Oh Little Women. Stupid, stupid, stupid movie. We spend the first half of the movie seeing Jo and Laurie together being best friends and (this is helped by Laurie being played by Christian Bale) I totally fell in love with Laurie. He's adorable, sensitive, and a musician. He and Jo just seem meant to be. But then, after the oldest sister gets married and Laurie makes his move Jo tells him she just doesn't love him. It's heartbreaking but I'm still there.
Then there's Beth going through the whole thing, the Scarlet fever, the dying...you know how the story goes.
So, long story short, here I am teary-eyed on the couch. First I'm tearing up because of Beth, then I'm tearing up because Beth gets better, then I tear up because Jo doesn't love Laurie, but then...Laurie falls in love with Amy. Amy! How can Laurie fall in love with Amy?!
It isn't that Amy isn't pretty, and it isn't that I don't think Amy deserves happiness, but not with Laurie. The worst of it is, the movie short changes the Laurie-Amy, Jo-Professor relationship so it is hard to buy that Jo and Laurie don't actually love each other. I'm told the book is more clear and better demonstrates the various love stories, but I'm totally not sold.
And, AND! Laurie tells Amy that he knew he was "destined to marry a March." I don't know about you guys, but if some dude tells me he knows he's destined for my family after having the hots for my sister I'm not going to quickly or easily believe his protestations of love. He says "hey I totally fell in love with your sister, but it's cool. I don't love her anymore. Besides, I always knew I was destined to marry into your family. Baby I love you." Me? I say, "Hmm...maybe not." Unless it's Christian Bale and then I just roll with it, but you know how it is.
So the question is: does Jo belong with the Professor or with Laurie? And why, if Laurie isn't her true love, does the first half of the movie spend so much time making it seem like it must be so? Perhaps it is simply that as childhood best friends I've been conditioned by Western literature to expect a romantic ending for the two of them. I am reasonably sure that is part of it. When I watch a movie or read a book I've been trained to recognize appropriate romantic pairings from the beginning. Ms. Alcott's story messes with my expectations in a way I was not properly prepared for. Why don't they ever give you enough screen time with the Professor so that you can bond with him? Why do they give me family tragedy and deny me acceptable true love?! I'm so frustrated by Louise May Alcott and her stupid trueish story.
So now I'm watching The Incredible Hulk because the best way to deal healthy with an overabundance of emotion is to watch crap blow up.
And, on that note, I think I have to add Bruce Banner to my list of men I love that might kill me why I sleep. After all, if you wanna talk about nice guy/bad boy dichotomy the Hulk is pretty much the archetype. Tender, sensitive scientist who turns into a monster of rage and emotion and doesn't mean to hurt you. Truth be told, I was never one to love the Hulk romantically myself, but I did always feel sorry for him. He loves Betty so much but his Hulkiness keeps them apart. It's tragedy worthy of Shakespeare I'm telling you. Not to mention we used to watch the old t.v. show every morning before swim practice--it was, perhaps, the most depressing show ever. It's a wonder I never drowned myself at swimming lessons.
So here I sit on my couch, empathizing with Bruce Banner and torn over my feelings about Jo, Laurie, Amy, and the Professor.
Little Women made me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I just finished my latest trashy romance novel and I'm perplexed. The whole story revolves around the hero's big "secret." This is, of course, how almost all of these books work, but this one I found particularly confusing. His name is Jake and he's a rancher. Jake's father died when Jake was 12 and his mother died when he was 17 so he took over the ranch and raised his 3 younger siblings himself. He also turned the ranch around and made it prosperous. Thus far we've hit all the appropriate ingredients for an alchemic romance. When our heroine, the bright, cultured, college professor rolls into town Jake hates how much he likes her and spends the better part of two hundred pages dreading the inevitability of her leaving because she can never know his "secret." Our heroine, Amanda, even starts to suspect somewhere around page 150 or so and then she too worries about his dreadful "secret."
At this point I'm thinking this dude must have killed a baby or something.
All the thoughts he spends thinking he's a fraud--how she'll learn that he isn't the great, honorable, strong man he pretends to be. She worries and worries that he is strong and proud like her uncle who had the same "secret" and won't let her help thereby trapping him on his ranch and dooming him to loneliness and an early death. My mind is racing considering all the possibilities of secrets that would fulfill the seriousness described and still allow for a happy ending. For instance, if Jake was a secretly a serial killer that's going to make a long term relationship with Amanda difficult vs. he is actually a supernatural denizen that feeds off human blood but doesn't kill humans. Maybe, I thought, he did one horrible thing in his past and still feels horribly guilty about it. I could also accept this as a possibility. If he killed a kid while drunk driving at 16 that could cause Amanda to rethink his character; I'm not sure how I would feel about it as a reader, but perhaps it would be a nice commentary on loving someone with a past who has changed blah, blah blah.
Jake's secret was none of these things. Jake was illiterate.
I'm not knocking the seriousness of adult illiteracy, nor the mental baggage it creates in those who are hiding their illiteracy. As plot lines go I think this is a good one. Jake's dad started pulling him out of school at seven years old to help on the ranch. The dad was illiterate, now Jake was illiterate. It all made reasonable sense. But after Amanda "figures it out" we have this huge insurmountable problem--he's ashamed she knows and won't pursue the education even though he desperately wants it. At this point I'm once again reminded why I'm not a romance heroine.
To me, and I can be a cold, heartless, uncaring person, it's just not that big of a deal. Not that it isn't a big deal, but this is a totally fixable situation. Jake can see. Jake is smart. Jake does not have a learning disability that he is aware of. Jake has money. Learning to read would be frustrating, but when it comes to the illiteracy camp he's definitely way up there. And of course he would be ashamed of it, and of course falling in love with the writer/college professor/world traveler will make him feel inadequate, but it's changeable.
I imagine about the third time Jake flips out because I knew he was illiterate and refused to agree to learn I would probably have had enough. As serious as the situation is it isn't permanent and that's just such a big difference to me. Of course, my feelings of annoyance are exacerbated because the climax of the book revolves around our hero racing away in a truck to a small cabin out in the woods. Little does he know the bridge is washed out and there isn't a road sign only a small cardboard handwritten sign on the side of the road that he won't be able to read. Our hero and Jake's sister race after him and his sister stops him from plunging into the creek bed, but his truck spooks her horse and she falls into the creek bed suffering serious injury. As our hero and heroine sit in the emergency room he decides he can't hide anymore and must deal with this problem that has so ruled his life and nearly cost his sister hers.
Yeah, I was moved too.
A cardboard, hand written sign? Really? And in all the years of that bridge washing out he really has no way of telling? He can recognize the shape and color of road signs. And so the little sister must almost die for his great revelation--it seemed a bit over the top. And yes, I recognize the irony in calling anything in a romance novel over the top. Whatever.
So our question then is, does Jake's secret really fuel the plot? I've gotta go with no. Jake is an excellent hero, the romance aspect is great, but I wouldn't be crying if I found out the man I loved was illiterate. I would be crying if he refused to learn, especially if he couldn't learn, but just stubbornly refusing to do what he wants to do because he imagines it's futile? That's more tragically real, not romantically tragic.
Honestly, I was hoping he was going to be agoraphobic. At least that would be a new plotline.
At this point I'm thinking this dude must have killed a baby or something.
All the thoughts he spends thinking he's a fraud--how she'll learn that he isn't the great, honorable, strong man he pretends to be. She worries and worries that he is strong and proud like her uncle who had the same "secret" and won't let her help thereby trapping him on his ranch and dooming him to loneliness and an early death. My mind is racing considering all the possibilities of secrets that would fulfill the seriousness described and still allow for a happy ending. For instance, if Jake was a secretly a serial killer that's going to make a long term relationship with Amanda difficult vs. he is actually a supernatural denizen that feeds off human blood but doesn't kill humans. Maybe, I thought, he did one horrible thing in his past and still feels horribly guilty about it. I could also accept this as a possibility. If he killed a kid while drunk driving at 16 that could cause Amanda to rethink his character; I'm not sure how I would feel about it as a reader, but perhaps it would be a nice commentary on loving someone with a past who has changed blah, blah blah.
Jake's secret was none of these things. Jake was illiterate.
I'm not knocking the seriousness of adult illiteracy, nor the mental baggage it creates in those who are hiding their illiteracy. As plot lines go I think this is a good one. Jake's dad started pulling him out of school at seven years old to help on the ranch. The dad was illiterate, now Jake was illiterate. It all made reasonable sense. But after Amanda "figures it out" we have this huge insurmountable problem--he's ashamed she knows and won't pursue the education even though he desperately wants it. At this point I'm once again reminded why I'm not a romance heroine.
To me, and I can be a cold, heartless, uncaring person, it's just not that big of a deal. Not that it isn't a big deal, but this is a totally fixable situation. Jake can see. Jake is smart. Jake does not have a learning disability that he is aware of. Jake has money. Learning to read would be frustrating, but when it comes to the illiteracy camp he's definitely way up there. And of course he would be ashamed of it, and of course falling in love with the writer/college professor/world traveler will make him feel inadequate, but it's changeable.
I imagine about the third time Jake flips out because I knew he was illiterate and refused to agree to learn I would probably have had enough. As serious as the situation is it isn't permanent and that's just such a big difference to me. Of course, my feelings of annoyance are exacerbated because the climax of the book revolves around our hero racing away in a truck to a small cabin out in the woods. Little does he know the bridge is washed out and there isn't a road sign only a small cardboard handwritten sign on the side of the road that he won't be able to read. Our hero and Jake's sister race after him and his sister stops him from plunging into the creek bed, but his truck spooks her horse and she falls into the creek bed suffering serious injury. As our hero and heroine sit in the emergency room he decides he can't hide anymore and must deal with this problem that has so ruled his life and nearly cost his sister hers.
Yeah, I was moved too.
A cardboard, hand written sign? Really? And in all the years of that bridge washing out he really has no way of telling? He can recognize the shape and color of road signs. And so the little sister must almost die for his great revelation--it seemed a bit over the top. And yes, I recognize the irony in calling anything in a romance novel over the top. Whatever.
So our question then is, does Jake's secret really fuel the plot? I've gotta go with no. Jake is an excellent hero, the romance aspect is great, but I wouldn't be crying if I found out the man I loved was illiterate. I would be crying if he refused to learn, especially if he couldn't learn, but just stubbornly refusing to do what he wants to do because he imagines it's futile? That's more tragically real, not romantically tragic.
Honestly, I was hoping he was going to be agoraphobic. At least that would be a new plotline.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
It's the holidays, I toyed with several possible topics to share and I've settled on:
The Twelve Days of Christmas
12: I get off the plane from Las Vegas having not slept the night before to see my wonderful, adoring mother practically bouncing up and down in the airport waiting to scoop me into a tearful embrace and welcome me home. I haven't slept, and it's only been a month since I've last seen her so I'm not feeling the emotional reunion thing. What do I, the considerate, understanding, always patient daughter say first? "Mom, don't hug me and cry on me. I'm tired." I know. I hate me too.
11: I bake two pies.
10: I suffer panic attacks because I'm trapped in a house with my parents with no car, no cigarettes and a uterus that is poisoning my body with estrogen and progesterone. I survive panic attacks by stuffing my face with as much food as I can find. And there's a lot.
9: I attend party #1 as we celebrate my dad and my cousin's birthday. Family members shout at each other across the room because "inside" voices are a recessive gene in our genetics, my dad sticks a lighter next to my ear (and hair) and lights it because he's a pyromaniac, Christmas music plays on repeat in the background, while two dogs on the back porch bark and whine over it all.
8: I eat a cookie.
7: I attend party #2 where we celebrate the first family Christmas with one side of the family. We open windows because people on one side of the room are hot, while those in front of the windows freeze. Those who are hot never agree to switch seats with those in front of the windows. We then eat but pass food from the same ends so that those on the other end always get the dregs, but still have to find room for all the empty containers to sit.
6: I eat a piece of cake.
5: I attend party #3 where we celebrate the immediate family Christmas and my stocking includes cough drops. Expectant parents (my siblings) receive a DVD about miscarriage and a marriage that breaks apart. My father is no longer allowed to shop at the Dollar Store and assume responsibility for our stockings.
4: I eat a piece of pie.
3: I attend party #4 where we celebrate Christmas with the other side of the family. After lunch we have "choir rehearsal" and "band rehearsal" where chosen members of the family are given instruments they haven't played in five, fifteen, and twenty-nine years and we put on a bit of a concert for each other. My enthusiasm on the snare drum overrules the single flute and my dad quits after the flugelhorn defeats him. It's not a band until at least one person walks out. I sing soprano in the "choir" which is unfortunate for me, the family, and all passer-bys who travel down our block.
2: I travel through fog that has only been seen previously in The Mist--a horrible movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel. It completely surrounds my hometown blanketing the frozen fields and melts the ice enough so that a layer of water sits atop the remaining four inches. I slip and land on my shin for the first time since traveling home.
1: I eat another cookie.
Merry Christmas kids. It ain't over till you've celebrated it at least three times and gained ten pounds. Someday I will write a movie script off of this and make millions by shamelessly cashing in on all of my family's wonders, oddities, and personality. For now I simply share with you.
The Twelve Days of Christmas
12: I get off the plane from Las Vegas having not slept the night before to see my wonderful, adoring mother practically bouncing up and down in the airport waiting to scoop me into a tearful embrace and welcome me home. I haven't slept, and it's only been a month since I've last seen her so I'm not feeling the emotional reunion thing. What do I, the considerate, understanding, always patient daughter say first? "Mom, don't hug me and cry on me. I'm tired." I know. I hate me too.
11: I bake two pies.
10: I suffer panic attacks because I'm trapped in a house with my parents with no car, no cigarettes and a uterus that is poisoning my body with estrogen and progesterone. I survive panic attacks by stuffing my face with as much food as I can find. And there's a lot.
9: I attend party #1 as we celebrate my dad and my cousin's birthday. Family members shout at each other across the room because "inside" voices are a recessive gene in our genetics, my dad sticks a lighter next to my ear (and hair) and lights it because he's a pyromaniac, Christmas music plays on repeat in the background, while two dogs on the back porch bark and whine over it all.
8: I eat a cookie.
7: I attend party #2 where we celebrate the first family Christmas with one side of the family. We open windows because people on one side of the room are hot, while those in front of the windows freeze. Those who are hot never agree to switch seats with those in front of the windows. We then eat but pass food from the same ends so that those on the other end always get the dregs, but still have to find room for all the empty containers to sit.
6: I eat a piece of cake.
5: I attend party #3 where we celebrate the immediate family Christmas and my stocking includes cough drops. Expectant parents (my siblings) receive a DVD about miscarriage and a marriage that breaks apart. My father is no longer allowed to shop at the Dollar Store and assume responsibility for our stockings.
4: I eat a piece of pie.
3: I attend party #4 where we celebrate Christmas with the other side of the family. After lunch we have "choir rehearsal" and "band rehearsal" where chosen members of the family are given instruments they haven't played in five, fifteen, and twenty-nine years and we put on a bit of a concert for each other. My enthusiasm on the snare drum overrules the single flute and my dad quits after the flugelhorn defeats him. It's not a band until at least one person walks out. I sing soprano in the "choir" which is unfortunate for me, the family, and all passer-bys who travel down our block.
2: I travel through fog that has only been seen previously in The Mist--a horrible movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel. It completely surrounds my hometown blanketing the frozen fields and melts the ice enough so that a layer of water sits atop the remaining four inches. I slip and land on my shin for the first time since traveling home.
1: I eat another cookie.
Merry Christmas kids. It ain't over till you've celebrated it at least three times and gained ten pounds. Someday I will write a movie script off of this and make millions by shamelessly cashing in on all of my family's wonders, oddities, and personality. For now I simply share with you.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I haven't shared any "from home" stories yet, and I do apologize for that lack. Fortunately (or unfortunately) I haven't been blessed with the opportunity to iron the carpet or be bowled over trying to move the couch again this year. But...that doesn't mean I'm without tales.
My mother, bless her heart, has a tendency to ask questions when she already knows what she wants and what she will do. For instance, when I'm home I tend to travel to various different places seeing friends--this has been a tradition since I moved far away four years ago. Saturday, I believe it was, my mom asked me, "are you going to go see your friends?" I told her yes and she asked, "do you mind if your father and I tag along?" You would think after all this time of being her daughter I could have recognized this question for the statement it was. She wasn't asking what I wanted you see, she was being polite in telling me what was going to happen. In hindsight it all makes so much sense. "I'd rather not," I told her--I gave up indirectness with my parents years ago. "Oh," she said, "well, I have some shopping to do so I thought we would." Uh-huh.
Generally I don't care if my parents travel with me, and I'm long past the age of "I have to be cool with my friends" business, but I get a little claustrophobic in my home town. There's nothing here. Really. And not having a vehicle of my own (what with the flying home and everything) I can't just drive. I can't leave town without first asking to use my parents vehicle, or in this case, with my parents. That means that when I have a particular plan--shop, see friend, see Australia--I have to modify said plan because they have insisted on coming along.
It should also be noted that I'm premenstrual and experiencing nicotine withdrawal since I smoked too much before coming home and not smoking at all. This is not a good combination when dealing with one's mother. Under the circumstances I did my best to perform admirably (I think).
My day starts off with my mom, moments after I awake asking, "do you know what I'm doing today yet?" She had attempted to plan when we would travel since winter weather was supposed to come through and apparently I was supposed to do the planning for all of us. Those of you that know me know I don't wake up well under the best of circumstances--to be awoken with a question requiring I plan a day I don't particularly want to plan...it was almost too much. I decide we should go in the end, so we take off for the great wonderland with a mall and everything is going fairly well. I think perhaps it won't be so bad after all; I'm still feeling claustrophobic and wishing I could have just gotten out of the house by myself, but my parents are good people and it's nice to make them happy. We arrive at the much larger city, though, and it quickly becomes apparent that there is a lot of traffic. My father, whom I share many traits with, does not do well in traffic or in crowds. He starts to grumble excessively and drive just a little crazy because he wants/needs to be out of the crowd. I respect this need since I need to go to the bathroom badly, but I also had a plan for my day and I'm feeling a bit sensitive to my father thwarting that plan because it's crowded.
