Quodlibets

S will be on iTunes!

And I am totally not kidding.  A musician friend of his, Dave Sills, has almost decided to use one of S's pics on his album cover.  I think it's 99.9% sure right now.  Being that Dave's first album is on iTunes, it isn't a far jump to think that his second might get picked up.  If S's photo is on the cover, S's photo will thus be pictured on millions of computer screens across the country.

I'm not alone in thinking this is cool; S is the one who even brought it up to me.  I just thought it was cool that whoever ordered Dave's album would see S's photo.  And Dave has told us that people as far away as the Netherlands bought his first album, so....

He's a really interesting musician, Dave.  He plays very lovely acoustic folk-rock, and one of his songs was a staple on my mixes for a while.  It is a really great expression of unrequited love, and I urge you to check it out if folk-rock is your cup of tea.  And I promise, I'm not shilling for Dave because I know him.  Dave and I don't really connect in terms of being friends (and if pressed, I'd say he doesn't care for me), but I know there is a lot of mutual admiration (for their respective creative skills) between him and S, and I respect that.  Besides, I'm not going to tell you a song is good if it isn't, and "The Rarest of Birds" is simply a very good song.

Inflammatory

Bitch PhD has a fantastic couple of posts about this Hager crackpot that say things better than I ever could.  For those of you who haven't been following the Hager thing, he's this ob/gyn in some Southern state (can't remember which one) who advised the FDA to reject the Plan B OTC thing, and apparently, during his very lovely marriage, he raped his wife repeatedly and then paid her for it.  Nice, eh?  This is only coming out now because the ex-wife (now remarried) brought this to the attention of Nation magazine so that she could tell her side of the story.  She only felt compelled to do this because Hager talked about the divorce in a very public venue, and she says he's lying about the reason for the divorce.  I don't have much doubt that he's lying, because like Dr. B points out, raping your wife and wanting to deny birth control to women are two facets of the same desire:  to control women. 

I think it's so remarkable that people cannot organize these ideas in their heads, and come up with the conclusion that the religious right is very, very uncomfortable with women.  Unless they're barefoot, pregnant, wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved dress, cooking and praying and saying yes dear, you're right dear and whatever you want dear.  I wonder how many Fundy Xtians would vote to disenfranchise women.  Probably more than a few.  After all, if we can't vote, then we can't vote for the right to control our own lives.

These people, people like Hager, are dangerous.  S and I watched The Daily Show on the night that the Super Sunday (?) segment aired; all these Christian leaders and at least one *senator* spoke to church groups (was it only one?) about the importance of religion in government.  S and I watched, gaping at how ridiculous the whole shebang was, and simply how wrong the display was.  He later commented that he thought voters like his parents (and probably mine--sorry Mom and Dad) didn't get it.  "Get what?" I asked. 

And then he explained that as long as they're benefitting monetarily from the government, as long as they think the government will be good to them, they don't care what fundamental lunatics attempt to do.  Or succeed in doing.  Because to them, the mixing of church and state isn't so bad--it isn't necessarily good--it's just the crazy crackpot way the government is going now.  I said that I tended to agree with him; I think that in general, my parents (and his) vote with their wallets and bank accounts.  And let me be the first to admit, Bush and his cronies haven't been bad for my own bottom line.  But what good will that money be if my way of life is under fire?

And believe it or not, those fundy lunatics would have major problems with my way of life if they knew me, and could probably blame me somehow for the downfall of society and the terrorism that brought down those towers on Sept. 11th.  Those lunatics might only be fringe in our parents' heads, but I don't think they're fringe in the government anymore.  What happens to us, the next generation, as Bush and his buddies ruin the environment, kill the economy with a crushing deficit, and hamstring our relationship with the rest of the world by acting like Texas mavericks?  As they chip away little rights--the right to privacy in our libraries, the right to the morning after pill OTC, the right to worship or not worship at our discretion--shouldn't our parents be worried about the reactionary society their liberal children will be left living in? 

But it's too late now.  We're harnessed to this idiot and his religious groupies for another three years.  I hope I (and my sister and girl friends) still have a voice when it's all over.  Because I'll never stop yelling, ever.

A Shoulder Injury

I'm not sure what I did to it, but I have the worst shooting pains in my shoulder right now.  They're like the pains that you get when you sleep wrong on your neck, and you can't turn your neck.  But in my shoulder, and almost constantly, because my shoulder seems to object to every move I make.  Ouchy, ouchy, and no idea why.

I drove around today for nearly an hour and half looking at apartment complexes, because S and I have to decide very soon whether or not to move.  It's a pain in the ass, and half of me just wants to initial the damn lease sitting on our counter, and bunk down here for another year, but I'm not sure that's the right move.  I think we'll check out a couple options before we settle for this dinky apartment for one more year.  But my gut feeling is that we won't make it out of this apartment for another year, which I'm learning to be okay with.

