly floral scent?

Always a problem-solver, I began to think of solutions.

1) Sell perfume in pre-packaged single servings. You know, like a box full of packets of oatmeal; that way, people could have some sort of guide on the acceptable use of perfume and/or cologne.

2) Invent some sort of disarming spray. It'd be a bit like fabreeze, but it would just de-scent the area...neutralize the offender without adding more offense. (By the way, this has so many applications it boggles my brain--Grandma's house, public restrooms, elevators, apartment complex hallways, New York)

3) Outright ban the shit. Who do they think they're fooling anyway? Nobody smells like that naturally--maybe at some point in human history, but the other cavemen killed them off to mask their scent with that of decaying human flesh--evolution worked. And smoking has been banned in all public spaces (including outdoors) in Calabasas, CA-->is not perfume and/or cologne equally hazardous to my health? If not physical, then obviously mental...

So, akin to my campaign to bring back the pudding pop, I believe I must write my representative and ask that perfume be banned. 'Cause if you can't play nice, you can't play at all.

Curfted

I call it a curse, you will most likely call it a gift.

I have played piano by ear since I was two and a half years old. I played Chariots of Fire first, by third grade had cracked the Nutcracker Suite, and have composed many of my own little pieces, too.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, bitch, where's the curse???

Here it is, my friends. It has ruined the way I listen to classical music. And lots of jazz. And, well, most music. Now, this is moderately related to my Radio Jingles post--but most songs are not only obvious to me, they're downright skeletal. Continuing with that analogy, pretend you had x-ray vision. Might be kinda cool, but then let's say you can't turn it off. So, now, you're walking around, and instead of seeing faces, you see guts, skeletons, muscles, tendons, etc. This is what happens to me with most music. So, I turned to vocal music through most of my life--you know, folk, indie, etc--so that I had something to focus on besides the music so that I could hear/enjoy the music instead of analyzing the music. It worked for a long time.

It's stopped working. I know all the old stuff too well, so the lyrics no longer distract me. The new stuff--well, god bless 'em, they ain't really puttin' too much music behind the lyrics. And that defeats the purpose of listening to vocal music for me.

But my ipod and I are becoming fast friends. Well, truth be told, fast lovers. No, I do not fondle my ipod, but I heart it like I've never hearted an inanimate object before. And not just because now I can carry music in my pocket, but because now I can efficiently raid my friends' music directories. Now, Mr. BK of Baltimore has some pretty good musical taste (I forgive him his fetish for Beach Boys, and he forgives mine for electric Miles). And I've now become interested in Brazilian and Latin music like it's some kind of space technology which can save my life if I only figure it out. My immense enjoyment stems from the basic fact that I speak Spanish only barely conversationally, and I don't speak Portugese at all. So, I can't understand any of the lyrics!!! But, I know enough Spanish to figure out some of the Portuguese, and, well, this gives my left brain something to do so that my right brain can listen to the music. The point: I'll be able to enjoy the music for soooo much longer--infinitely, perhaps.

whoa.

Of course, there's the fact that there's some ass-kickin' beats and instrumental work goin' on in the background of these beautiful, nonsensical-to-my-ears lyrics. Hoo-fuckin'-ray!

You'd like suggestions, wouldn't you, you little cheeky monkey? Okay. Here's a short list:

Milton Nascimiento (in particular, Geraes and Minas; though Clube de Esquina is also a good fix)
Jorge Ben
Gilberto Gil (check out their collaboration project, Gil e Jorge)
Os Mutantes
Cesaria Evora (songs which simultaneously bring tears to my eyes and a grin to my lips)
Caetano Veloso (especially in the Tropicalia sessions)
Chico Buarque
Orlando "Cachaito" Lopez--holy crap-fuck, this is some sexy Cuban jazz (extra underwear required)

Now, as with many fine musicians, the 80's led to a rough period for many of these cats. Synthesizers invaded their psyches, warping their genius, and emitting an ear-piercing sound only vaguely reminiscent of "music." So, stay away from that era, kids. It's bad. Real bad. Stick to the 70's, and then pick them up again in our decade (by the way, are we calling it the pre-teens? the 2 thousands? the double O's?). They hit the old-school "revival" then, and sound as good as every again.

See, I knew I named my blog for a reason.