We make it to the mall, we shop--everyone's a bit short-tempered, but that's Christmas right? We head back to the car and the real fun begins. I want to see Australia. I've wanted to see this movie for almost a month. When I agreed to travel with them it was so that they could take me to said movie. First no one can decide where they want to eat dinner. I'm on the phone with my friend in town who has just gotten out of work and he can't decide when he'll be free, if he'll be free, how he'll be free, or what the esoteric concept of freedom is. Were I by myself I would just go hang out until he was done with all his post-work nonsense, but I wasn't. So we're back in traffic, dad is grumbling, mom is pouting, and I'm on the phone trying to get an answer about where to direct us. An executive decision is made and we head up north--through more traffic, more grumbling--and go to dinner at a place right next to the theatre. The entire time my father is saying he doesn't want to see this movie. We should go see another movie. We won't make the movie in time if we eat at this place. It wasn't so much the pms or the nicotine withdrawal that made me snap. No, really it was my parents love, smothering me like a plastic bag over my face.
I told him no one said he had to come and he invited himself so he could stop complaining. He shot back he never had a choice and had to come. I have sympathy, it's true. Mom probably "asked" him if he wanted to come as well. Mom tearfully asked us to get along. I immediately felt guilty which only made me more angry, but somewhere along the way I decided I should probably repress like any good adult and did my best to even out my temperment. My dad, probably because there's no more room for him to repress after 38 years of marriage, told her we (he and I) were doing just fine and were getting along. The sad thing was, it was true. Regardless he and I cheered up and stopped picking at each other. I told them we could go see another movie--I would always rather see a movie people want to see and the movie I want to see later, then sit through a movie I like with people that don't want to be there. But now we had to go see Australia.
My friend even showed up eventually once he found his freedom and we all went to the movie together. It was a pretty frickin' spectacular movie.
When the movie was over my dad complained again. I yelled at him again. We all piled in the van for the drive home and my friend left for the blissful quiet of his own apartment. So goes another family Christmas.
I love being home. And sometimes home loves me so much I can't breathe. Awesome.
My mother, bless her heart, has a tendency to ask questions when she already knows what she wants and what she will do. For instance, when I'm home I tend to travel to various different places seeing friends--this has been a tradition since I moved far away four years ago. Saturday, I believe it was, my mom asked me, "are you going to go see your friends?" I told her yes and she asked, "do you mind if your father and I tag along?" You would think after all this time of being her daughter I could have recognized this question for the statement it was. She wasn't asking what I wanted you see, she was being polite in telling me what was going to happen. In hindsight it all makes so much sense. "I'd rather not," I told her--I gave up indirectness with my parents years ago. "Oh," she said, "well, I have some shopping to do so I thought we would." Uh-huh.
Generally I don't care if my parents travel with me, and I'm long past the age of "I have to be cool with my friends" business, but I get a little claustrophobic in my home town. There's nothing here. Really. And not having a vehicle of my own (what with the flying home and everything) I can't just drive. I can't leave town without first asking to use my parents vehicle, or in this case, with my parents. That means that when I have a particular plan--shop, see friend, see Australia--I have to modify said plan because they have insisted on coming along.
It should also be noted that I'm premenstrual and experiencing nicotine withdrawal since I smoked too much before coming home and not smoking at all. This is not a good combination when dealing with one's mother. Under the circumstances I did my best to perform admirably (I think).
My day starts off with my mom, moments after I awake asking, "do you know what I'm doing today yet?" She had attempted to plan when we would travel since winter weather was supposed to come through and apparently I was supposed to do the planning for all of us. Those of you that know me know I don't wake up well under the best of circumstances--to be awoken with a question requiring I plan a day I don't particularly want to plan...it was almost too much. I decide we should go in the end, so we take off for the great wonderland with a mall and everything is going fairly well. I think perhaps it won't be so bad after all; I'm still feeling claustrophobic and wishing I could have just gotten out of the house by myself, but my parents are good people and it's nice to make them happy. We arrive at the much larger city, though, and it quickly becomes apparent that there is a lot of traffic. My father, whom I share many traits with, does not do well in traffic or in crowds. He starts to grumble excessively and drive just a little crazy because he wants/needs to be out of the crowd. I respect this need since I need to go to the bathroom badly, but I also had a plan for my day and I'm feeling a bit sensitive to my father thwarting that plan because it's crowded.
We make it to the mall, we shop--everyone's a bit short-tempered, but that's Christmas right? We head back to the car and the real fun begins. I want to see Australia. I've wanted to see this movie for almost a month. When I agreed to travel with them it was so that they could take me to said movie. First no one can decide where they want to eat dinner. I'm on the phone with my friend in town who has just gotten out of work and he can't decide when he'll be free, if he'll be free, how he'll be free, or what the esoteric concept of freedom is. Were I by myself I would just go hang out until he was done with all his post-work nonsense, but I wasn't. So we're back in traffic, dad is grumbling, mom is pouting, and I'm on the phone trying to get an answer about where to direct us. An executive decision is made and we head up north--through more traffic, more grumbling--and go to dinner at a place right next to the theatre. The entire time my father is saying he doesn't want to see this movie. We should go see another movie. We won't make the movie in time if we eat at this place. It wasn't so much the pms or the nicotine withdrawal that made me snap. No, really it was my parents love, smothering me like a plastic bag over my face.
I told him no one said he had to come and he invited himself so he could stop complaining. He shot back he never had a choice and had to come. I have sympathy, it's true. Mom probably "asked" him if he wanted to come as well. Mom tearfully asked us to get along. I immediately felt guilty which only made me more angry, but somewhere along the way I decided I should probably repress like any good adult and did my best to even out my temperment. My dad, probably because there's no more room for him to repress after 38 years of marriage, told her we (he and I) were doing just fine and were getting along. The sad thing was, it was true. Regardless he and I cheered up and stopped picking at each other. I told them we could go see another movie--I would always rather see a movie people want to see and the movie I want to see later, then sit through a movie I like with people that don't want to be there. But now we had to go see Australia.
My friend even showed up eventually once he found his freedom and we all went to the movie together. It was a pretty frickin' spectacular movie.
When the movie was over my dad complained again. I yelled at him again. We all piled in the van for the drive home and my friend left for the blissful quiet of his own apartment. So goes another family Christmas.
I love being home. And sometimes home loves me so much I can't breathe. Awesome.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I don't know if my storytelling skills are up to the task of relating my last week to you. I'm going to try, but probably I won't do it justice.
It all started with a camping trip. My roommate, her boyfriend, another friend and I decided to celebrate the end of the semester with a visit to the beach. So it was we left the somewhat dubious haunt of Las Vegas and traveled over the great mountains to the west. It became quickly apparent, however, that it wasn't going to be an easy trip. A storm had rolled in--some might call it the storm of a century, I simply referred to it as an inconvenience. The rain slickened the roads and as we traveled up the mountains traffic was slowed and frustrating. It didn't put me off, though; what's a little rain and snow after all? After lunch, however, I realized just what a little rain and snow could mean when one is traveling over the mountains. The El Cajon pass was open, but you were only allowed to travel with a police escort; thus it was that we waited dutifully in line for our turn to go. We made it to the campsite and our four hour trip was only extended by maybe an hour and a half--not bad.
The campsite was all sand and dirt--it had been raining all day. Sand and dirt plus water makes mud. A lake had formed around our fire pit, but, this not being a big camping week, we were able to switch sites. All seemed to be falling into place. Our camp set up I set up my bed for the night and was pleasantly surprised to discover how warm I stayed. Dinner was tough, the wind howled and it started to rain again, but once I was bedded down I thought it all quite nice. Sometimes my naiveté is astounding.
When I awoke in the morning having slept off and on (rain is surprisingly loud in a tent and our poor little covering shook us as much as it protected us) I touched my pillow and felt moisture. No big deal, the walls of the tent were a little moist, but probably the pillow was just pressed up against it. Then I looked at the floor of the tent. My tent mate had already exited for the morning and I realized the jeans and sweatshirt by my head were soaked as was the other sweatshirt by my feet. The edges of my blankets were all also wet. Resigning myself to the knowledge that we were camping and sometimes these things happen, I dutifully hung everything up to dry. As I uncovered my air mattress I realized that the plastic had gratefully kept me dry, but my bed had been floating atop a small body of water. The day was bright and shining, though, so what did it matter? Everything would dry and be ready for the night.
Tuesday was glorious. I walked on the beach, read a book on the beach, and we had hot dogs and smores. Everything camping is supposed to be. That night I crawled into my newly dried bedding and settled in for the evening. I woke a few hours later to the sounds of rain gently pattering on the tent. I went back to sleep. I woke again when my head was lifted up--by the tent that was blowing in the wind. The rain was no longer gently pattering, it was pounding down like a vengeful street fighter. Our tent was held down only by the weight of our bodies inside it. The edges would blow up in the storm, lifting whatever part of the body was closest, in this case my head, before slamming back to the ground as the gust of wind passed. If Monday had been a storm of the century, Tuesday night was a storm of the millennia.
Wednesday did not dawn bright and sunny. Our tent was flooded. Everything in it was wet, including me. I was done. Vacation is no supposed to make you miserable. It had been a fun trip. I was glad I went. Now it was time to go home.
I lit off for the shower, but all the showers were locked. No big deal, I would shower when I returned to Las Vegas. My fellow campers and I ate breakfast and returned to pack myself and my tent mate into my car. We packed up in the very cold rain, shoved as much in my trunk as we could and he and I took off for fairer skies. It was 11:05 am.
I don't believe I could have anticipated what awaited us.
El Cajon was closed. My navigator quickly plotted an alternate course and while going around would doubtless take extra time, we were resigned to the necessity. We headed south and attempted another pass. No signs indicated that said pass was closed, until we were halfway up the mountain then suddenly, with nothing more than a small sign on the side of the road, we were told to find an "alternate route." It was now 1:30 pm.
Turning around I headed back to a major freeway and we headed east, planning to follow the Colorado river valley north. We were now driving the legs of the triangle instead of the hypotenuse, but these things couldn't be helped. I was dead set on making home. At 5:30 I took the jog to begin the final stretch and the lo and behold--a policeman sat on the exit ramp, blocking it. This seemed untenable.
I rolled my window down and he curtly informed me that all ways into Las Vegas were closed. All ways. How can you quarantine a major metropolitan area? I mean, I suppose if the zombies do attack it's good to know the small town police staff of Nevada, California, and Arizona will keep them from escaping, but I was trying to get in. The policeman turned me away and my navigator and I bunked down in a small town in California for the evening. The Black Gates were closed and there was no sneaking into Mordor that evening.
We awoke this morning and headed out. The roads were open and I hoped, knowing that it would be a slow trip, that it would still be a painless trip. We had 90 miles to travel and it was 9:05 am. 45 miles out from Las Vegas we approached a little town called Searchlight. Traffic slowed, then stopped. I sat in the car for as long as I was able before the coffee I drank for breakfast insisted on being relieved. There were no bathrooms. There was no privacy. I couldn't countenance the idea of urinating on myself in my car. Surely no one deserved a day that bad. The fog lifted for a second and a Terrible's gas station/McDonald's shined at me over the horizon. It took very little debate before the only possible solution presented itself. I left my car in the hands of my navigator and took off up the road. It was probably only a half mile, maybe 3/4 of a mile, but the Rocky theme song was playing in the mountains. I could hear the trumpets echoing off the rocks as I slipped and slid my way across the snowy icey parking lot to a giant sign that pronounced "CLEAN RESTROOMS."
This was, perhaps, the most dangerous part of my trip. Dangerous, because if I slipped on the ice and went down, there would be no more restraining the coffee that insisted on leaving my system.
I made it, though, and walked back to the car. The "town" of Searchlight was removing ice and so traffic was still stopped. We sat for over two hours before they let us through and the trip through Searchlight was less than exciting. This "town" is all of two blocks long. That breaks down to approximately an hour of ice removal per block. I don't get it either.
So it was that 500 miles and 26 1/2 hours later my tent mate/navigator/friend and I rolled back into Las Vegas from Los Angeles. Google maps places the trip at 4 hours 16 minutes and 279 miles.
Best camping trip EVER.
It all started with a camping trip. My roommate, her boyfriend, another friend and I decided to celebrate the end of the semester with a visit to the beach. So it was we left the somewhat dubious haunt of Las Vegas and traveled over the great mountains to the west. It became quickly apparent, however, that it wasn't going to be an easy trip. A storm had rolled in--some might call it the storm of a century, I simply referred to it as an inconvenience. The rain slickened the roads and as we traveled up the mountains traffic was slowed and frustrating. It didn't put me off, though; what's a little rain and snow after all? After lunch, however, I realized just what a little rain and snow could mean when one is traveling over the mountains. The El Cajon pass was open, but you were only allowed to travel with a police escort; thus it was that we waited dutifully in line for our turn to go. We made it to the campsite and our four hour trip was only extended by maybe an hour and a half--not bad.
The campsite was all sand and dirt--it had been raining all day. Sand and dirt plus water makes mud. A lake had formed around our fire pit, but, this not being a big camping week, we were able to switch sites. All seemed to be falling into place. Our camp set up I set up my bed for the night and was pleasantly surprised to discover how warm I stayed. Dinner was tough, the wind howled and it started to rain again, but once I was bedded down I thought it all quite nice. Sometimes my naiveté is astounding.
When I awoke in the morning having slept off and on (rain is surprisingly loud in a tent and our poor little covering shook us as much as it protected us) I touched my pillow and felt moisture. No big deal, the walls of the tent were a little moist, but probably the pillow was just pressed up against it. Then I looked at the floor of the tent. My tent mate had already exited for the morning and I realized the jeans and sweatshirt by my head were soaked as was the other sweatshirt by my feet. The edges of my blankets were all also wet. Resigning myself to the knowledge that we were camping and sometimes these things happen, I dutifully hung everything up to dry. As I uncovered my air mattress I realized that the plastic had gratefully kept me dry, but my bed had been floating atop a small body of water. The day was bright and shining, though, so what did it matter? Everything would dry and be ready for the night.
Tuesday was glorious. I walked on the beach, read a book on the beach, and we had hot dogs and smores. Everything camping is supposed to be. That night I crawled into my newly dried bedding and settled in for the evening. I woke a few hours later to the sounds of rain gently pattering on the tent. I went back to sleep. I woke again when my head was lifted up--by the tent that was blowing in the wind. The rain was no longer gently pattering, it was pounding down like a vengeful street fighter. Our tent was held down only by the weight of our bodies inside it. The edges would blow up in the storm, lifting whatever part of the body was closest, in this case my head, before slamming back to the ground as the gust of wind passed. If Monday had been a storm of the century, Tuesday night was a storm of the millennia.
Wednesday did not dawn bright and sunny. Our tent was flooded. Everything in it was wet, including me. I was done. Vacation is no supposed to make you miserable. It had been a fun trip. I was glad I went. Now it was time to go home.
I lit off for the shower, but all the showers were locked. No big deal, I would shower when I returned to Las Vegas. My fellow campers and I ate breakfast and returned to pack myself and my tent mate into my car. We packed up in the very cold rain, shoved as much in my trunk as we could and he and I took off for fairer skies. It was 11:05 am.
I don't believe I could have anticipated what awaited us.
El Cajon was closed. My navigator quickly plotted an alternate course and while going around would doubtless take extra time, we were resigned to the necessity. We headed south and attempted another pass. No signs indicated that said pass was closed, until we were halfway up the mountain then suddenly, with nothing more than a small sign on the side of the road, we were told to find an "alternate route." It was now 1:30 pm.
Turning around I headed back to a major freeway and we headed east, planning to follow the Colorado river valley north. We were now driving the legs of the triangle instead of the hypotenuse, but these things couldn't be helped. I was dead set on making home. At 5:30 I took the jog to begin the final stretch and the lo and behold--a policeman sat on the exit ramp, blocking it. This seemed untenable.
I rolled my window down and he curtly informed me that all ways into Las Vegas were closed. All ways. How can you quarantine a major metropolitan area? I mean, I suppose if the zombies do attack it's good to know the small town police staff of Nevada, California, and Arizona will keep them from escaping, but I was trying to get in. The policeman turned me away and my navigator and I bunked down in a small town in California for the evening. The Black Gates were closed and there was no sneaking into Mordor that evening.
We awoke this morning and headed out. The roads were open and I hoped, knowing that it would be a slow trip, that it would still be a painless trip. We had 90 miles to travel and it was 9:05 am. 45 miles out from Las Vegas we approached a little town called Searchlight. Traffic slowed, then stopped. I sat in the car for as long as I was able before the coffee I drank for breakfast insisted on being relieved. There were no bathrooms. There was no privacy. I couldn't countenance the idea of urinating on myself in my car. Surely no one deserved a day that bad. The fog lifted for a second and a Terrible's gas station/McDonald's shined at me over the horizon. It took very little debate before the only possible solution presented itself. I left my car in the hands of my navigator and took off up the road. It was probably only a half mile, maybe 3/4 of a mile, but the Rocky theme song was playing in the mountains. I could hear the trumpets echoing off the rocks as I slipped and slid my way across the snowy icey parking lot to a giant sign that pronounced "CLEAN RESTROOMS."
This was, perhaps, the most dangerous part of my trip. Dangerous, because if I slipped on the ice and went down, there would be no more restraining the coffee that insisted on leaving my system.
I made it, though, and walked back to the car. The "town" of Searchlight was removing ice and so traffic was still stopped. We sat for over two hours before they let us through and the trip through Searchlight was less than exciting. This "town" is all of two blocks long. That breaks down to approximately an hour of ice removal per block. I don't get it either.
So it was that 500 miles and 26 1/2 hours later my tent mate/navigator/friend and I rolled back into Las Vegas from Los Angeles. Google maps places the trip at 4 hours 16 minutes and 279 miles.
Best camping trip EVER.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Stephanie Meyer book is being billed as the "only love triangle with only two people." There's an alien inside this lady's body, but the lady doesn't abandon ship like she's supposed to, so her memories affect the alien and they both end up loving the same guy. It doesn't matter. I'm never going to read it.