I've got nothing else right now.  I'm going to watch Friday Night Lights and sit moaning about my shoulder.

And now for something completely different...A man with three buttocks!

No, not really.  Sorry for all the hype.

Random thoughts today as I struggle to finish homework due in five hours.  The homework train derailed this week under the weight of the illness, and I hesitate to say that it might not have been my best work ever. 

I did buy the new Dave Matthews Band CD and I actually listened to four songs in my car on the way to and from places, but the pull of Songs for Silverman is just too hard to ignore.  To be honest, there was nothing in that four songs that made me really excited to listen to the rest, and I can't get Late out of my head.  Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could right now.  Folds wrote it for Elliot Smith, and it's just beautifully stuck in my head.  So oh well, the new Dave and the new Weezer (on sale for 9.99!) will have to wait out the Folds thingy.

Also, I couldn't fall asleep last night because I kept thinking about ice cream.  Seriously.  A meme on Bitch PhD asked what your favorite ice cream was, and I decided that mine is definitely cookies and cream.  Which is totally bizarre, because I pretty much don't like cookies.  S has boxes and boxes of cookies in the house, and they're not tempting (but if he brought home a baguette and some brie, it'd be gone in less than 10 minutes.  All of it.  However much it was.).  But plunge that cookie into a container of some variation of vanilla ice cream and I'm gaga for it.  Even chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream makes me weak-kneed.  And you know what I just decided?  It's not even sufficient to crumble some cookies on ice cream.  I don't love that.  Like Coldstone?  Anh.  No no, it has to be actual cookies and cream ice cream.  Not cookies alone, and not ice cream alone.  Slightly weird, huh?

Now I kind of wish I had a picture of a man with three buttocks.  It would make this post far more exciting, wouldn't it?

If I'm not the new me, than who am I?

I'm reading I'm Not the New Me, by Wendy McClure, right now.  I picked it up for these reasons:  I knew the author was from Chicago, I knew she had a website, and I knew she was doing a reading at my local feminist bookstore.  Apparently, what I did not know was that Wendy's book is about weight loss and body issues.  I hadn't meant to read another manifesto about weight, and to my relief, I'm not.  She's snarky, and funny, and in one sentence, she went from being kinda cool to utterly brilliant.  Here it is:

"And, in fact, today I find myself explaining to Elizabeth [McClure's therapist] that I think I'm doing this whole crazy site [McClure's site, Pound] in the first place in order to grant myself a feeling of self-possession because I've concluded that my deep reluctance to tell people that I'm trying to get into shape has less to do with wanting to keep it a secret than it does with how I don't want to give myself over to everyone else's opinions on how big my ass should be and hence my productive activity in the form of this online journal."

I can't even express how brilliantly McClure has explained exactly how I feel about my own weight loss.  A couple weeks ago, S and I went to breakfast with his parents, and they complimented me, asking me first if I'd lost weight and then saying that I looked good.  I was instantly mortified.  Embarrassed and horrified that someone could possibly say that to me.  You're allowed to tell me I look good, but not in relation to my weight loss.  And you're allowed to tell me you like my purse, my shoes, my outfit, my hair, my toenail polish or my damn jewelry.  But don't you ever dare tell me that my weight loss looks good.  It's implicitly implying that you think I looked worse before, and I don't want to hear that.  I can't hear that.  It makes me catatonic.

S was uncomfortable with the idea that he should tell his parents that I don't want to talk about my weight loss, but with very few exceptions, I don't.  I rarely mention it on this blog because that's not who I am.  I'm not my weight, or my weight loss.  And no one, besides me, is allowed to have an opinion on how I look, or how I treat my body.  Full stop.  If I lose weight, it's because for the first time in my life, I want to.  No one else could make me get here, and no one else can make me stay here.  So don't tell me I look good, or that I need new pants because the old ones don't fit.  I can fucking look in a mirror and tell you that.

And so, yes, I am the only person who can say how big my ass should be (okay, for me it's kind of a moot point, since my ass is non-existent and if anything, I wish I had a bigger ass.  Seriously.  My ass couldn't hold up a pair of pants to save my life.), and if I want to discuss this with you, I'll bring it up.  (Mom and Kate, you're exempt.  You can bring it up.)  But if it's okay with you, I'd like to make the elephant in the room that no one mentions.  Because no matter how much weight I do, or do not lose, I'm still the same person. 

And you should go out and read McClure's book, because it's full of heart and it's funny.  And it include some genius pictures of old WW recipe cards.  I laughed out loud while reading/looking. 