Notes on Immigration Reform

I've been listening and reading an awful lot of news about the immigration reforms being proposed in Congress, and the pros and cons of extending amnesty to the estimated 11 million immigrants already living in the US. Here in San Diego, junior high and high school students have been staging walk-outs and protests to the proposition to "round up and return" all of the illegals here and put them back in line for legal entry to the US. So, it's time to post.

On a news show Sunday, the roundtable was discussing the merits of illegal immigrant labor--"They take the jobs no one else wants." First, I don't doubt that no one else wants many of these jobs; however, there are many who would take these jobs if they paid at least minimum wage, i.e., the inner-city African-American population. A quick look at unemployment rates shows that for African-Americans, unemployment has risen dramatically--and this rise in unemployment rates coincides with the rise in illegal immigration--also, the unemployment rate of Latinos has declined dramatically--in almost perfectly inverse relationship. That is, illegals are taking "their" jobs.

Now, I don't suggest that African-Americans should be fighting illegal immigrants for these crumbs--it would be much preferable to enfranchise this segment of the population in a more empowering manner, but it does point to the fact that businesses here in the US take advantage of the illegal population to provide labor at slave wages. If you thought the minimum wage was unliveable, take a whack at living on the wages these illegals are paid. By shifting these jobs to illegal immigrants, you create a disenfranchised population--the lowest rung on the socio-economic ladder gets broken. As businesses can now fill the dish-washing positions, the janitor positions, etc., for less-than-minimum wage, the group that was previously filling those positions is left without any job or any wage. Moving up to the next stratus of employment--service positions, etc--take more investment in education/skills than is currently feasible for this population to provide itself, and more than the state is willing to provide to them.

The fact is that we don't have a lot of middle-class Mexicans sneaking across the border looking for employment. We get the most desperate, poorest segment who are willing to risk their lives--quite literally--to find any job in the US. This gives a distinct advantage to the businesses here in bargaining power over wages! And it leaves the impoverished citizens at a distinct disadvantage. How are workers at Wal-Mart expected to fight for health insurance when Wal-Mart can just hire illegals--who can't fight for benefits--to take their places? (yes, I know that from time to time illegals do protest/march/strike for better living conditions but it is a rare event for obvious reasons).

I imagine the businesses here in the US who do employ illegals are desperately hoping that amnesty isn't granted; the costs of their payroll would increase dramatically!! However, it just isn't feasible that the US government is going to be able to round up enough people to fill the state of Ohio and caravan them back to Mexico. And interestingly, it is by and large the small businesses here in the US who employ illegals--it has actually allowed them to compete with the more efficient big businesses.

I, myself, cannot propose the magic solution to the problem. When you have the wealthiest nation in the world jutting up against a third world country, you're going to have people trying to come over to improve their lot in life. And the labor situation is such that this nation's poorest (legal) population is further disenfranchised as a result. Will granting amnesty to the illegals already here re-enfranchise that segment? Perhaps a tiny bit. Will it stop the flow of illegals into this country? Doubtful. Will trying to round them all up and ship 'em back home fix the problem? Are you kidding?

A mess, indeed. But rather than focus our resources on shipping illegals back to Mexico, why don't we invest in the socio-economically disadvantaged citizens? Or work on helping Mexico's economy--if their unemployment rates decline and quality of education increases, then illegal immigration to the US will most likely decline. But of course, our system has never been into addressing the root of the problem--just the symptoms of the disease.

Seriously? No, SERIOUSLY?!?

Back to ranting.

I was watching This Week with Stephanopoulis and they aired snippets of interviews with Harvey Mansfield and Naomi Wolf. While they could have probably interviewed any woman not from the conservative right wing, Mansfield is really the heart and soul of this story. A Harvard prof (tenured and everythin'), he has written the book Manliness (a review of which appeared in the NYT book review last Sunday), which is about as archaic as the title suggests.

My favorite from the interviews this week:

Mansfield: "Politics is a field of competition, and women are less interested in competition, just as they're less interested in sports. And, indeed, I think their interest in sports goes together with their interest in men more than in sports or in politics directly."

Uh, that's because the sports guys play on t.v. are mostly boring--no one cries, no one threatens suicide; walk down any junior high's halls as a thirteen year old girl with the wrong pair of jeans, and you'll understand the term "blood sport."