What does matter, is that the reviewer has made an egregious error. Obviously, Jem, Jerrica, and Rio from Jem and the Holograms is the first two-sided love triangle. And that one is far superior because Jerrica seduces Rio to cheat on her with herself! I knew you would appreciate it as much as I have.
My former partner-in-crime and I have put much thought into this situation. For example, is it cheating if he cheats on you with your alter-ego? Are you allowed to hold it against him if you seduce him with yourself? Are you cheating if you change identities and sleep with your boyfriend cheating on yourself? These are very important questions that are never addressed in the cartoon series. I don't know how they completed three seasons of that show and never once tied up the Jem-Rio-Jerrica plotline.
But here are my thoughts on the situation: Jem is only a hologram projected over Jerrica's body, so Jerrica's body chemistry would still be the same. This means that whatever physical markers that attracted Rio to her, her scent, her pheromones, etc., would still be in place. I would put forth, therefore, that his attraction to Jem, while possibly not wholly innocent, must be understood because he is still attracted to Jerrica. This makes extra sense because Jem's personality is still that of Jerrica's--they are the same person. Jem is just the much cooler, much funner rockstar version. Heck, I would be all over Jem too if I were Rio.
Unfortunately, at one point in their association Rio does pull away when Jem is making her move (see: is it cheating when you seduce him with yourself?) and states that he can't hurt Jerrica. Now--there are a couple of disturbing parts to that comment. The first and certainly not the least is, who wants a guy who doesn't cheat because he doesn't want to hurt us, not because he doesn't want to? You see the difference there? I'd say it's a fairly major one. Now, again, Rio could be granted a pass because even though he might want to, Jem is Jerrica so how could he not want to? Right?
And what if Rio actually didn't find Jem attractive at all? What happens when the cooler rockstar version of yourself is a turnoff to your boyfriend? Was Jerrica driven by this crazy world we live in to seduce Rio just to make sure she could?
This is a very serious situation here people. When dealing with a two-sided triangle all known laws of math and physics break down and even Ann Landers doesn't know what to offer for relationship advice. (For anyone born post 83? 84? Ann Landers predates Dr. Phil as a newspaper columnist relationship person.) And let's say, for argument sake that Rio did sleep with Jem. As Jerrica do you get mad? And why let it go to the point of sex to begin with? Why not tell him you're Jem? But if you choose not to tell him and sleep with him how does that work in the morning? You offer a "Show's over Synergy" and then when you flash back to Jerrica in front of him start screaming and hitting and accuse him of being a no good cheating boyfriend? Seems like that reaction might be a bit hypocritical. It's hard to tell because you know, you cheated with your boyfriend on yourself, but still....there's got to be some ethical problem in there somewhere.
These are just a few of the problems that arise when there are only two of you, but a love triangle is formed. Think about that the next time you buy a pair of fancy pink star earrings and plot the seduction of your boyfriend with your alter-ego. It could all end badly.
What does matter, is that the reviewer has made an egregious error. Obviously, Jem, Jerrica, and Rio from Jem and the Holograms is the first two-sided love triangle. And that one is far superior because Jerrica seduces Rio to cheat on her with herself! I knew you would appreciate it as much as I have.
My former partner-in-crime and I have put much thought into this situation. For example, is it cheating if he cheats on you with your alter-ego? Are you allowed to hold it against him if you seduce him with yourself? Are you cheating if you change identities and sleep with your boyfriend cheating on yourself? These are very important questions that are never addressed in the cartoon series. I don't know how they completed three seasons of that show and never once tied up the Jem-Rio-Jerrica plotline.
But here are my thoughts on the situation: Jem is only a hologram projected over Jerrica's body, so Jerrica's body chemistry would still be the same. This means that whatever physical markers that attracted Rio to her, her scent, her pheromones, etc., would still be in place. I would put forth, therefore, that his attraction to Jem, while possibly not wholly innocent, must be understood because he is still attracted to Jerrica. This makes extra sense because Jem's personality is still that of Jerrica's--they are the same person. Jem is just the much cooler, much funner rockstar version. Heck, I would be all over Jem too if I were Rio.
Unfortunately, at one point in their association Rio does pull away when Jem is making her move (see: is it cheating when you seduce him with yourself?) and states that he can't hurt Jerrica. Now--there are a couple of disturbing parts to that comment. The first and certainly not the least is, who wants a guy who doesn't cheat because he doesn't want to hurt us, not because he doesn't want to? You see the difference there? I'd say it's a fairly major one. Now, again, Rio could be granted a pass because even though he might want to, Jem is Jerrica so how could he not want to? Right?
And what if Rio actually didn't find Jem attractive at all? What happens when the cooler rockstar version of yourself is a turnoff to your boyfriend? Was Jerrica driven by this crazy world we live in to seduce Rio just to make sure she could?
This is a very serious situation here people. When dealing with a two-sided triangle all known laws of math and physics break down and even Ann Landers doesn't know what to offer for relationship advice. (For anyone born post 83? 84? Ann Landers predates Dr. Phil as a newspaper columnist relationship person.) And let's say, for argument sake that Rio did sleep with Jem. As Jerrica do you get mad? And why let it go to the point of sex to begin with? Why not tell him you're Jem? But if you choose not to tell him and sleep with him how does that work in the morning? You offer a "Show's over Synergy" and then when you flash back to Jerrica in front of him start screaming and hitting and accuse him of being a no good cheating boyfriend? Seems like that reaction might be a bit hypocritical. It's hard to tell because you know, you cheated with your boyfriend on yourself, but still....there's got to be some ethical problem in there somewhere.
These are just a few of the problems that arise when there are only two of you, but a love triangle is formed. Think about that the next time you buy a pair of fancy pink star earrings and plot the seduction of your boyfriend with your alter-ego. It could all end badly.
Monday, December 08, 2008
So I had a thought--generally a dangerous thing for me to do. It's not about Twilight, but it may or may not have stemmed out of my recent vampire utopia/dystopia identity. I was thinking about women (and girls) and how many of us, no matter how jaded, carry hope that we'll find "the one." I would garner this is true for many men in the world, but I don't know them so I won't speak for them. My point in this case is about women's perception of "the one" anyway--I think most women still imagine this guy somewhat like Prince Charming. He'll know what to say; he'll know what to do, and when he doesn't it will be so adorable that it will only make us love him more.
This idea has been percolating in my head for awhile as I've observed another couple close to me get to know each other and settle into a relationship. In one instance she wanted him to go dancing at the club; he really, really didn't want to go, and this made her very, very mad. I realized in that moment, watching these guys figure this out, that he was her boyfriend. He was supposed to dance dirty with her and be all James Bond. Even though logically she knew he wasn't any of those things and the club wasn't his sort of romance she still wanted that in him, the ability to be "that guy" for her when requested.
Where I'm going with this is that I think many women, in a well meaning, romantic, hoping for love sort of way, objectify men in a slightly destructive manner that is unfortunate for both parties. I sigh as I say this because this means the last vestiges of my hopeless romanticism are going down the tubes as I type. I'm not saying true love doesn't exist, I've seen it in action, but rather many women go through life unhappy because their constantly holding reality up to imagination--they think that someday "the one" will appear and he will make them feel...well, the way we all feel when we watch our favorite romantic movie. You'll feel alive and excited and not sure you can control yourself even though you've always been in control. The love will be so overwhelming, at least in the beginning, that you'll both want to be together all the time. He'll look at you and you'll know he couldn't possibly love anyone more than he loves you. So on and so forth. By this age we all know the drill.
But in this modern society of constructed romance, I wonder how often men are held up to an invisible standard that they can no longer fill anymore than women can fulfill the Madonna/whore complex. It's already seen in the way young boys worry about their physique almost as much as young girls do. But I think it's also apparent in the cliché "nice guys finish last." It was mentioned recently that women don't want "nice guys" and I don't think that's it at all--no one seeks out abuse except a very few, but many seek out adrenaline; women want the rush of love and the excitement of whirlwind romance. We want to be loved so much our guy is driven beyond his rock solid control. It's one romance novel cliché after the other. There are minor differences in everyone's fantasy of course, but the basic kernels are there.
But here's the rub: men are people too. That means as unsexy as I am at times in all my independent gaseous righteousness, there's a guy out there who just doesn't have it in him that day to hold you while you cry because he's had a hard day too. A guys isn't always capable of pursuing you until you give in because maybe he was hurt too bad in the past and has developed a sense of self-preservation (something all romance characters seem to decidedly lack). Or, maybe, just maybe, on occasion my crazy is more off-putting than adorable. Instead of loving me inspite and because of it, I might succeed at a skill I honed in my earlier years--pushing people away and being generally unpleasant.
And so I consider all those possibilities, and I think about all the times I've watched/read romances where the heroine absolutely debases herself to win her love and how I've thought each time I watched/read it "I'm screwed" because I know I never would, that perhaps--I'm only saying perhaps--social constructions of love, romance, and prince charming have caused me and other women to judge men in a way we were previously unaware of. And that sucks. It sucks for a couple of reasons; the first is that it would be really, really sweet to have some crazy romantic story that ended up with unbelievable happiness for the rest of my life. And second, if I acknowledge the possible archetypes I've been holding men up to, then I have to realize what I've done to judge the men I've known by those archetypes. As I need another abstract, ideological debate going on in my head examining my motivations. One would think I would tap out at some point.
I've always known that I'm irritated by women who talk about "training" men as if they were some sort of puppy, and women who vacillate in committed loving relationships because they aren't sure of they guy is "the one" irritate me too. But it has never occurred to me that part of the problem is that there is no prince charming any more than there is a femme fatale waiting to marry. So women are either bitter that no guy will ever be the fantasy because the fantasy doesn't exist--which is true, but not for the reasons they think--or the woman holds out on her own relationship thinking there might be something better.
It's a thought. I would guess there is a male equivalent as well.
In any case, I leave you with this hoping that maybe I'll stumble across real love tonight at Barnes and Noble--I figure it's a bonus if he's a vampire.
This idea has been percolating in my head for awhile as I've observed another couple close to me get to know each other and settle into a relationship. In one instance she wanted him to go dancing at the club; he really, really didn't want to go, and this made her very, very mad. I realized in that moment, watching these guys figure this out, that he was her boyfriend. He was supposed to dance dirty with her and be all James Bond. Even though logically she knew he wasn't any of those things and the club wasn't his sort of romance she still wanted that in him, the ability to be "that guy" for her when requested.
Where I'm going with this is that I think many women, in a well meaning, romantic, hoping for love sort of way, objectify men in a slightly destructive manner that is unfortunate for both parties. I sigh as I say this because this means the last vestiges of my hopeless romanticism are going down the tubes as I type. I'm not saying true love doesn't exist, I've seen it in action, but rather many women go through life unhappy because their constantly holding reality up to imagination--they think that someday "the one" will appear and he will make them feel...well, the way we all feel when we watch our favorite romantic movie. You'll feel alive and excited and not sure you can control yourself even though you've always been in control. The love will be so overwhelming, at least in the beginning, that you'll both want to be together all the time. He'll look at you and you'll know he couldn't possibly love anyone more than he loves you. So on and so forth. By this age we all know the drill.
But in this modern society of constructed romance, I wonder how often men are held up to an invisible standard that they can no longer fill anymore than women can fulfill the Madonna/whore complex. It's already seen in the way young boys worry about their physique almost as much as young girls do. But I think it's also apparent in the cliché "nice guys finish last." It was mentioned recently that women don't want "nice guys" and I don't think that's it at all--no one seeks out abuse except a very few, but many seek out adrenaline; women want the rush of love and the excitement of whirlwind romance. We want to be loved so much our guy is driven beyond his rock solid control. It's one romance novel cliché after the other. There are minor differences in everyone's fantasy of course, but the basic kernels are there.
But here's the rub: men are people too. That means as unsexy as I am at times in all my independent gaseous righteousness, there's a guy out there who just doesn't have it in him that day to hold you while you cry because he's had a hard day too. A guys isn't always capable of pursuing you until you give in because maybe he was hurt too bad in the past and has developed a sense of self-preservation (something all romance characters seem to decidedly lack). Or, maybe, just maybe, on occasion my crazy is more off-putting than adorable. Instead of loving me inspite and because of it, I might succeed at a skill I honed in my earlier years--pushing people away and being generally unpleasant.
And so I consider all those possibilities, and I think about all the times I've watched/read romances where the heroine absolutely debases herself to win her love and how I've thought each time I watched/read it "I'm screwed" because I know I never would, that perhaps--I'm only saying perhaps--social constructions of love, romance, and prince charming have caused me and other women to judge men in a way we were previously unaware of. And that sucks. It sucks for a couple of reasons; the first is that it would be really, really sweet to have some crazy romantic story that ended up with unbelievable happiness for the rest of my life. And second, if I acknowledge the possible archetypes I've been holding men up to, then I have to realize what I've done to judge the men I've known by those archetypes. As I need another abstract, ideological debate going on in my head examining my motivations. One would think I would tap out at some point.
I've always known that I'm irritated by women who talk about "training" men as if they were some sort of puppy, and women who vacillate in committed loving relationships because they aren't sure of they guy is "the one" irritate me too. But it has never occurred to me that part of the problem is that there is no prince charming any more than there is a femme fatale waiting to marry. So women are either bitter that no guy will ever be the fantasy because the fantasy doesn't exist--which is true, but not for the reasons they think--or the woman holds out on her own relationship thinking there might be something better.
It's a thought. I would guess there is a male equivalent as well.
In any case, I leave you with this hoping that maybe I'll stumble across real love tonight at Barnes and Noble--I figure it's a bonus if he's a vampire.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Okay, I'm writing about Twlight again. I know...I hate me too.
But here's the deal. I watched the movie, sort of liked it in a way I will never admit to in public, and now I'm trying to read the book again. The last time I tried I ended up putting it down because it was just so...well...high school. The angst, the drama, the everything--I long outgrew that mode of yearning. But, as the movie taught me in a rather harsh and unforgiving way, I have not outgrown it as much as I would like to think. I am, unfortunately, not dead inside. Who knew that realization would make me sad.
The point, however (and there is a point), is that this book, while more fun then I remember it being, makes me want to throw it across the room. I know I overreact sometimes, and anyone who knows me in any casual way knows that where vampire's are concerned I'm most likely not to make healthy relationship choices, but every now and then there is a sentence in this book that makes me want to throw it across the room. Edward is just so, well, proprietary. And Bella is just so incompetent. She's a magnet for trouble which is okay really, makes for good drama, but he saves her again and again from things she could conceivably save herself.
I think that is the part of the book I had formerly written off as too "high school" and that I found untenable as a romance. I'm long past the age of damsel in distress, mostly cause I learned long ago that you can't count on someone else to save you, but Edward's behavior makes me want to punch him the balls! He tells her what to do, manhandles her , stalks her, obsesses over her--these are all behaviors that in real life would not be hot. I want you to know that I know that's not okay. But somehow, in this stupid melodramatic mess of a teenage love story, it works.
I hate everything. And I hate myself for loving it.
I remember once, a long time ago, I was teasing my very best guy friend because he always seemed to date crazy girls. We're talking does-the-way-you-sneezed-mean-you-don't-love-me-anymore crazy. Time after time I would watch him walk into the same situation over and over again. Eventually, instead of just laughing at his inability to see the crazy for the trees, I attempted to offer helpful advice: advice like--don't date her, she crazy.
But in our ensuing conversations about dating crazy girls as a repetitive behavior I finally asked him, "Why do you keep dating obviously crazy, obviously unstable women?" Surprisingly he answered me honestly. He said simply, "Because it's more fun." Now, there are any number of ways to dissect that answer, and I'm not interested right now in considering possible addictions to drama, white knight syndrome, or possible feelings of being threatened by stable, independent women (I don't think he suffers from the last one at all, though the other two for sure) but I have to admit, openly, honestly, and not a little bit ashamedly--I agree with him. Crazy is more exciting.
As I say that, though, I'm painfully aware of two things: 1) crazy makes you miserable in the long run because, like sky diving, there's always the chance your chute won't open and you'll die from it. 2) me being crazy makes me miserable--I'm just not a dramatic person--well, not about anything outside of comic books and movies anyway. I'd rather be happy than sad; what can I say?
But you see, I watch stupid movies like Twilight and I read stupid books like Twilight and then I think...maybe I could have just a little drama? I mean, it wouldn't totally destroy my happiness to maybe be a little miserable over a vampire that may, or may not eat me right? And to be faced with giving up everyone I love and care about so that I can live eternally off animal's blood while loving him might not be that bad of a choice to make right? Right?
It's a stupid book. I only wish my very logical and very knowledgeable awareness that such an existence with such a pushy vampire would bring me great sadness and angst would allow me to not want to read said book. This is not promoting healthy gender roles!
My sexuality would be so much healthier if it weren't for the undead.
But here's the deal. I watched the movie, sort of liked it in a way I will never admit to in public, and now I'm trying to read the book again. The last time I tried I ended up putting it down because it was just so...well...high school. The angst, the drama, the everything--I long outgrew that mode of yearning. But, as the movie taught me in a rather harsh and unforgiving way, I have not outgrown it as much as I would like to think. I am, unfortunately, not dead inside. Who knew that realization would make me sad.
The point, however (and there is a point), is that this book, while more fun then I remember it being, makes me want to throw it across the room. I know I overreact sometimes, and anyone who knows me in any casual way knows that where vampire's are concerned I'm most likely not to make healthy relationship choices, but every now and then there is a sentence in this book that makes me want to throw it across the room. Edward is just so, well, proprietary. And Bella is just so incompetent. She's a magnet for trouble which is okay really, makes for good drama, but he saves her again and again from things she could conceivably save herself.
I think that is the part of the book I had formerly written off as too "high school" and that I found untenable as a romance. I'm long past the age of damsel in distress, mostly cause I learned long ago that you can't count on someone else to save you, but Edward's behavior makes me want to punch him the balls! He tells her what to do, manhandles her , stalks her, obsesses over her--these are all behaviors that in real life would not be hot. I want you to know that I know that's not okay. But somehow, in this stupid melodramatic mess of a teenage love story, it works.
I hate everything. And I hate myself for loving it.