On my reading list

For the next five millions years:  Our Bodies, Ourselves.  When I was a senior (?) in college, one of the clubs that I was an officer for got a grant to buy some books.  Since it was the Feminist Collective that had recieved the grant, we decided to go the nearest feminist bookstore and stock up.  (By we, I mean me and one of my officer cohorts.  It was quite fun to spend so much money on books.)  I think one of the first books we picked up was Our Bodies, Ourselves, but of course, it was a while ago, so it was the older edition. 

I remember flipping through it at the time, and liking what I was seeing, but have you seen the older copy of the book?  It's so big and bulky.  And it seemed so old-school to me.  Sort of removed from what I was experiencing and feeling.  I liked it, but I had reservations about it.  So I never purchased it for myself.  (Though that didn't stop me from telling a friend that I had it and I would loan it to her.  Guess I sort of thought I had it.)

Recently, Dr. Bitch mentioned the new edition, and I took note of it, and didn't think of it again until my recent sojourn into Barnes & Noble.  I saw it; picked it up; bought it.  Literally, the decision making process was that split-second.  It just seems more handle-able.  And it smells wonderful, all booky and nice.  At the time, I think that I thought it would be a great reference tool to have in the house, in case I had some health problem and wanted a woman-centric view on it. 

But the other night, I picked it up, and started reading in the middle of the book.  Immediately, I was fascinated, and right then and there, I decided to read it straight through.  While doing other reading, of course.  So for the past few days, I've been reading a page here, and a page there (in order) and simply liking how frank, how right it is.  Since I didn't read the last edition, I don't know how it compares, but this edition is great.

Please, if you have 20 or so (was it 25 dollars?  I can't remember) dollars to spare, you should consider buying it.  For yourself, or if you're a guy with a mother, a sister, a wife, a girlfriend, a good friend, a daughter, for her.  You may not want to read it, but to have it as a reference is in and of itself a worthy purpose for the book. 

And yes, I'll be happy to loan it out for short periods.  After the next five million years, that is.  Or as long as it takes me to read it.

When your brother grows up

Tonight, S and I went to my mom's house (and elsewhere) so that S could take my brother's prom pictures.  Apparently, my mom likes S's abilities so much that she'd rather just pawn off the job.  I don't blame her.  He IS that good.  I went along for the ride; to be the buffer between S and all the people he doesn't know that we'd be seeing.

My brother and his girlfriend looked very nice together, but it was somewhat of a shock to me.  At one point, they were walking in front of us, holding hands, and I was blown away.  My brother is eight years younger than me; I've always felt so removed from him, because of the age difference.  For instance, he was 10 when I left for college.  There's a pretty big gap between college and being ten years old.  I've never, consequently, been very good at seeing my brother as an individual.  When I left home, he was still not at the point where he was an independent human being.  He was still very much a child.  After college, when I lived at home for three years, he apparently thought I was the uncoolest person on the planet (as far as I know, that's the opinion he still has of me), so we didn't do too much talking.  We still don't, for that matter. 

But because of that, I never really got past seeing him as a 10-year-old.  Really.  And since he's been in so much trouble, I have a hard time thinking him capable of making good, adult decisions.  So in my mind, he's very much been my LITTLE brother, little J.  He wasn't a complex individual, in my head.  It's very unfair of me, but I feel quite certain that he doesn't see me as a complex individual either, so I don't feel quite as bad about it as I could. 

Today though, I think that I saw him as the almost-adult that he is.  He's 17 now.   He's to the point where his mind is very much his own, no matter how reluctant he is to voice any sort of opinion.  I think it just clicked today.  I remember being 17; I remember feeling like my own person.  J is to the point, now, where he is his own person.  He definitely was not when he was 10, when I left for school.  It's scary.  I feel old.  When I was eighteen, I was definitely aware of the fact that when J was 18, I'd be 26.  Turning 27.  I might have my own kids.  Now, I feel sure I won't (please please no), and I feel like the difference between 26 and 18 just isn't that great.  J and I could probably sit down together and drink some beers, and talk.  (Except for the fact that I am terminally uncool.)  It's a striking change in my worldview.  My little brother is, for all intents and purposes, an adult. 

All three of us R siblings, now, are adults.  I hope that in the next few years the dynamic between J and I can change, and he can recognize me as the individual I am, instead of putting me in the "big sister" box.  He's certainly, after today, no longer the "little brother" that he's been.  I said once, to my therapist, that I think my brother will develop into one of the most interesting people in my life, and I still think that.  I'm not sure if we'll ever have a relationship that's more than a sibling relationship--the kind my sister and I have evolved to--but I sure hope that someday he can relate to me in that way. 

How nerdy is this?

I just read, in depth, about all the Derby contenders, including their pedigrees.  (If you've ever read horse pedigrees, specifically Thoroughbreds, then you'll realize just how nerdy I am.)  I also read all about their owners, took note of their trainers (Nick Zito has the majority of entrants in the race.  D Wayne Lukas and Bob Baffert each a couple, but otherwise, I didn't recognize too many of the names.  Sadly, I recognized more names of horses in the pedigree portion of the reading.  I just never grew out of that adolescent horse-love.), and looked at the odds and the past race histories. 