I remember once, a long time ago, I was teasing my very best guy friend because he always seemed to date crazy girls. We're talking does-the-way-you-sneezed-mean-you-don't-love-me-anymore crazy. Time after time I would watch him walk into the same situation over and over again. Eventually, instead of just laughing at his inability to see the crazy for the trees, I attempted to offer helpful advice: advice like--don't date her, she crazy.
But in our ensuing conversations about dating crazy girls as a repetitive behavior I finally asked him, "Why do you keep dating obviously crazy, obviously unstable women?" Surprisingly he answered me honestly. He said simply, "Because it's more fun." Now, there are any number of ways to dissect that answer, and I'm not interested right now in considering possible addictions to drama, white knight syndrome, or possible feelings of being threatened by stable, independent women (I don't think he suffers from the last one at all, though the other two for sure) but I have to admit, openly, honestly, and not a little bit ashamedly--I agree with him. Crazy is more exciting.
As I say that, though, I'm painfully aware of two things: 1) crazy makes you miserable in the long run because, like sky diving, there's always the chance your chute won't open and you'll die from it. 2) me being crazy makes me miserable--I'm just not a dramatic person--well, not about anything outside of comic books and movies anyway. I'd rather be happy than sad; what can I say?
But you see, I watch stupid movies like Twilight and I read stupid books like Twilight and then I think...maybe I could have just a little drama? I mean, it wouldn't totally destroy my happiness to maybe be a little miserable over a vampire that may, or may not eat me right? And to be faced with giving up everyone I love and care about so that I can live eternally off animal's blood while loving him might not be that bad of a choice to make right? Right?
It's a stupid book. I only wish my very logical and very knowledgeable awareness that such an existence with such a pushy vampire would bring me great sadness and angst would allow me to not want to read said book. This is not promoting healthy gender roles!
My sexuality would be so much healthier if it weren't for the undead.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
So I saw Twilight today. I pretty much figured I would; as much as the book annoyed me (or the half of it that I read) this was a movie about vampires and eternal love, and I can't not go to that. It wasn't perfect, but I enjoyed it significantly more than I thought I would. My biggest beef was actually the makeup job on Edward Cullen--that's the vampire lover all the girls are mooning over. Yes, he's supposed to be pasty white and beautiful, but I don't think that has to translate into red, red lipstick and heavy eye makeup. I mean, can't a man be beautiful without looking feminine? I think the answer to that is yes. And not even that so-called feminine beauty is a bad thing, Johnny Depp comes to mind, but the makeup can't be obvious--it needs to look natural. I think that's my problem; his face was unnatural. Yes, I'm aware he's a vampire, a state which by definition is slightly unnatural, but don't quibble with me over this. Lipstick is rarely a good thing a man.
Regardless of all of that, however, if ever there was a topic that deserved a top ten list, this is it. I don't normally do two in a row like this, but vampires conquer all. You thought it was love--silly you.
Top Ten Things That Are Only Hot When Said/Performed/Or Otherwise Connected With A Vampire
10. Clothing with lace anywhere on it
It's time to level: lace is not hot. It's frilly; it's Victorian--it's hopelessly itchy. Nobody wants to hug a man in lace, be saved by a man in lace, or even have sexual thoughts about a man in lace. And yet, when worn by a vampire, suddenly the frilly shirt is completely acceptable. I can't explain why; it defies all known laws of science, but the evidence is there. The ability to look utterly masculine in frilly shirts is obviously the vampire's lesser known superpower.
9. Extreme mood changes
Nobody likes someone whose mood changes faster than weather in the midwest. He's smiling at you, suddenly his rage is nearly uncontrollable, but now he's sulky--it's okay he loves you more than life itself and is wants to make sweet, sweet love...now he's crying. Unexplainable mood swings are decidedly unhot. You stick moodiness on a guy with fangs, though; it's all just part and parcel with his tortured soul.
8. Non-stop brooding
Like the above mood swings someone that rarely smiles because he is constantly brooding inevitably looses his mystery when the brooding pushes him from deep and thoughtful into whiny and annoying. He's sullen and serious, why--because he's constantly thinking such deep and ponderous thoughts? Nobody feels that much weight unless...he's a vampire. Then we have constant inner battle of need for blood and need to be a good man all topped off with a healthy dose of saving the world or some equivalent. This behavior is also acceptable in Batman.
7. Remarking on his inability to control himself around you and/or how he cannot lose control with you
Generally when a guy says I can't control myself around you, or I must maintain control for your safety I take a hike. Why? Because a need to kiss me senseless and overwhelming love is sexy, but I've got to maintain control so I don't eat you (literally) is not. Old dude is a vampire, though, and his inability to resist your scent/aura/blood whatever suddenly makes for incredible sexual tension. Cannibals unhot--Vampires hot. There is no logic or emotional health to these truths.
6. Engaging in sexual relationships with significantly age inappropriate partners
You meet an older guy that falls in love with girls fifty, sixty, a hundred years his junior and it's hard to believe it's true love. I've seen those couples on the Strip--there's nothing fairytale about them, I promise. But when you're eternal youth keeps you somewhere between 17 and 35 forever well...isn't everyone too young for you then? So what if you're 90 and she's 17, you're a vampire!
5. Excessive sniffing or commentary on one's smell
This one's tricky because smell can be a very hot thing between two people. Often if you like the way someone smells it's a great indicator of attraction. But a person sniffing you, especially prior to hello is rarely comforting or engaging. Also, when hanging with a man I don't know how to reply when he is constantly remarking on how he loves my "scent." Throws me a bit. Illogically, when his sniffing is tied to a burning desire to suck my blood I'm suddenly okay with it. This one is also acceptable with werewolves.
4. Breaking into your bedroom to watch you sleep
This is the behavior of a stalker. When it's Dracula, or Angel, or Edward we call it sexy. Don't ask me why.
3. Constant staring
Mr. Darcy got away with it in Pride and Prejudice. Every other time I've seen it happen the situation ended badly. Starring denotes obsession. Obsession denotes crazy. Crazy obsession becomes not only tolerable, but desirable when presented by someone with eternal life and a desire to eat me. Let's hope none of my friends ever need me to save them from a vampire. He stares at me at and I'm toast.
2. Refusal to acknowledge his love for you and/or to let you close
When someone obviously loves you, wants you, needs you, blah blah blah, I find I am very inconsiderate of the drama that must be conquered for him to proclaim that love. I know; I have no soul. Basically, though, my thoughts are this: are you a vampire? No? Suck it up and ask the girl out--you'll get over it if she says no. If you're a vampire, well then, you can't just have a normal relationship so things become more complicated--totally understandable. If one is already in a relationship and can't open up to one's partner I am again unsympathetic--yes, I'm a cold, cold woman we know this--and have little more than a get over it for the poor sod whose been hurt so badly in the past. But if you're a vampire and somehow you did end up with a human date you might not have told them everything, or maybe you've got to keep them at a distance for some vampirey reason. Mostly what I'm saying here is if there's going to be excessive Shakespearean relationship drama somebody better be a gosh darn vampire or there's really no excuse.
1. Eternal love at the cost of your humanity
I may not have a soul, but I don't give up my humanity for just anyone. I know there are girls that fall in love with killers on death row through the mail, and women that seek out men who'll treat them badly, but if he's going to brood, sniff me, stare at me, make me cry, push me away, pull me close, cut me off, endanger me, want to eat me, and wear lace he better be a vampire. It's not that I want to date a bad boy, exactly, but if I date him I want eternal love to be part of the equation. There needs to be a serious pay off for all that drama.
So, as with all rules, there are minor exceptions to some of these behaviors (Batman, werewolves) but in general the above are only acceptable when the lover performing them is a vampire. I spoke of them in terms of a man because I'm a heterosexual female, but gentlemen, I think these are good rules for women as well. Does anyone want to date a person that breaks into their bedroom to watch them sleep unless that person is a vampire? I think not. And if you do, you deserve whatever crazy comes your way.
Regardless of all of that, however, if ever there was a topic that deserved a top ten list, this is it. I don't normally do two in a row like this, but vampires conquer all. You thought it was love--silly you.
Top Ten Things That Are Only Hot When Said/Performed/Or Otherwise Connected With A Vampire
10. Clothing with lace anywhere on it
It's time to level: lace is not hot. It's frilly; it's Victorian--it's hopelessly itchy. Nobody wants to hug a man in lace, be saved by a man in lace, or even have sexual thoughts about a man in lace. And yet, when worn by a vampire, suddenly the frilly shirt is completely acceptable. I can't explain why; it defies all known laws of science, but the evidence is there. The ability to look utterly masculine in frilly shirts is obviously the vampire's lesser known superpower.
9. Extreme mood changes
Nobody likes someone whose mood changes faster than weather in the midwest. He's smiling at you, suddenly his rage is nearly uncontrollable, but now he's sulky--it's okay he loves you more than life itself and is wants to make sweet, sweet love...now he's crying. Unexplainable mood swings are decidedly unhot. You stick moodiness on a guy with fangs, though; it's all just part and parcel with his tortured soul.
8. Non-stop brooding
Like the above mood swings someone that rarely smiles because he is constantly brooding inevitably looses his mystery when the brooding pushes him from deep and thoughtful into whiny and annoying. He's sullen and serious, why--because he's constantly thinking such deep and ponderous thoughts? Nobody feels that much weight unless...he's a vampire. Then we have constant inner battle of need for blood and need to be a good man all topped off with a healthy dose of saving the world or some equivalent. This behavior is also acceptable in Batman.
7. Remarking on his inability to control himself around you and/or how he cannot lose control with you
Generally when a guy says I can't control myself around you, or I must maintain control for your safety I take a hike. Why? Because a need to kiss me senseless and overwhelming love is sexy, but I've got to maintain control so I don't eat you (literally) is not. Old dude is a vampire, though, and his inability to resist your scent/aura/blood whatever suddenly makes for incredible sexual tension. Cannibals unhot--Vampires hot. There is no logic or emotional health to these truths.
6. Engaging in sexual relationships with significantly age inappropriate partners
You meet an older guy that falls in love with girls fifty, sixty, a hundred years his junior and it's hard to believe it's true love. I've seen those couples on the Strip--there's nothing fairytale about them, I promise. But when you're eternal youth keeps you somewhere between 17 and 35 forever well...isn't everyone too young for you then? So what if you're 90 and she's 17, you're a vampire!
5. Excessive sniffing or commentary on one's smell
This one's tricky because smell can be a very hot thing between two people. Often if you like the way someone smells it's a great indicator of attraction. But a person sniffing you, especially prior to hello is rarely comforting or engaging. Also, when hanging with a man I don't know how to reply when he is constantly remarking on how he loves my "scent." Throws me a bit. Illogically, when his sniffing is tied to a burning desire to suck my blood I'm suddenly okay with it. This one is also acceptable with werewolves.
4. Breaking into your bedroom to watch you sleep
This is the behavior of a stalker. When it's Dracula, or Angel, or Edward we call it sexy. Don't ask me why.
3. Constant staring
Mr. Darcy got away with it in Pride and Prejudice. Every other time I've seen it happen the situation ended badly. Starring denotes obsession. Obsession denotes crazy. Crazy obsession becomes not only tolerable, but desirable when presented by someone with eternal life and a desire to eat me. Let's hope none of my friends ever need me to save them from a vampire. He stares at me at and I'm toast.
2. Refusal to acknowledge his love for you and/or to let you close
When someone obviously loves you, wants you, needs you, blah blah blah, I find I am very inconsiderate of the drama that must be conquered for him to proclaim that love. I know; I have no soul. Basically, though, my thoughts are this: are you a vampire? No? Suck it up and ask the girl out--you'll get over it if she says no. If you're a vampire, well then, you can't just have a normal relationship so things become more complicated--totally understandable. If one is already in a relationship and can't open up to one's partner I am again unsympathetic--yes, I'm a cold, cold woman we know this--and have little more than a get over it for the poor sod whose been hurt so badly in the past. But if you're a vampire and somehow you did end up with a human date you might not have told them everything, or maybe you've got to keep them at a distance for some vampirey reason. Mostly what I'm saying here is if there's going to be excessive Shakespearean relationship drama somebody better be a gosh darn vampire or there's really no excuse.
1. Eternal love at the cost of your humanity
I may not have a soul, but I don't give up my humanity for just anyone. I know there are girls that fall in love with killers on death row through the mail, and women that seek out men who'll treat them badly, but if he's going to brood, sniff me, stare at me, make me cry, push me away, pull me close, cut me off, endanger me, want to eat me, and wear lace he better be a vampire. It's not that I want to date a bad boy, exactly, but if I date him I want eternal love to be part of the equation. There needs to be a serious pay off for all that drama.
So, as with all rules, there are minor exceptions to some of these behaviors (Batman, werewolves) but in general the above are only acceptable when the lover performing them is a vampire. I spoke of them in terms of a man because I'm a heterosexual female, but gentlemen, I think these are good rules for women as well. Does anyone want to date a person that breaks into their bedroom to watch them sleep unless that person is a vampire? I think not. And if you do, you deserve whatever crazy comes your way.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
It's Thanksgiving! It occurred to me that everyone else was doing "grateful" lists so I should really be no different. I'm nothing if not a follower.
The Top Ten Things I'm Grateful For (notice I didn't say most grateful or anything silly like that--you're most grateful for any number of things depending on your mood i.e. in a desert you're most grateful for water, shade, and savior. In the middle of the ocean water doesn't really factor in. See what I mean?)
Top Ten Thanks
10. Electric Blankets
You won't really understand this one unless you know my parents house. There is no heat upstairs (or in some rooms downstairs) and so many years of my mother's menopause needing it to be cold has created a sort of heat vacuum. So when I come home, especially now that I've been sissified by the desert, I just accept that my hands and feet will be cold. That's where the electric blanket comes in. It's warm, it's cuddly, it makes my body feel all good and comforted. It's kind of like a lover that doesn't take up the bed or steal your covers since, you know, it is the cover.
9. T.V. on D.V.D.
I cannot begin to express how thankful I am for T.V. on DVD. Best invention EVER. Ever. Really. 24 episodes (approximately) of my favorite characters with no commercials. Storylines that are complex and over-arching. Best thing ever. Honest.
8. Beautiful People
I wanted to put Spartans on the list. But then I thought, if I'm going to include objectified men I should balance that out with wonderful people that are just great. And then I thought, screw it, I'll just say "beautiful people." I'm happy for people that are good and whose beauty shines from within as well as without. And yes, I am grateful for people that make their livings as actors in itty bitty teeny tiny little leather panties. I try to be a full and complex individual.
7. Duct Tape
Are any of us not thankful for Duct Tape? That's what I thought.
6. Chocolate Chip Cookies
Somewhere, sometime, someone looked at flour, sugar, butter, eggs, and vanilla and thought "something great can be invented here." They were right, and I am a better person for it.
5. Books
They make me happy. They provide me with emotional fulfillment. They give me heroes and heroines that I love and adore. There's a reason I chose to make my living in literature.
4. Movies
Better than books cause they're shinier. There's picture, sound, and dialogue. And sometimes scantily clad barbarians saving babies and fighting for freedom.
3. Playtime Buddies
I'm implying masturbatory aids with this one. I trust the reasoning for thanks are self-explanatory (ah-ha-ha).
2. Indoor Plumbing
You know what's awesome? Not having to drop your pants in thirty degree weather. Or poop in a pan you throw out the window every night. There is no downside to this.
1. Controllable Crazy
This one might seem surprising, but as I look back on my life and my experiences I realized that I'm not "crazy" in the way some (or many) people are. And I'm not talking schizophrenic or bi-polar, though those count, but I don't have a personality disorder. I'm not wracked by anxiety, guilt, or depression. I control my life as much as I am able and generally don't drive people away...except for the crazy ones. So I wanted to take a minute and give thanks for that. I figure I need to love it up as much as I can for the next twenty years before menopause takes all semblance of control away from me.
So have a Happy Thanksgiving!
The Top Ten Things I'm Grateful For (notice I didn't say most grateful or anything silly like that--you're most grateful for any number of things depending on your mood i.e. in a desert you're most grateful for water, shade, and savior. In the middle of the ocean water doesn't really factor in. See what I mean?)
Top Ten Thanks
10. Electric Blankets
You won't really understand this one unless you know my parents house. There is no heat upstairs (or in some rooms downstairs) and so many years of my mother's menopause needing it to be cold has created a sort of heat vacuum. So when I come home, especially now that I've been sissified by the desert, I just accept that my hands and feet will be cold. That's where the electric blanket comes in. It's warm, it's cuddly, it makes my body feel all good and comforted. It's kind of like a lover that doesn't take up the bed or steal your covers since, you know, it is the cover.
9. T.V. on D.V.D.
I cannot begin to express how thankful I am for T.V. on DVD. Best invention EVER. Ever. Really. 24 episodes (approximately) of my favorite characters with no commercials. Storylines that are complex and over-arching. Best thing ever. Honest.
8. Beautiful People
I wanted to put Spartans on the list. But then I thought, if I'm going to include objectified men I should balance that out with wonderful people that are just great. And then I thought, screw it, I'll just say "beautiful people." I'm happy for people that are good and whose beauty shines from within as well as without. And yes, I am grateful for people that make their livings as actors in itty bitty teeny tiny little leather panties. I try to be a full and complex individual.
7. Duct Tape
Are any of us not thankful for Duct Tape? That's what I thought.
6. Chocolate Chip Cookies
Somewhere, sometime, someone looked at flour, sugar, butter, eggs, and vanilla and thought "something great can be invented here." They were right, and I am a better person for it.
5. Books
They make me happy. They provide me with emotional fulfillment. They give me heroes and heroines that I love and adore. There's a reason I chose to make my living in literature.
4. Movies
Better than books cause they're shinier. There's picture, sound, and dialogue. And sometimes scantily clad barbarians saving babies and fighting for freedom.
3. Playtime Buddies
I'm implying masturbatory aids with this one. I trust the reasoning for thanks are self-explanatory (ah-ha-ha).
2. Indoor Plumbing
You know what's awesome? Not having to drop your pants in thirty degree weather. Or poop in a pan you throw out the window every night. There is no downside to this.
1. Controllable Crazy
This one might seem surprising, but as I look back on my life and my experiences I realized that I'm not "crazy" in the way some (or many) people are. And I'm not talking schizophrenic or bi-polar, though those count, but I don't have a personality disorder. I'm not wracked by anxiety, guilt, or depression. I control my life as much as I am able and generally don't drive people away...except for the crazy ones. So I wanted to take a minute and give thanks for that. I figure I need to love it up as much as I can for the next twenty years before menopause takes all semblance of control away from me.
So have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
An Explanation Of My Feminism
Feminism is a dirty word. To be called a feminist in modern society is generally unflattering. Of my female students, most being approximately 18, they would rather be thought of as anything else. Slut, whore, prude--all of these are preferable to feminist. This is surprising for two reasons: the first, that many of these young women are incredibly religious and would hate to be thought sexually promiscuous or prudish (not fun); the second, that many of them believe they are equal to men and should be evaluated based on their merits, not their gender. It is the second one that truly intrigues me because that is the definition of feminist, but when I point this out to them they argue with me.
There have been three (approximately) waves of feminism so far; the first occurred during the suffrage movement, early 20th century, and was pioneered by women such as Virginia Woolf and Susan B. Anthony. Women were recognized for the first time as independent, equal members of society and this was signified most powerfully in their being given the right to vote. The second wave began in the 1960's; some might say it started with the French Feminists, chiefly Simone de Beauvoir, but it's origins are more mucky than that. Suffice to say these are the bra-burners, the man-haters, the flag wavers--they are also the women who vocalized, in many cases for the first time, what it was like to live and exist as a woman and to state outwardly, sometimes angrily, but always clearly that female existence is different than male existence and that was okay. The third wave of feminism is still taking place, but it is commonly termed post-structuralist feminism and has resulted in more social changes, equal pay for equal work, new ways of looking at literature, movies, art, and society, and the most famous name currently is perhaps Judith Butler.
The problem with feminism, as with anything, is that no two people exist with the same understanding of what it is, what it means, or what it has done. Language is a malleable thing and the meaning of any word is decided by a plethora of factors. Meaning exists on levels--the first level exists between the speaker and the listener. The meaning the speaker intended and the meaning the listener understands collide and, in the case of communication, coincides. The next level exists societally within both the speaker and the listener; the speaker understands a word with all the knowledge previously acquired--that includes dictionaries, familial and school influence, media, and folkloric aspects. A listener understands a word with all of these aspects in place as well. In the case of feminism the dictionary and educational definition, a social ideology proclaiming equality amongst all people, is often overrun by the familial, media, and folkloric definitions--man-hating, bra burning women who wish to create an Amazonian state where males are enslaved and all recognize the superiority of women. I am of course being dramatic in picking the most extreme popular ideas of feminism, but I've known enough people, myself included, who carried this definition of angry Amazons in varying incarnations to feel confident in its validity as an example.
It does not take any particular set of characteristics to be a feminist--age, gender, occupation, and education in no way decide whether one is or is not a feminist, though all may have a part in the likelihood. The current social negativity directed towards feminists and feminism exists for many, many reasons which I will not go into here because I don't want to write a 20 page paper, and you don't want to read it. I would say the chief reason, though, is that social change is very, very hard and very, very messy. People have made mistakes on all sides; they always do. There are women and men who have claimed themselves as feminists that have no more in common with feminists than fanatics do with the religion they claim justifies their actions. After all, today's revolutionary makes tomorrow's ruler. Despite those who have misused the feminist movement for selfish, viscous, or simply misunderstood means, feminism--as a concept, a social movement, and a way of life--is still an important and vital way of looking at and discussing society. Feminism is the validation of existence for the marginalized and the silenced; it has gotten women the right to vote, allowed employment opportunities outside the home, and given a voice to those whose experiences were previously invalidated because of their gender. I do not believe, and will never agree, that equality is a bad thing.
Feminism does not exist in the ether on its own; it exists only within the minds of those who believe, understand, and consciously pursue it. This means that many different forms of feminism exist, some of them hopelessly perverted. Other feminists are not to blame for those perversions any more than all Muslims are to blame for Al Queda, or all Christians for the KKK. Feminism, no matter the form it takes, will always be uncomfortable because it is constantly challenging ideas promoted by society, families, and media--part of the reason these challenges are so discomfiting is that feminism forces people to think about other's reactions, and their own, in a way that most people are never prepared to do. That means that in some cases, sexual harassment for example, the listener's understanding of meaning overrules the speaker's intention. What the speaker intended as harmless flirting feels to the listener like harassment. To know that you have discomfited someone--weirded them out--is a terribly disturbing experience. However, their right not to feel harassed, no matter how oversensitive they are or how harmless your intent, overrules your right to joke/flirt in a manner that makes them uncomfortable. In a perfect situation when a joke/flirt happens that upsets someone that person would express his/her feelings of ill-ease, the speaker would apologize and all would go on with their day. This isn't a perfect world and some people abuse the right to claim harassment or blow a comment entirely out of proportion. Perfect communication comes when the listener meets the speaker half-way--this is as true in this situation as any other.
Awareness of another's feelings, however, is more important than the speaker's comfort and the inconvenience of sitting through those god awful sexual harassment videos when you get a new job. This is because when you exist in the margin, whether because of your ethnicity, gender, or sexuality, people constantly make comments that range from thoughtlessly offensive to intentionally hurtful. If you're native American you're a mascot, and you are supposed to feel flattered that a caricature of you dances around a field mocking serious cultural and spiritual behaviors. If you're a homosexual it's understood that when someone declares a negative action "gay" they aren't really talking about you or your lifestyle, only using the signifier of your lifestyle as an icon of negativity. If you're a woman you are supposed to look over the fact that all negative emotions are attributed to femininity, being illogical, weak, weepy, needy, crazy, and positive characteristics are thought of as masculine qualities, strength, logical ability, control of oneself.
Feminists began the discussion about what happens to a person when everything about themselves that is unchangeable is described negatively--ethnicity, sexuality, or gender. If you grow up female you are raised in a world of painfully conflicting messages; be strong, be loud, be what you want to be/be quiet, stay home, play the damsel in distress. You are taught that you should snare a man while simultaneously told you don't need a man. These messages are further conflicted by complications of societal treatment of sex and biology that I'm not going into because this explanation is already out of control. This state of conflicting messages is not unique to women or minorities, but the inability to voice feelings about the conflict, to use language that describes one's unique experience as outside the dominant hegemonic group is. White, straight males are as full of conflict, emotion, and human condition as any other demographic; however, the voice of white, straight, male experience has dominated literature, society, and oral stories for well over two millennia. This does not mean that a man does not have a unique experience, everyone has a unique experience, but it does mean that other demographics have existed in a sphere of silence that is inconceivable to those who haven't and feminism, along with other ideologies, has given language to that silence. I cannot conceive of what it would be like to be black, but I recognize the need for black voices in print and media. I cannot conceive of what it would be like to be male, but I recognize the need for male voices in print and media. I do know what it is like to be female, and recognizing the need for female voices alongside the voices of others I speak here and other places.
In my opinion, giving voice and working towards a more equal, understanding, and dialogic world is what feminism is all about.
My experience at Blockbuster, as stated multiple times but somehow misinterpreted, had nothing to do with the man who was kind enough to compliment me. I appreciated it then, as I previously stated, and I still appreciate it now. My discussion of that experience had to do with being a woman and existing in a state, through no one particular person, group, or gender's fault, where frustrating well intentioned dialogue is constantly, unintentionally, double-edged. That wasn't the speaker's fault, in this case the man at the store, it was a response from me the listener that he carries no blame for. But unless I talk about it, unless I express my experience of it, then others who might make the same comment will never know that it evokes an unintended reaction. That's why I speak--to give value and meaning to my existence.
Society is in the middle of an upheaval right now; competing voices are making demands that cannot possibly all be met. Men are constantly villainized as rapists, pedophiles, and chauvinists by those that would judge them for their gender. However, to judge me as a feminist based on others is the same mistake. We stereotype because it's easy, not because we have to--I am as guilty as others sometimes. I appreciate a door held for me, and I appreciate a pleasant compliment. But my personal belief is that true politeness and goodness is practiced by both genders equally, and it happens when one does something nice for someone not because they have to or feel required to but because they want to. Don't hold the door for me because I'm a woman, hold the door for me because you're polite. I will do the same. That is, I think, the key to a better world and better society.
There are many, many more things I would like to include here, but this is already ridiculously long. Despite its length, however, I would ask that all read the whole thing before forming responses to my existence as a feminist. It isn't about one gender over another or one ideology brainwashing a nation; it's about equality and understanding for each individual and the means and ability to achieve happiness and enlightenment.
Feminism is a dirty word. To be called a feminist in modern society is generally unflattering. Of my female students, most being approximately 18, they would rather be thought of as anything else. Slut, whore, prude--all of these are preferable to feminist. This is surprising for two reasons: the first, that many of these young women are incredibly religious and would hate to be thought sexually promiscuous or prudish (not fun); the second, that many of them believe they are equal to men and should be evaluated based on their merits, not their gender. It is the second one that truly intrigues me because that is the definition of feminist, but when I point this out to them they argue with me.
There have been three (approximately) waves of feminism so far; the first occurred during the suffrage movement, early 20th century, and was pioneered by women such as Virginia Woolf and Susan B. Anthony. Women were recognized for the first time as independent, equal members of society and this was signified most powerfully in their being given the right to vote. The second wave began in the 1960's; some might say it started with the French Feminists, chiefly Simone de Beauvoir, but it's origins are more mucky than that. Suffice to say these are the bra-burners, the man-haters, the flag wavers--they are also the women who vocalized, in many cases for the first time, what it was like to live and exist as a woman and to state outwardly, sometimes angrily, but always clearly that female existence is different than male existence and that was okay. The third wave of feminism is still taking place, but it is commonly termed post-structuralist feminism and has resulted in more social changes, equal pay for equal work, new ways of looking at literature, movies, art, and society, and the most famous name currently is perhaps Judith Butler.
The problem with feminism, as with anything, is that no two people exist with the same understanding of what it is, what it means, or what it has done. Language is a malleable thing and the meaning of any word is decided by a plethora of factors. Meaning exists on levels--the first level exists between the speaker and the listener. The meaning the speaker intended and the meaning the listener understands collide and, in the case of communication, coincides. The next level exists societally within both the speaker and the listener; the speaker understands a word with all the knowledge previously acquired--that includes dictionaries, familial and school influence, media, and folkloric aspects. A listener understands a word with all of these aspects in place as well. In the case of feminism the dictionary and educational definition, a social ideology proclaiming equality amongst all people, is often overrun by the familial, media, and folkloric definitions--man-hating, bra burning women who wish to create an Amazonian state where males are enslaved and all recognize the superiority of women. I am of course being dramatic in picking the most extreme popular ideas of feminism, but I've known enough people, myself included, who carried this definition of angry Amazons in varying incarnations to feel confident in its validity as an example.
It does not take any particular set of characteristics to be a feminist--age, gender, occupation, and education in no way decide whether one is or is not a feminist, though all may have a part in the likelihood. The current social negativity directed towards feminists and feminism exists for many, many reasons which I will not go into here because I don't want to write a 20 page paper, and you don't want to read it. I would say the chief reason, though, is that social change is very, very hard and very, very messy. People have made mistakes on all sides; they always do. There are women and men who have claimed themselves as feminists that have no more in common with feminists than fanatics do with the religion they claim justifies their actions. After all, today's revolutionary makes tomorrow's ruler. Despite those who have misused the feminist movement for selfish, viscous, or simply misunderstood means, feminism--as a concept, a social movement, and a way of life--is still an important and vital way of looking at and discussing society. Feminism is the validation of existence for the marginalized and the silenced; it has gotten women the right to vote, allowed employment opportunities outside the home, and given a voice to those whose experiences were previously invalidated because of their gender. I do not believe, and will never agree, that equality is a bad thing.
Feminism does not exist in the ether on its own; it exists only within the minds of those who believe, understand, and consciously pursue it. This means that many different forms of feminism exist, some of them hopelessly perverted. Other feminists are not to blame for those perversions any more than all Muslims are to blame for Al Queda, or all Christians for the KKK. Feminism, no matter the form it takes, will always be uncomfortable because it is constantly challenging ideas promoted by society, families, and media--part of the reason these challenges are so discomfiting is that feminism forces people to think about other's reactions, and their own, in a way that most people are never prepared to do. That means that in some cases, sexual harassment for example, the listener's understanding of meaning overrules the speaker's intention. What the speaker intended as harmless flirting feels to the listener like harassment. To know that you have discomfited someone--weirded them out--is a terribly disturbing experience. However, their right not to feel harassed, no matter how oversensitive they are or how harmless your intent, overrules your right to joke/flirt in a manner that makes them uncomfortable. In a perfect situation when a joke/flirt happens that upsets someone that person would express his/her feelings of ill-ease, the speaker would apologize and all would go on with their day. This isn't a perfect world and some people abuse the right to claim harassment or blow a comment entirely out of proportion. Perfect communication comes when the listener meets the speaker half-way--this is as true in this situation as any other.
Awareness of another's feelings, however, is more important than the speaker's comfort and the inconvenience of sitting through those god awful sexual harassment videos when you get a new job. This is because when you exist in the margin, whether because of your ethnicity, gender, or sexuality, people constantly make comments that range from thoughtlessly offensive to intentionally hurtful. If you're native American you're a mascot, and you are supposed to feel flattered that a caricature of you dances around a field mocking serious cultural and spiritual behaviors. If you're a homosexual it's understood that when someone declares a negative action "gay" they aren't really talking about you or your lifestyle, only using the signifier of your lifestyle as an icon of negativity. If you're a woman you are supposed to look over the fact that all negative emotions are attributed to femininity, being illogical, weak, weepy, needy, crazy, and positive characteristics are thought of as masculine qualities, strength, logical ability, control of oneself.
Feminists began the discussion about what happens to a person when everything about themselves that is unchangeable is described negatively--ethnicity, sexuality, or gender. If you grow up female you are raised in a world of painfully conflicting messages; be strong, be loud, be what you want to be/be quiet, stay home, play the damsel in distress. You are taught that you should snare a man while simultaneously told you don't need a man. These messages are further conflicted by complications of societal treatment of sex and biology that I'm not going into because this explanation is already out of control. This state of conflicting messages is not unique to women or minorities, but the inability to voice feelings about the conflict, to use language that describes one's unique experience as outside the dominant hegemonic group is. White, straight males are as full of conflict, emotion, and human condition as any other demographic; however, the voice of white, straight, male experience has dominated literature, society, and oral stories for well over two millennia. This does not mean that a man does not have a unique experience, everyone has a unique experience, but it does mean that other demographics have existed in a sphere of silence that is inconceivable to those who haven't and feminism, along with other ideologies, has given language to that silence. I cannot conceive of what it would be like to be black, but I recognize the need for black voices in print and media. I cannot conceive of what it would be like to be male, but I recognize the need for male voices in print and media. I do know what it is like to be female, and recognizing the need for female voices alongside the voices of others I speak here and other places.
In my opinion, giving voice and working towards a more equal, understanding, and dialogic world is what feminism is all about.
My experience at Blockbuster, as stated multiple times but somehow misinterpreted, had nothing to do with the man who was kind enough to compliment me. I appreciated it then, as I previously stated, and I still appreciate it now. My discussion of that experience had to do with being a woman and existing in a state, through no one particular person, group, or gender's fault, where frustrating well intentioned dialogue is constantly, unintentionally, double-edged. That wasn't the speaker's fault, in this case the man at the store, it was a response from me the listener that he carries no blame for. But unless I talk about it, unless I express my experience of it, then others who might make the same comment will never know that it evokes an unintended reaction. That's why I speak--to give value and meaning to my existence.
Society is in the middle of an upheaval right now; competing voices are making demands that cannot possibly all be met. Men are constantly villainized as rapists, pedophiles, and chauvinists by those that would judge them for their gender. However, to judge me as a feminist based on others is the same mistake. We stereotype because it's easy, not because we have to--I am as guilty as others sometimes. I appreciate a door held for me, and I appreciate a pleasant compliment. But my personal belief is that true politeness and goodness is practiced by both genders equally, and it happens when one does something nice for someone not because they have to or feel required to but because they want to. Don't hold the door for me because I'm a woman, hold the door for me because you're polite. I will do the same. That is, I think, the key to a better world and better society.
There are many, many more things I would like to include here, but this is already ridiculously long. Despite its length, however, I would ask that all read the whole thing before forming responses to my existence as a feminist. It isn't about one gender over another or one ideology brainwashing a nation; it's about equality and understanding for each individual and the means and ability to achieve happiness and enlightenment.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Cultural guilt is a powerful thing. We don’t enjoy being blamed for behaviors we didn’t enact or condone, nor do we enjoy recognizing any aspect of those former beliefs in our current persona. It is a hard thing to seek knowledge, as a feminist or civil rights activist or whatever label we want to apply—perhaps post-colonialist is best. It is even harder to express thoughts of existence, right or wrong, knowing there are those that don’t only misunderstand or disagree, but hate you for your perceived stupidity. Nothing is more detrimental to education and communication than attack without urge to listen. The previous presidential election, discussions of my feminist ideologies, my decision to refuse to stay quiet have consistently put in me situations where people forcefully disagree with me. I want to be a person that does not shy away from challenges of what I say, but that want is easier held than idealized. Responding to powerful, emotional arguments is also difficult because my ire is raised and my first impulse is to attack back. That does no one any good, though, and for this reason I am both going to engage in the conversation to the best of my ability and I am not going to remove comments. Should the conversation devolve, however, into nothing more than attack-oriented comments with no genuine urge to understand on either side, I will delete all negative posts with nary a word spoken about them.
First, and most importantly, I would never punch someone in the face for a compliment. My hyperbole was used for particular rhetorical effect and understanding authorial intent is as much a reader’s responsibility as it is an author’s responsibility to anticipate the reader’s response. Alongside that is my second point. My experience is my own and is being presented here as nothing more in a space of free speech. This means that no matter how well intentioned, I am sometimes the recipient of what some would term compliments that are not wholly complimentary. Not because of the intention of the complimenter, but because they are operating from a standpoint and ideology that is unaware of an existence outside their own. These sorts of compliments, like an older wealthy man telling me he is proud of me for being such a good girl, are not offered with intention to hurt, but do nonetheless. I speak about these things because I feel the best way to broaden perspective and complicate thinking is to speak of differing experience, regardless of how uncomfortable such sharing can be.