To be fair, this is the first time in my life I have every done this, even though I make a good-faith attempt to watch the Derby every year. 

It's interesting to note that one of the owners this year is the founder? CEO? (I can't remember at this moment) of Barnes & Noble.  He made so much money in books (he must be the founder) that he invested in horses. 

I only thought of doing this, too, because at Barnes & Noble this afternoon (it was a convenient walk-through to another top secret Mother's Day mission location), I saw a book that I want desperately.  It's just so expensive that I can't possibly buy it for myself, even though I can buy other, less expensive books.  And did. 

And anyway, I'm slogging through The Life of Pi for class.  So I probably couldn't even read it before the Derby. 

The Italian Dream

I was driving around Suburban, Republican hell this afternoon, looking for a way out.  Literally.  I was lost.  Kind of.  Anyway, I was on a top secret Mother's Day mission, and I took a wrong turn out of the little downtown area where I was, and boom.  I was lost.  In suburban hell.  I saw two moms standing outside an SUV in front of a large yellow house, and I thought to myself, "I do not want this." 

I do not want an SUV, a passel of children running on the front lawn of my large yellow house, or the life in Suburban hell.  If I were ever to own some sort of property, I hope it happens in Italy.  And then I can raise my non-existent possible one child (that S would want) in Rome.  I don't want to stand in front of my house, isolated and alone, unless another person drives up in a car.  I do not want these things.  I suppose that hypothetically, I could have this "Roman" life in any other large city on the planet, but being as I want to eat Italian food for the rest of my life, and consider proximity to good buffalo mozzarella a bigger plus than proximity to a dentist that I can understand, Rome seems an obvious choice.

But what I was thinking, besides these superficial things, is that in some ways, I'm rejecting the American Dream.  I read once that my generation is the first American generation that, in general, feels that it cannot achieve the success of their parents.  To me, the American Dream has always been that idea, that you can and will end up better off than your parents.  And generally, that is the pattern followed.  The drive is to have a bigger house, a better job, and more fulfilling family life.  I honestly don't want a house bigger than my parents' two houses.  I can't even conceive of a world where I make more of my life than my dad did of his.  I don't necessarily want a family life, so there is that out the window.  And I am COMPLETELY comfortable with that. 

Certainly, I'm able to reject the American Dream because of my luck in having parents that did make a certain amount of money.  I also had such a wonderful, comfortable childhood that I cannot seek to better something that made me very confident in who I am, and that made me aware of the possibilities of life.  I like to think that I'm not alone in seeking alternatives to the American Dream, and in some ways, I know I'm not.  But at the same time, whatever rebellions people pursue throughout their formative years, often those youthful dreams fall away as people begin to age.  My youthful rebellions, my alternative ways of thinking--they've not really gone away. 

When I first got my nose ring, six years ago, one of my mom's friends told me that it was a fad, and that I would definitely not "walk down the aisle" with a nose ring.  I laughed, told her that I loved it, and that I wasn't so sure.  In fact, I'm no closer to taking it out now than I was then.  It's a small thing, but a true one.  Some people take out their piercings to appear more grown up, or to get a job.  But it's a non-negotiable item for me, in the sense that I would never take it out just to get a job.  I don't have statistics, but it would be really interesting to know how many people still have facial piercings five years after first getting them.  (Isn't it also interesting that I got my nose ring in Rome?  I don't know what it means, but....)

The point is, I know some people like me, who will forever pursue what America considers "alternative lifestyles."  (And let's be honest, my lifestyle really isn't THAT alternative.  I just don't want necessarily what America thinks I should want.)  But I know lots and lots of people who are living the "Dream" and I can't see myself doing it.  I just can't.  I have no idea where I was going with this when I first started this post, but now I think I'm done.  I guess the message is, don't get lost in suburbia.  Or, if you get a piercing, love it.  Or, buy me a house in Rome.

One of the worst sensations in the world

Hands down, the throat pain that means a head cold is coming on like a mack truck.

It's not searing strep throat pain, but dull achy shitty pain that makes you tremble with the knowledge that at some point in the next few days, within a 30-minute time period, you'll go from normal breathing to "Ack.  Must.  Get.  Air.  In.  Lungs.  Through.  Mouth."  And then, you're lips will crack from all the breathing through the mouth you're doing at night, if you can sleep at all.  You'd rather try to sleep with a box of kleenex than your boyfriend.  And frankly, this is supposing the onslaught is mild.

Not a good time for a cold, body.  I'm trying to finish school. 

Dutifully popping the Cold-Eeze and hoping that I've made a mistake about the pain.