Finally, and not least importantly, I bear no ill will towards anyone who compliments me nor am I sorry it happened. My irritation is with a greater ideology of the world—an ideology that is still going strong as evidenced through the powerful responses my story begot. I am not a man hater, a compliment hater, or any sort of hater; merely a person sharing observations as untoward as they may be at times because I see value in it. This is not an apology but an explanation.
To disagree with someone through moral superiority and judgment with no clear attempt at understanding what they are saying is precisely what I am attempting to avoid with this explanation. But regardless of my personality flaws, of which there are many, and the reasons for my beliefs and reactions, of which there are more, I am not sorry for my response to the nice man at Blockbuster (which was nothing but appreciative in my actions and gestures) or for my continued espousal of what I think and why.
That is the last I will say on this particular topic, though I will always clarify my thoughts as requested in an effort to communicate as I want to, not only as is comfortable for me.
First, and most importantly, I would never punch someone in the face for a compliment. My hyperbole was used for particular rhetorical effect and understanding authorial intent is as much a reader’s responsibility as it is an author’s responsibility to anticipate the reader’s response. Alongside that is my second point. My experience is my own and is being presented here as nothing more in a space of free speech. This means that no matter how well intentioned, I am sometimes the recipient of what some would term compliments that are not wholly complimentary. Not because of the intention of the complimenter, but because they are operating from a standpoint and ideology that is unaware of an existence outside their own. These sorts of compliments, like an older wealthy man telling me he is proud of me for being such a good girl, are not offered with intention to hurt, but do nonetheless. I speak about these things because I feel the best way to broaden perspective and complicate thinking is to speak of differing experience, regardless of how uncomfortable such sharing can be.
Finally, and not least importantly, I bear no ill will towards anyone who compliments me nor am I sorry it happened. My irritation is with a greater ideology of the world—an ideology that is still going strong as evidenced through the powerful responses my story begot. I am not a man hater, a compliment hater, or any sort of hater; merely a person sharing observations as untoward as they may be at times because I see value in it. This is not an apology but an explanation.
To disagree with someone through moral superiority and judgment with no clear attempt at understanding what they are saying is precisely what I am attempting to avoid with this explanation. But regardless of my personality flaws, of which there are many, and the reasons for my beliefs and reactions, of which there are more, I am not sorry for my response to the nice man at Blockbuster (which was nothing but appreciative in my actions and gestures) or for my continued espousal of what I think and why.
That is the last I will say on this particular topic, though I will always clarify my thoughts as requested in an effort to communicate as I want to, not only as is comfortable for me.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
I was renting movies at Blockbuster yester eve when the employee said something funny, annoying, sweet, and heartbreaking to me: he said, "these are really good movie choices--you know if I wasn't married..." and then he gave a friendly smile/giggle combination. I made small talk and wished him well, but inside I kind of wanted to punch him the face. The reason for this is that this comment, like so many others I've heard over the years, falls into the category of "You're so cool I bet you make someone a fantastic girlfriend/wife someday, but it won't be me because I'm not actually attracted to you at all." Obviously this particular instance was different as he was married, but it was precisely the sort of throw away comment that reminds me time and time again how attractive and awesome I am in theory to most every guy I meet, just not in actuality.
The best metaphor I could conceive to explain my feelings about this is a bit unorthodox: I feel like the dude in the wheelchair at the marathon to whom the runners say "I really respect your spirit and courage to keep going." That sort of theoretical you're so awesome mentality which is undercut by a fervent desire to never be me.
I don't know exactly why I bring this up except that it's been on my mind a lot lately. I've known men that I've wished all the happiness and love in the world, but would never ever date myself. But I don't think I've ever told them they will make someone a great boyfriend/husband some day. There is something about that statement that reeks of "I'm so proud of you"--a statement I never respond well to unless I've just saved a baby or stayed true to my morals in the face of absolute evil.
I hate it when married guys tell me how awesome I am because there are two meanings to it and neither of them is acceptable. The first meaning is that I have a great personality and because they are happily married with all of their sexual needs met they look at no one with particular sexual approval or disapproval and so comment on my awesomeness as they would a well trained dog that belongs to someone else. The second meaning is that they are unhappily married and so whatever part of me seems to fill the void created by their lack of happiness becomes exceptionally appealing and they are seriously contemplating cheating--that skeezes me out to no end. Nothing turns me off quicker than a man looking to make me his mistress.
As a brilliant friend of mine said most men are constantly trying to make women less--less physically and less metaphysically. I'm not offering this as a stereotype or judgment, but only as a statement of experience I and other women have had. It isn't that they are trying to hurt us; they only want to contain us, take care of us, handle us. They've been raised since they were born to take care of women, as we were raised to find a man who could take care of us.
Some would say that's biology, but I don't buy it. In nature no other species is so bifurcated by gender; the females aren't housed, domesticated, and protected because they are smaller and weaker. They are expected to hunt, protect, and birth. Each species deals with reproduction differently, but the notion that women have evolved as the protected by men is bunk, I think. I think consciousness of sexual politics, consciousness itself changes everything about gender relations as it does all other aspects of our life.
I'm not denying biology here, but I think I am floating the argument that whatever biological urges we have are so overwrought with societal messages and expectations that it is nearly impossible to tell the two apart. We have chemistry with particular people which seems to speak towards biology, but we have such complicated and ingrained social expectations of behavior from the opposite sex that if someone acts in a particular way they become unattractive despite physical appeal. This is countered by objectification, appreciation and value decided purely by physicality, but objectification seems to arise chiefly in an attempt to assert control. Men don't want to find a beautiful woman unattractive because of her personality so she is taught not to talk; as women take on these less positive aspects of society in modern attempts at equality they begin objectifying men in the same ways for the same reasons. Sex, therefore, becomes an end instead of a means and the body the only viable decider in sexuality. We then begin manipulating the body for it to be the most attractive object it can be--waxing, crash dieting, weight lifting for appearance as opposed to strength. Like beautiful dolls that talk we also limit our personalities, try to make ourselves less, so that the object--our body--is as untainted by excessive complications as possible.
In the end our bodies aren't objects, they house people, and those who thought they were in love and understood the other person become miserable because neither one is capable of dealing with themselves let alone someone else. The scary thing is (there are many scary things, but this is one) that women's lib struggled so long to change this pattern and as women rebelled against feminist ideals they began to perpetuate it themselves. We objectify because we can, but never stop to think if we should.
I don't know where I'm going with any of this, other than general dissatisfaction with the state of the world and gender politics today. There's nothing particularly revolutionary or brilliant about what I've stated above, it just is. And it did make me feel good to have the Blockbuster man appreciate my movie choices--it's always fun to fascinate someone.
Maybe I'm just fed up with having to hear, over and over again, if I were different, and you were different, and things were different, they would be different. It's also entirely possible I should stop studying gender politics of the early modern period; perhaps all that talk of women as the progenitors of sin and inherently evil makes me a tad angry at the world, yes? Quite right.
The best metaphor I could conceive to explain my feelings about this is a bit unorthodox: I feel like the dude in the wheelchair at the marathon to whom the runners say "I really respect your spirit and courage to keep going." That sort of theoretical you're so awesome mentality which is undercut by a fervent desire to never be me.
I don't know exactly why I bring this up except that it's been on my mind a lot lately. I've known men that I've wished all the happiness and love in the world, but would never ever date myself. But I don't think I've ever told them they will make someone a great boyfriend/husband some day. There is something about that statement that reeks of "I'm so proud of you"--a statement I never respond well to unless I've just saved a baby or stayed true to my morals in the face of absolute evil.
I hate it when married guys tell me how awesome I am because there are two meanings to it and neither of them is acceptable. The first meaning is that I have a great personality and because they are happily married with all of their sexual needs met they look at no one with particular sexual approval or disapproval and so comment on my awesomeness as they would a well trained dog that belongs to someone else. The second meaning is that they are unhappily married and so whatever part of me seems to fill the void created by their lack of happiness becomes exceptionally appealing and they are seriously contemplating cheating--that skeezes me out to no end. Nothing turns me off quicker than a man looking to make me his mistress.
As a brilliant friend of mine said most men are constantly trying to make women less--less physically and less metaphysically. I'm not offering this as a stereotype or judgment, but only as a statement of experience I and other women have had. It isn't that they are trying to hurt us; they only want to contain us, take care of us, handle us. They've been raised since they were born to take care of women, as we were raised to find a man who could take care of us.
Some would say that's biology, but I don't buy it. In nature no other species is so bifurcated by gender; the females aren't housed, domesticated, and protected because they are smaller and weaker. They are expected to hunt, protect, and birth. Each species deals with reproduction differently, but the notion that women have evolved as the protected by men is bunk, I think. I think consciousness of sexual politics, consciousness itself changes everything about gender relations as it does all other aspects of our life.
I'm not denying biology here, but I think I am floating the argument that whatever biological urges we have are so overwrought with societal messages and expectations that it is nearly impossible to tell the two apart. We have chemistry with particular people which seems to speak towards biology, but we have such complicated and ingrained social expectations of behavior from the opposite sex that if someone acts in a particular way they become unattractive despite physical appeal. This is countered by objectification, appreciation and value decided purely by physicality, but objectification seems to arise chiefly in an attempt to assert control. Men don't want to find a beautiful woman unattractive because of her personality so she is taught not to talk; as women take on these less positive aspects of society in modern attempts at equality they begin objectifying men in the same ways for the same reasons. Sex, therefore, becomes an end instead of a means and the body the only viable decider in sexuality. We then begin manipulating the body for it to be the most attractive object it can be--waxing, crash dieting, weight lifting for appearance as opposed to strength. Like beautiful dolls that talk we also limit our personalities, try to make ourselves less, so that the object--our body--is as untainted by excessive complications as possible.
In the end our bodies aren't objects, they house people, and those who thought they were in love and understood the other person become miserable because neither one is capable of dealing with themselves let alone someone else. The scary thing is (there are many scary things, but this is one) that women's lib struggled so long to change this pattern and as women rebelled against feminist ideals they began to perpetuate it themselves. We objectify because we can, but never stop to think if we should.
I don't know where I'm going with any of this, other than general dissatisfaction with the state of the world and gender politics today. There's nothing particularly revolutionary or brilliant about what I've stated above, it just is. And it did make me feel good to have the Blockbuster man appreciate my movie choices--it's always fun to fascinate someone.
Maybe I'm just fed up with having to hear, over and over again, if I were different, and you were different, and things were different, they would be different. It's also entirely possible I should stop studying gender politics of the early modern period; perhaps all that talk of women as the progenitors of sin and inherently evil makes me a tad angry at the world, yes? Quite right.
Monday, November 17, 2008
I was fortunate enough to see the newest James Bond this weekend and naturally I began plotting my response to it here where all could see. Just recently, however, I noticed an article on msn written by someone who had never seen a James Bond film until recently. I read it because I too had never seen a film until four or five years ago and I wasn't astounded to hear that someone else had lived her life without watching every single film multiple times. I was bothered by one part of it, however; apparently the Pierce Brosnan Bond's are skewered for being politically correct. They took out everything but the puns--something I hadn't noticed. These new ones are a return to a more gritty Bond. There are several things wrong with this statement; first that Craig has more in common with Dalton and Brosnan than Moore and Pierce Brosnan was by far better than Roger Moore (I hate Roger Moore; I should throw that out there). Second, that Daniel Craig never hits a woman either...but somehow he's edgey where Pierce Brosnan was politically correct. I think we as a society just wake up one day and assume the values we've assimilated were always there.
In any case! What I want to write about, what I set out to write about, what must be written about is:
The Top Ten Reasons Why James Bond Rocks My Pants Off
010 Incredibly Lucky
It's that about which we never speak: Mr. Bond is incredibly lucky. How is it he manages to stumble across the bad guys at just the right moments? How is it he manages not to get shot in the head? How is it his villains always underestimate him? Sure, some of it's skill, training, all around greatness, but James Bond is one lucky bastard.
009 Butt-kicking Awesomeness
When luck isn't enough Mr. Bond is, quite simply, Butt-kickingly awesome. I thought about how I could say this more seriously or sophisticatedly or 007y, but I can only speak the truth. The man can out shoot, out run, and out *ahem* well, you know, everyone on both sides of the Atlantic. This is really the reason from which all following reasons follow. How would you put it?
008 Man Can Drive A Car
Generally I'm not a car girl. Yes, a car that growls as opposed to whines is a beautiful thing, but guys driving their Porsches and their BMW's just don't do anything for me. But James doesn't just drive a nice car; James uses that car in ways that are groin-tingling spectacular.
007 Great in the Sack
It had to be said. As a red blooded, heterosexual female you have to wonder. Sure, in some of the early films he hits you, but only when you ask for it.
006 Can't Keep A Good Spy Down
He just won't die. You can shoot him; you can drown him. You can throw him off a cliff to sharks with lasers on their heads. But he won't die. Revisit 010 and 009.
005 Smarter Than Your Average Bad Guy
Q makes the gadgets, but Bond is somehow able to use them with only rudimentary training. And he always figures out the evil plots with very minimal sleuth work. And, AND while the bad guy is soliloquizing Bond is preparing his escape. Intelligence is so hot.
004 A.M./F.M.--Animal Magnetism/Formidable Masculinity
Most times someone has one or the other. Example A) Captain Jack Sparrow--magnetism, but not much in the way of masculinity. Example B) Any Arnold Schwarzenegger character--lots of masculinity but no magnetism. James Bond, though, has them both in spades. You never doubt for a minute that he's sexy, and you know, whether he's in a tux, a swim suit, or some all black, spandex, super spy get up, that he's all man.
003 B.B.S.B.--Bad Boy Saving Babies
Dear James doesn't like to follow rules. That makes him a bad boy. But he breaks the rules to save babies and, you know, the world. That makes him hot.
002 Stays Cool Under Pressure...Until He Doesn't
Torture, femme fatales, imminent death--nothing throws ol' James. He's stoic and cool through the whole movie, until someone does something and pushes him over the edge. Those moments, when he loses it, are only so powerful because his coolness is so complete previously. It isn't that he has a temper or lack of control or anything so mundane as that. Quite simply...James Bond is a man that I would love to push over the edge.
001 Super Spy
Super spies are the real life equivalent to superheroes. Their ability to save the day seems almost like a superpower, and their continual bad luck with women and happiness gives them a bit of noir detective feel. Basically what has happened there is a stew of hotness. All the best parts of everyone's favorite archetypes have been thrown together, mixed on high, and baked until Bonded.
So it is that while he's chauvinistic, egotistic, perhaps even masochistic I would still, if given half an opportunity, allow my pants to totally be rocked off by James Bond. So what if I'm only a notch in the bed post? It's gonna be a heck of a lot of fun making said notch.
In any case! What I want to write about, what I set out to write about, what must be written about is:
The Top Ten Reasons Why James Bond Rocks My Pants Off
010 Incredibly Lucky
It's that about which we never speak: Mr. Bond is incredibly lucky. How is it he manages to stumble across the bad guys at just the right moments? How is it he manages not to get shot in the head? How is it his villains always underestimate him? Sure, some of it's skill, training, all around greatness, but James Bond is one lucky bastard.
009 Butt-kicking Awesomeness
When luck isn't enough Mr. Bond is, quite simply, Butt-kickingly awesome. I thought about how I could say this more seriously or sophisticatedly or 007y, but I can only speak the truth. The man can out shoot, out run, and out *ahem* well, you know, everyone on both sides of the Atlantic. This is really the reason from which all following reasons follow. How would you put it?
008 Man Can Drive A Car
Generally I'm not a car girl. Yes, a car that growls as opposed to whines is a beautiful thing, but guys driving their Porsches and their BMW's just don't do anything for me. But James doesn't just drive a nice car; James uses that car in ways that are groin-tingling spectacular.
007 Great in the Sack
It had to be said. As a red blooded, heterosexual female you have to wonder. Sure, in some of the early films he hits you, but only when you ask for it.
006 Can't Keep A Good Spy Down
He just won't die. You can shoot him; you can drown him. You can throw him off a cliff to sharks with lasers on their heads. But he won't die. Revisit 010 and 009.
005 Smarter Than Your Average Bad Guy
Q makes the gadgets, but Bond is somehow able to use them with only rudimentary training. And he always figures out the evil plots with very minimal sleuth work. And, AND while the bad guy is soliloquizing Bond is preparing his escape. Intelligence is so hot.
004 A.M./F.M.--Animal Magnetism/Formidable Masculinity
Most times someone has one or the other. Example A) Captain Jack Sparrow--magnetism, but not much in the way of masculinity. Example B) Any Arnold Schwarzenegger character--lots of masculinity but no magnetism. James Bond, though, has them both in spades. You never doubt for a minute that he's sexy, and you know, whether he's in a tux, a swim suit, or some all black, spandex, super spy get up, that he's all man.
003 B.B.S.B.--Bad Boy Saving Babies
Dear James doesn't like to follow rules. That makes him a bad boy. But he breaks the rules to save babies and, you know, the world. That makes him hot.
002 Stays Cool Under Pressure...Until He Doesn't
Torture, femme fatales, imminent death--nothing throws ol' James. He's stoic and cool through the whole movie, until someone does something and pushes him over the edge. Those moments, when he loses it, are only so powerful because his coolness is so complete previously. It isn't that he has a temper or lack of control or anything so mundane as that. Quite simply...James Bond is a man that I would love to push over the edge.
001 Super Spy
Super spies are the real life equivalent to superheroes. Their ability to save the day seems almost like a superpower, and their continual bad luck with women and happiness gives them a bit of noir detective feel. Basically what has happened there is a stew of hotness. All the best parts of everyone's favorite archetypes have been thrown together, mixed on high, and baked until Bonded.
So it is that while he's chauvinistic, egotistic, perhaps even masochistic I would still, if given half an opportunity, allow my pants to totally be rocked off by James Bond. So what if I'm only a notch in the bed post? It's gonna be a heck of a lot of fun making said notch.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
So I just saw an ad for "laser hair removal" and it got me thinking about hair and places where I view it should and should not be. On the one hand it would really nice to never have to shave my legs or armpits again, but on the other side I wasn't sure I appreciated technology that exists only to remove hair.
All of this inevitably led me to thoughts to pubic hair, as hair removal conversations always do, and I remembered a good friend recently confirming my thought that if you shave your vagina you look 12--at least in between your legs. I find this disturbing and she finds this disturbing. But then I started thinking a little more and I decided that we, modern civilized people that we are, have all been pansified.
People have been having good sex for well over a couple millennia now and for most of that time hair was not an issue. They had other things like bound feet, or corseted waists, or female circumcision (all three of which are still in existence) but nobody was being grossed out by body hair. Maybe when everybody poops in a bowl body hair becomes less gross by comparison.
But in my opinion--and I apologize for the complete and total judgment about to take place--if you get grossed out by body hair or are bothered by it in any serious way you're a wuss. That's not the popular opinion these days because we like things to be clean, and well kept--as if my vagina were somehow a domesticated animal or small house for entertaining guests. But can we just think about the logic here? Please? You're having sex, people, and you're worried about the cleanliness of skin that does or does not have hair? Did you not taste the spit in your mouth? Or the various other bodily fluids? Hello!
I don't want to get too gross here, but I want to be as clear as possible that drawing etiquette lines in the bedroom is a mildly hypocritical act. Somebody peeing on somebody is an obvious health hazard; someone shaving or not shaving their body is not. And it isn't that I think someone shouldn't appreciate an aesthetic that appeals to them, but the moral responsibility we have attached to the aesthetic is what bothers me. If a woman doesn't shave, wax, or at least trim she's dirty and unkempt. And, for clarification, I'm not discussing keeping one's self in the one's swimsuit--that's a given, and has no bearing on this conversation. I'm rebelling against the idea that unsightly pubic hair has taken on the social significance of the mullet.
We scoff at unshaved bodies the same way we scoff at mullets and fanny-packs. Were I a better person I would take this as a lesson not to scoff at mullets and fanny-packs any longer, but I probably won't. But mullets and f.p's don't exist in natural naturally. Hair doesn't believe in business in the front while it parties in the back unless you're Joe Dirt and even his hair wasn't like that naturally. But the societal concept of my pubic hair as a fashion faux pas is causing me indigestion. I think the idea of my body as an inconvenience to someone desiring sex is indicative of a much larger, and scarier, issue in our society at large.
How dare you be the way you are when it limits my ease and pleasure?
Not something you would want to say to someone, right? Or have said to you? And yet, we change ourselves everyday so that it won't have to be said, or implied, in our direction. It isn't simply an aesthetic choice at this point; it's become expected and desired--a development of the last twenty years or so.
I'm still thinking on the implications of all of this, but regardless of what is decided I still stand by original claim:
If pubic hair bothers you all that much, you're a pansy.
This judgment brought to you by the FPBS--Fanny Pack Broadcasting Network.
All of this inevitably led me to thoughts to pubic hair, as hair removal conversations always do, and I remembered a good friend recently confirming my thought that if you shave your vagina you look 12--at least in between your legs. I find this disturbing and she finds this disturbing. But then I started thinking a little more and I decided that we, modern civilized people that we are, have all been pansified.
People have been having good sex for well over a couple millennia now and for most of that time hair was not an issue. They had other things like bound feet, or corseted waists, or female circumcision (all three of which are still in existence) but nobody was being grossed out by body hair. Maybe when everybody poops in a bowl body hair becomes less gross by comparison.
But in my opinion--and I apologize for the complete and total judgment about to take place--if you get grossed out by body hair or are bothered by it in any serious way you're a wuss. That's not the popular opinion these days because we like things to be clean, and well kept--as if my vagina were somehow a domesticated animal or small house for entertaining guests. But can we just think about the logic here? Please? You're having sex, people, and you're worried about the cleanliness of skin that does or does not have hair? Did you not taste the spit in your mouth? Or the various other bodily fluids? Hello!
I don't want to get too gross here, but I want to be as clear as possible that drawing etiquette lines in the bedroom is a mildly hypocritical act. Somebody peeing on somebody is an obvious health hazard; someone shaving or not shaving their body is not. And it isn't that I think someone shouldn't appreciate an aesthetic that appeals to them, but the moral responsibility we have attached to the aesthetic is what bothers me. If a woman doesn't shave, wax, or at least trim she's dirty and unkempt. And, for clarification, I'm not discussing keeping one's self in the one's swimsuit--that's a given, and has no bearing on this conversation. I'm rebelling against the idea that unsightly pubic hair has taken on the social significance of the mullet.
We scoff at unshaved bodies the same way we scoff at mullets and fanny-packs. Were I a better person I would take this as a lesson not to scoff at mullets and fanny-packs any longer, but I probably won't. But mullets and f.p's don't exist in natural naturally. Hair doesn't believe in business in the front while it parties in the back unless you're Joe Dirt and even his hair wasn't like that naturally. But the societal concept of my pubic hair as a fashion faux pas is causing me indigestion. I think the idea of my body as an inconvenience to someone desiring sex is indicative of a much larger, and scarier, issue in our society at large.
How dare you be the way you are when it limits my ease and pleasure?
Not something you would want to say to someone, right? Or have said to you? And yet, we change ourselves everyday so that it won't have to be said, or implied, in our direction. It isn't simply an aesthetic choice at this point; it's become expected and desired--a development of the last twenty years or so.
I'm still thinking on the implications of all of this, but regardless of what is decided I still stand by original claim:
If pubic hair bothers you all that much, you're a pansy.
This judgment brought to you by the FPBS--Fanny Pack Broadcasting Network.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
I'm rereading a fantastic book from my adolescent years and I find I can't put it down. It's an amazing thing to have a book that affected you as a child still be as fun and insightful to read as an adult. For those interested it's the Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind and I highly recommend them to anyone seeking a fun, fantasy filled adventure. My point, however, is that as I am reading it the female protagonist cries about every one hundred pages or so, sometimes less--I just read a line where she lamented how much she cries saying she rarely cried all her life, but seems to cry constantly in the continuum of the story. I cut her some slack; she's tromping through the wild fighting to save the world. I figure that's a trying situation for the best of us.
But this got me thinking about how much crying I've seen in Las Vegas. Not so much from me, I cry about as much (or as little) as I ever have, but it seems that every month, or week, or day, my phone rings and the person on the other end is in tears. This hasn't been a constant occurrence in my life since late high school, early college. The one shining point is that I haven't caused the tears, but I'm constantly surprised that I am the one people call when shedding said tears. I'm not a nurturer. I'm a fixer. I only want tears when they are attached to a situation I can fix.
But this has me thinking about the nature of the city I live in and the people I know. I've gotten meaner since I moved here, both in thought and deed. I've tried to avoid it when I am aware of it, but I find my patience with people is much less than it used to be, and my expressions of my annoyance are much sharper and sometimes cattier. There's no need to make fun of what someone looks like just because their comments consistently irritate the crap out of me in class, but I am constantly gravitating that way. I shouldn't scream at the phone when I see people calling, but I fear what's waiting for me on the other side if I pick up.
Is it the city? Is it the school? Is it the people? I know amazing people here. I've met some of the best writers I've ever read, and had amazing conversations about all metaphysical topics graduate students love to discuss. I've had nights that were so much fun I didn't want them to end and nights that were so much fun it seemed the hangover never would end. The craziness doesn't seem to affect everyone by any means, but the extremes are significantly more varied than anywhere else I have lived in my life. It's almost as if everyone in this town lives at a pole--good or bad, sane or crazy. I'm still not sure where I am--if the screen runs with tears as I complain that no one loves me we'll have our answer.
I've joked that Las Vegas is the eight rings of Dante's hell; maybe it's living in a climate that wasn't made to support our life comfortably. Everything out here wants to kill you--the weather, the animals, the people--so perhaps it creates an environment that brings out the crazy in all of us. It could be an economy that's based solely on vice; Las Vegas is sort of like the final years of Rome recreated in the desert. I don't know myself, it's a quandary that still baffles understanding.
The obvious answer is that I simply shouldn't answer my phone, but I begin to feel that my journey into meanness would be complete if I did that. On the other hand, my own crazy is being exacerbated by the surrounding crazy crying at me every other day. So the philosophical question of the day is: is it more humane to be a friend even when those needing your friendship drive you crazy with their own instability or should you cut them off and not answer the phone? Of course if I don't answer the phone a voicemail will be left and at some point a call back made. Unless I can get around it with text messaging. God Bless text messages.
So that's where life stands in the city of sin. Overall it's pretty darn fun, and I'll probably never regret my time here, certainly there are friends I'm constantly grateful I've had the chance to know. But, I wonder what little mental gems I'll be taking with me when I leave in a year or two--will I come out with my soul intact, or calling all of you, crazy and inconsolable?
Only time will tell...duh duh duhn...(dramatic music)
But this got me thinking about how much crying I've seen in Las Vegas. Not so much from me, I cry about as much (or as little) as I ever have, but it seems that every month, or week, or day, my phone rings and the person on the other end is in tears. This hasn't been a constant occurrence in my life since late high school, early college. The one shining point is that I haven't caused the tears, but I'm constantly surprised that I am the one people call when shedding said tears. I'm not a nurturer. I'm a fixer. I only want tears when they are attached to a situation I can fix.
But this has me thinking about the nature of the city I live in and the people I know. I've gotten meaner since I moved here, both in thought and deed. I've tried to avoid it when I am aware of it, but I find my patience with people is much less than it used to be, and my expressions of my annoyance are much sharper and sometimes cattier. There's no need to make fun of what someone looks like just because their comments consistently irritate the crap out of me in class, but I am constantly gravitating that way. I shouldn't scream at the phone when I see people calling, but I fear what's waiting for me on the other side if I pick up.
Is it the city? Is it the school? Is it the people? I know amazing people here. I've met some of the best writers I've ever read, and had amazing conversations about all metaphysical topics graduate students love to discuss. I've had nights that were so much fun I didn't want them to end and nights that were so much fun it seemed the hangover never would end. The craziness doesn't seem to affect everyone by any means, but the extremes are significantly more varied than anywhere else I have lived in my life. It's almost as if everyone in this town lives at a pole--good or bad, sane or crazy. I'm still not sure where I am--if the screen runs with tears as I complain that no one loves me we'll have our answer.
I've joked that Las Vegas is the eight rings of Dante's hell; maybe it's living in a climate that wasn't made to support our life comfortably. Everything out here wants to kill you--the weather, the animals, the people--so perhaps it creates an environment that brings out the crazy in all of us. It could be an economy that's based solely on vice; Las Vegas is sort of like the final years of Rome recreated in the desert. I don't know myself, it's a quandary that still baffles understanding.
The obvious answer is that I simply shouldn't answer my phone, but I begin to feel that my journey into meanness would be complete if I did that. On the other hand, my own crazy is being exacerbated by the surrounding crazy crying at me every other day. So the philosophical question of the day is: is it more humane to be a friend even when those needing your friendship drive you crazy with their own instability or should you cut them off and not answer the phone? Of course if I don't answer the phone a voicemail will be left and at some point a call back made. Unless I can get around it with text messaging. God Bless text messages.
So that's where life stands in the city of sin. Overall it's pretty darn fun, and I'll probably never regret my time here, certainly there are friends I'm constantly grateful I've had the chance to know. But, I wonder what little mental gems I'll be taking with me when I leave in a year or two--will I come out with my soul intact, or calling all of you, crazy and inconsolable?
Only time will tell...duh duh duhn...(dramatic music)
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Oh fine. I have to write about Prop 8 in California. I started any number of comments about Obama winning the election, silly people and their misunderstandings of socialism, but ultimately I talked myself out of making remarks. They seemed redundant and unnecessary. But California voted for Prop 8 and repealed Gay Marriage and that is worth thinking about.
I understand some of the fear behind resisting Same Sex Marriage--religious people are afraid that a change in federal law will affect churches. Understanding that allows me to be more knowledgeable about their views and even sympathetic to a point; we don't have particularly concrete separation of church and state and recent years have forced a lot of the traditional powers in our country to make way for minorities. That can be disconcerting. But even understanding all of this...I just don't care. I'm about to get very undemocratic here for just a second.
I don't care that Same Sex Marriage seems unnatural to most of the country. I don't care that churches and church-goers are worried about losing their right to decide social morality. I don't care that not everyone in this country can tolerate equality. I don't think you should have to move to another state to have equitable rights with other human beings. I don't think you should have to pick your geographic location based on your race, sexuality, or religion. Same Sex Marriage isn't a gun control law, or an alcohol law, or a transportation law. We don't allow Alabama or Mississippi to pass a law that reinstates Separate but Equal. When it comes to race, matters of equality are considered fundamental because they fall under what the Constitution specifically lays out for the country: a right to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
Why isn't marriage a matter of equality? Why isn't the ability to be recognized by the government, state and federal, as a married couple as clearly unequal as Jim Crow laws? Because marriage between same sex partners is unnatural? Unnecessary? Detrimental to society? All of those arguments were used against bi-racial marriage not that long ago. For a black person and white person to be sexual together was considered an abomination. Does anyone else find that funny? I'm laughing.
How do we, as a society, decide our morals and ethics? Thus far, despite separation of church and state, it seems religion, specifically Christianity, has been our go to. But we live in a country of varied religion and no religion; how can we force people to obey a law that is based on religion? What reasons, outside religious ones, are there for denying Same Sex Marriage? It isn't dangerous; it isn't hurtful. It isn't bad for the economy--a marriage between two consenting adults agreeing to live with each other as a single household in the eyes of the State. Why must we pass a law that refuses to recognize that?
Please don't think I'm being anti-religion here. If you do, I feel that's a misreading of my statements. I'm stating there is no place for religion in government, and that no one has yet to offer a convincing argument for why Same Sex Marriage should be denied on a governmental level. Churches are a private sphere and must choose their tolerances as they see fit; there are many churches that recognize homosexuals as equal, healthy members of their community. There are many that don't. My quarrel is with none of them. My point is that we continue, as a society, to pass laws based on a morality that has no place in our government and we, as a people, continue to allow bigotry to rule.
I feel it is incredibly important that all start to realize our government needs to pass laws based on the ethicality of the situation--what is most ethical for society. Morality is a private issue and has no place in law. I say that because we all carry such intensely different morals, and while they rarely cancel each other out we need a government that can navigate the difference between the wide-ranging beliefs of its people. We need a government that will promote and protect a healthy, equal, and ethical society. Just because the majority votes to be bigoted in a state, I don't think the Constitution protects them.
In the intersection of personal rights I still believe that one's right to equality will always trump another's right to bigotry.
I understand some of the fear behind resisting Same Sex Marriage--religious people are afraid that a change in federal law will affect churches. Understanding that allows me to be more knowledgeable about their views and even sympathetic to a point; we don't have particularly concrete separation of church and state and recent years have forced a lot of the traditional powers in our country to make way for minorities. That can be disconcerting. But even understanding all of this...I just don't care. I'm about to get very undemocratic here for just a second.
I don't care that Same Sex Marriage seems unnatural to most of the country. I don't care that churches and church-goers are worried about losing their right to decide social morality. I don't care that not everyone in this country can tolerate equality. I don't think you should have to move to another state to have equitable rights with other human beings. I don't think you should have to pick your geographic location based on your race, sexuality, or religion. Same Sex Marriage isn't a gun control law, or an alcohol law, or a transportation law. We don't allow Alabama or Mississippi to pass a law that reinstates Separate but Equal. When it comes to race, matters of equality are considered fundamental because they fall under what the Constitution specifically lays out for the country: a right to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
Why isn't marriage a matter of equality? Why isn't the ability to be recognized by the government, state and federal, as a married couple as clearly unequal as Jim Crow laws? Because marriage between same sex partners is unnatural? Unnecessary? Detrimental to society? All of those arguments were used against bi-racial marriage not that long ago. For a black person and white person to be sexual together was considered an abomination. Does anyone else find that funny? I'm laughing.
How do we, as a society, decide our morals and ethics? Thus far, despite separation of church and state, it seems religion, specifically Christianity, has been our go to. But we live in a country of varied religion and no religion; how can we force people to obey a law that is based on religion? What reasons, outside religious ones, are there for denying Same Sex Marriage? It isn't dangerous; it isn't hurtful. It isn't bad for the economy--a marriage between two consenting adults agreeing to live with each other as a single household in the eyes of the State. Why must we pass a law that refuses to recognize that?
Please don't think I'm being anti-religion here. If you do, I feel that's a misreading of my statements. I'm stating there is no place for religion in government, and that no one has yet to offer a convincing argument for why Same Sex Marriage should be denied on a governmental level. Churches are a private sphere and must choose their tolerances as they see fit; there are many churches that recognize homosexuals as equal, healthy members of their community. There are many that don't. My quarrel is with none of them. My point is that we continue, as a society, to pass laws based on a morality that has no place in our government and we, as a people, continue to allow bigotry to rule.
I feel it is incredibly important that all start to realize our government needs to pass laws based on the ethicality of the situation--what is most ethical for society. Morality is a private issue and has no place in law. I say that because we all carry such intensely different morals, and while they rarely cancel each other out we need a government that can navigate the difference between the wide-ranging beliefs of its people. We need a government that will promote and protect a healthy, equal, and ethical society. Just because the majority votes to be bigoted in a state, I don't think the Constitution protects them.
In the intersection of personal rights I still believe that one's right to equality will always trump another's right to bigotry.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
So I'm walking home from school--always an exciting activity as I never know if I'll be honked at, asked if I'm on the "road to nowhere," or kissed by a homeless man. That's right--no one can say my life isn't eventful.
I pass a bus station every day, and many times an elderly Mexican man with a cowboy hat has been sitting at the bus stop. He's taken to smiling at me and I smile back because hey, I see the guy a few times a week as I pass by and my mother raised me to be polite. Today, though, today was like no other day. As I approach he smiles and I smile back. But then he raises his hands and says something. I pull my earphone out and he reaches out as if he wants to shake my hand. Not sensing any danger I grasp his hand to shake it, and he pulls it to him--what happened next couldn't be predicted by anyone.
He kissed my arm. That's right. Right there on the crook of my elbow. Just planted one on me. I still can't understand what he's saying, but I make out what sounds like "you're beautiful, you're beautiful" over and over again. Shocked, I bust out a thank you and he reaches up with his free hand--the other one still grasping the hand he pulled towards him to kiss my elbow--and pulls my head down so he can kiss my cheek. Then he kisses my hand once before I disentangle myself, still saying thank you, and walking away.
Now here's the thing: I have a fantasy--one of many actually. But in this particular fantasy a cowboy sees me walking down the street in L.V. and is so overcome with love/lust for me that he grabs me and kisses me before sweeping me off my feet and making the sweet loves to me. It's a fantasy, sure, but I've always felt it was a good one so far as fantasies go.
As evidenced by the story above, a man, in a cowboy hat, has seen me walking down the street and been so overcome with something for me that he has grabbed me and kissed me. That man was an elderly, most likely homeless, man with few teeth remaining. He was also several inches shorter than me--which only adds the oddity that he managed to get anywhere near my cheek for kiss number two.
Is the universe mocking me?!?!
Either, fate sent me a message to bolster my spirits and remind me of my astounding awesomeness through slightly unconventional means OR the universe has mocked me mercilessly and proven beyond all scientific certainty that my cowboy fantasy is not only a fantasy, but laughable and punishable by homeless kissing.
I don't know which it is, but I know I'm going to assume it's a message of hope. The other option is simply too disturbing and disheartening to consider.
No matter what it means, however, I'm claiming the title of Rockstar. I think I've earned it.
I pass a bus station every day, and many times an elderly Mexican man with a cowboy hat has been sitting at the bus stop. He's taken to smiling at me and I smile back because hey, I see the guy a few times a week as I pass by and my mother raised me to be polite. Today, though, today was like no other day. As I approach he smiles and I smile back. But then he raises his hands and says something. I pull my earphone out and he reaches out as if he wants to shake my hand. Not sensing any danger I grasp his hand to shake it, and he pulls it to him--what happened next couldn't be predicted by anyone.
He kissed my arm. That's right. Right there on the crook of my elbow. Just planted one on me. I still can't understand what he's saying, but I make out what sounds like "you're beautiful, you're beautiful" over and over again. Shocked, I bust out a thank you and he reaches up with his free hand--the other one still grasping the hand he pulled towards him to kiss my elbow--and pulls my head down so he can kiss my cheek. Then he kisses my hand once before I disentangle myself, still saying thank you, and walking away.
Now here's the thing: I have a fantasy--one of many actually. But in this particular fantasy a cowboy sees me walking down the street in L.V. and is so overcome with love/lust for me that he grabs me and kisses me before sweeping me off my feet and making the sweet loves to me. It's a fantasy, sure, but I've always felt it was a good one so far as fantasies go.
As evidenced by the story above, a man, in a cowboy hat, has seen me walking down the street and been so overcome with something for me that he has grabbed me and kissed me. That man was an elderly, most likely homeless, man with few teeth remaining. He was also several inches shorter than me--which only adds the oddity that he managed to get anywhere near my cheek for kiss number two.
Is the universe mocking me?!?!
Either, fate sent me a message to bolster my spirits and remind me of my astounding awesomeness through slightly unconventional means OR the universe has mocked me mercilessly and proven beyond all scientific certainty that my cowboy fantasy is not only a fantasy, but laughable and punishable by homeless kissing.
I don't know which it is, but I know I'm going to assume it's a message of hope. The other option is simply too disturbing and disheartening to consider.
No matter what it means, however, I'm claiming the title of Rockstar. I think I've earned it.
Monday, October 27, 2008
I give you "The Truth About Why Men Cheat" from msn.com. Here are a few reasons why I love this article: 1) It lists the following behaviors as if they are unique to men. 2) It offers the poor wives tips on how to prevent the cheating behavior. 3) It offers a universal truth broken down into 6 easy statistics so that you too can have a healthy, happy marriage.
First let's look at the reasons men cheat--the truth, if you will.
Emotional Dissatisfaction--now there's a surprise. Can you believe that men are capable of being emotionally dissatisfied and will cheat because of it? I was shocked. The point of the article was that cheating is rarely about sex because apparently the authors missed Psych 101 or a really helpful girl power website. Men are people. I never knew. My favorite part is that all I, as a (figurative) wife, have to do to keep my man happy is create an air "of thoughtfulness and appreciation and he will reciprocate." Obviously all emotional issues can be dealt with this way. Thank you msn.com
Cheating men report feeling guilt during the affair--I'm not sure how this plays into the "why" part of the title. The author is mostly informing the readers, again, that men are *gasp* people and you can't expect cheating only from the scumbags. But you can be a proactive wife and help him deal with the feelings he compartmentalized so that your husband, who is such a good man, doesn't stray.
77% of men who cheat have a friend who cheated--this one's a shocker folks! It's a good thing people never engage in morally reprehensible behaviors their friends do because the friends normalize it. I mean, can you imagine what our world would be like if this behavioral pattern existed outside of cheating? There could racism and sexism and bullying and gang rapes and lynch mobs and...wait a minute. And wifies, you aren't allowed to simply ban your husband from hanging out with his friend but you can build your social live around happily married couples--cause Mr. and Mrs. Suzie Sunshine don't make anyone feel the need to stab their eye out with a nearby utensil. I really feel like my marriage is going to be in better shape because of this advice.
Cheating men met the other woman at work--oh my gosh. Men cheat with people they work with?! Did you know this? I had no idea. Did you know that sometimes women *shh don't tell* cheat with men they work with too? But I mean, now that I know I can just ride my Harley into his work and pistol-whip the bitch. Oh, that's not an appropriate solution. I'm sorry.
Only 12% of men reported that their mistress was more attractive than their wife--well I don't know about you, but I know that would make me feel so much better if I was one of those wives. Because it's all about competition right ladies? Of course, if you fill his emotional needs but get ugly then he'll be one of the 12% instead of the eighty-eight. You just can't win.
Men rarely have sex with women the first night they meet them--so your husband takes the time to get to know this woman, to really understand her and share what he's feeling, and then he boffs her socks off. You, therefore, have time. Watch for the signs. You can see him sharing emotionally with a woman long before he shares his penis with her vagina. (I'm sorry, that was wholly inappropriate.)
So here's what we've learned ladies, ready? Men are people. Men have emotions. If your husband finds you cold, unsupportive, ugly, distracted, hurtful, mean, too tough, too needy, too anything or not enough of something he will cheat on you. You won't be able to tell if he's a cheater because cheaters are good people too. Wait, that means men AND people that cheat are actually people? With all the depth and character and complication of real people? It's just too much. I need to lie down.
Okay, I'm back. Thankfully, we have learned through msn.com that there are ways to cut the cheating off at the pass. Buy this book and follow these simple steps because obviously if your marriage is rocky enough for cheating to be a possibility you'll be totally capable and willing to genuinely adapt and make use of the advice this book offers.
I don't know why I do this to myself. Probably because I was sick of talking about politics and I thought for sure a little harmless fluff article would get my mind off of bigger issues. Now I'm just more pissed off. Why are all the dumb people relationship advice columnists?
http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/articlerb.aspx?cp-documentid=11290632&page=1
First let's look at the reasons men cheat--the truth, if you will.
Emotional Dissatisfaction--now there's a surprise. Can you believe that men are capable of being emotionally dissatisfied and will cheat because of it? I was shocked. The point of the article was that cheating is rarely about sex because apparently the authors missed Psych 101 or a really helpful girl power website. Men are people. I never knew. My favorite part is that all I, as a (figurative) wife, have to do to keep my man happy is create an air "of thoughtfulness and appreciation and he will reciprocate." Obviously all emotional issues can be dealt with this way. Thank you msn.com
Cheating men report feeling guilt during the affair--I'm not sure how this plays into the "why" part of the title. The author is mostly informing the readers, again, that men are *gasp* people and you can't expect cheating only from the scumbags. But you can be a proactive wife and help him deal with the feelings he compartmentalized so that your husband, who is such a good man, doesn't stray.
77% of men who cheat have a friend who cheated--this one's a shocker folks! It's a good thing people never engage in morally reprehensible behaviors their friends do because the friends normalize it. I mean, can you imagine what our world would be like if this behavioral pattern existed outside of cheating? There could racism and sexism and bullying and gang rapes and lynch mobs and...wait a minute. And wifies, you aren't allowed to simply ban your husband from hanging out with his friend but you can build your social live around happily married couples--cause Mr. and Mrs. Suzie Sunshine don't make anyone feel the need to stab their eye out with a nearby utensil. I really feel like my marriage is going to be in better shape because of this advice.
Cheating men met the other woman at work--oh my gosh. Men cheat with people they work with?! Did you know this? I had no idea. Did you know that sometimes women *shh don't tell* cheat with men they work with too? But I mean, now that I know I can just ride my Harley into his work and pistol-whip the bitch. Oh, that's not an appropriate solution. I'm sorry.
Only 12% of men reported that their mistress was more attractive than their wife--well I don't know about you, but I know that would make me feel so much better if I was one of those wives. Because it's all about competition right ladies? Of course, if you fill his emotional needs but get ugly then he'll be one of the 12% instead of the eighty-eight. You just can't win.
Men rarely have sex with women the first night they meet them--so your husband takes the time to get to know this woman, to really understand her and share what he's feeling, and then he boffs her socks off. You, therefore, have time. Watch for the signs. You can see him sharing emotionally with a woman long before he shares his penis with her vagina. (I'm sorry, that was wholly inappropriate.)
So here's what we've learned ladies, ready? Men are people. Men have emotions. If your husband finds you cold, unsupportive, ugly, distracted, hurtful, mean, too tough, too needy, too anything or not enough of something he will cheat on you. You won't be able to tell if he's a cheater because cheaters are good people too. Wait, that means men AND people that cheat are actually people? With all the depth and character and complication of real people? It's just too much. I need to lie down.
Okay, I'm back. Thankfully, we have learned through msn.com that there are ways to cut the cheating off at the pass. Buy this book and follow these simple steps because obviously if your marriage is rocky enough for cheating to be a possibility you'll be totally capable and willing to genuinely adapt and make use of the advice this book offers.
I don't know why I do this to myself. Probably because I was sick of talking about politics and I thought for sure a little harmless fluff article would get my mind off of bigger issues. Now I'm just more pissed off. Why are all the dumb people relationship advice columnists?
http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/articlerb.aspx?cp-documentid=11290632&page=1
Friday, October 24, 2008
Why I'm Voting for Obama and You Should Too: Part Deux
My last post has received a lot of action on Facebook so I feel it's time to offer clarification. While I do vote based on issues such as abortion and gay marriage those are not my only reasons for voting. Nor do I cease investigating candidates because of their stances on these issues. My calling out those people who do vote solely on those issues was for two reasons: 1) to vocalize the difference between standing for something and zealotry and 2) to engage in a thought experiment expressing why such zealotry is wrong.
This is the important part so everybody listen:
I do not lose sleep at night over abortion or the possibility of it being made illegal. I am aware of its complexity legally speaking. Abortion laws have suffered mightily in the past eight years, however, so to say that it is a non-issue is as fallacious as to say it is the only issue.
I do not think that Obama will reconstruct the country in four years either through gay marriage or any other social policy. I do think that the next President will have a significant impact on our policies and our economy, however, so to vote without considering how the candidate will handle the economy, education, health care, or equality seems a bit narrow-minded and I hate it when I'm narrow-minded.
The biggest arguments I see against Obama, excusing the silly ones like terrorism or racism, seem to be that he is a socialist and will force his socialist views on everyone and he is just like every other politician and won't change anything. Let's deal with socialism first.
Socialism is a highly charged term in our country that has been used since the cold war to frighten people into protecting Capitalism. Obama has no plans that anyone has heard him say or reported on to take the wealth of the rich and redistribute it to the poor. He does have plans to offer tax breaks to those who make less money instead of those that make more money. This is not redistribution of wealth, this is maintaining of wealth. Trickle down economics doesn't work. It didn't work under Regan and it isn't working now--the housing market collapse shows that. The poor and middle class will borrow attempting to live the American Dream, but when you tax them disproportionately to the rich they cannot sustain their viability in the economy. Offering tax breaks to those who make less than $250,000 a year makes the most sense--unless you make over $250,000 a year or believe (falsely) that you will soon. I don't want someone else's money, I want my money because I have less money to give away. This isn't a socialist take over of the economy. Healthcare receives the same treatment. I know those of you who are doctors or work in the healthcare industry have a much wiser and more educated view on this, but I do know that we are the only country of our size and development lacking in universal healthcare. England, France, and Canada all seem to make a go of it without losing their freedoms or rights. I'm just saying.
As to the charge that Obama is just like every other politician--full of empty rhetoric. I feel this was the greatest achievement of the Republican campaigning. The people that believe the terrorist stuff are the people that would vote Republican anyway, but many, many people who heard Obama speak and were moved by his words changed their minds once the empty rhetoric idea was bandied about. Everything is rhetoric--we all can agree on that. But not all rhetoric is empty; that's an important distinction. Obama's rhetoric, therefore, is not empty because it's "only" rhetoric; this was the same ploy used against evolution because it was "only" a theory. Obama has discussed issues, like race, in ways no politician to date has. No one that I have read speeches from or seen clips from has spoken so clearly and honestly about their beliefs as Obama. Yes, he is a politician; yes he is running a campaign. Concessions have been and had to be made because he has to persuade people who are uneducated and thoughtless. A great many of the people that vote do so based on ads they see on t.v. and soundbites on the evening news. When catering to that reality--a reality that must be accepted and dealt with if he wants to win, and he must win if he wants to affect change--his tactics had to adjust themselves. There is no real way to predict his presidency aside from the knowledge we have that he is intelligent--that's all we can know for sure. He appears to also be a moral, free-thinking individual willing to listen to advisers. He may affect no real change, and he may change a lot. But I do think we have reason to believe he will not make any decisions hastily without considering the consequences, because of his religion, or because he can't understand the complexities of the situation. That's a lot more than we can say for some past Presidents and I firmly believe he will make better decisions for this country and for me then will John McCain.
As a side note, Obama has also received criticism for some of the programs he wants to fund in the government, and I think it is erroneous to believe he will institute these programs without finding proper funding through balancing. Adding or revising programs does not negate revisiting old ones and streamlining.
My last post has received a lot of action on Facebook so I feel it's time to offer clarification. While I do vote based on issues such as abortion and gay marriage those are not my only reasons for voting. Nor do I cease investigating candidates because of their stances on these issues. My calling out those people who do vote solely on those issues was for two reasons: 1) to vocalize the difference between standing for something and zealotry and 2) to engage in a thought experiment expressing why such zealotry is wrong.
This is the important part so everybody listen:
I do not lose sleep at night over abortion or the possibility of it being made illegal. I am aware of its complexity legally speaking. Abortion laws have suffered mightily in the past eight years, however, so to say that it is a non-issue is as fallacious as to say it is the only issue.
I do not think that Obama will reconstruct the country in four years either through gay marriage or any other social policy. I do think that the next President will have a significant impact on our policies and our economy, however, so to vote without considering how the candidate will handle the economy, education, health care, or equality seems a bit narrow-minded and I hate it when I'm narrow-minded.
The biggest arguments I see against Obama, excusing the silly ones like terrorism or racism, seem to be that he is a socialist and will force his socialist views on everyone and he is just like every other politician and won't change anything. Let's deal with socialism first.
Socialism is a highly charged term in our country that has been used since the cold war to frighten people into protecting Capitalism. Obama has no plans that anyone has heard him say or reported on to take the wealth of the rich and redistribute it to the poor. He does have plans to offer tax breaks to those who make less money instead of those that make more money. This is not redistribution of wealth, this is maintaining of wealth. Trickle down economics doesn't work. It didn't work under Regan and it isn't working now--the housing market collapse shows that. The poor and middle class will borrow attempting to live the American Dream, but when you tax them disproportionately to the rich they cannot sustain their viability in the economy. Offering tax breaks to those who make less than $250,000 a year makes the most sense--unless you make over $250,000 a year or believe (falsely) that you will soon. I don't want someone else's money, I want my money because I have less money to give away. This isn't a socialist take over of the economy. Healthcare receives the same treatment. I know those of you who are doctors or work in the healthcare industry have a much wiser and more educated view on this, but I do know that we are the only country of our size and development lacking in universal healthcare. England, France, and Canada all seem to make a go of it without losing their freedoms or rights. I'm just saying.
As to the charge that Obama is just like every other politician--full of empty rhetoric. I feel this was the greatest achievement of the Republican campaigning. The people that believe the terrorist stuff are the people that would vote Republican anyway, but many, many people who heard Obama speak and were moved by his words changed their minds once the empty rhetoric idea was bandied about. Everything is rhetoric--we all can agree on that. But not all rhetoric is empty; that's an important distinction. Obama's rhetoric, therefore, is not empty because it's "only" rhetoric; this was the same ploy used against evolution because it was "only" a theory. Obama has discussed issues, like race, in ways no politician to date has. No one that I have read speeches from or seen clips from has spoken so clearly and honestly about their beliefs as Obama. Yes, he is a politician; yes he is running a campaign. Concessions have been and had to be made because he has to persuade people who are uneducated and thoughtless. A great many of the people that vote do so based on ads they see on t.v. and soundbites on the evening news. When catering to that reality--a reality that must be accepted and dealt with if he wants to win, and he must win if he wants to affect change--his tactics had to adjust themselves. There is no real way to predict his presidency aside from the knowledge we have that he is intelligent--that's all we can know for sure. He appears to also be a moral, free-thinking individual willing to listen to advisers. He may affect no real change, and he may change a lot. But I do think we have reason to believe he will not make any decisions hastily without considering the consequences, because of his religion, or because he can't understand the complexities of the situation. That's a lot more than we can say for some past Presidents and I firmly believe he will make better decisions for this country and for me then will John McCain.
As a side note, Obama has also received criticism for some of the programs he wants to fund in the government, and I think it is erroneous to believe he will institute these programs without finding proper funding through balancing. Adding or revising programs does not negate revisiting old ones and streamlining.
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