Quodlibets

Holy Computer Frenzy

Did anyone else see this article on CNN about the school district that was selling used computers for $50 a pop?  The gist is, this school district had 1,000 4 year-old Apple iBooks, that it decided to sell for $50, which provoked a RIOT.

Some lady peed in her pants to save her place in line.  Some other dude tried to drive through the crowd to achieve an iBook.  Apparently, according to the article, chairs were used to beat people away from line stealing by other, less sane individuals.  S was pretty appalled, saying something about how, even if they're cheap, they're FOUR years old. 

But I think that what we both tend to forget is that having three computers (and a fourth if we want it) between the two of us--three of the four are Macs--is a little psycho, and that there are still plenty of Americans who have no way to afford a personal computer/laptop.  Also, we forget that most people don't have high speed internet in their homes; that lots and lots of people don't even have dial-up access to the internet.  We're just so used to the whole shebang that we forget how much privilege we have.  And make no mistake about it, our layers of privilege are many, starting basically with our skin color, on down to the part of the country we live in and the religion of our ancestors.  (S's layers of privilege are even greater than my own, due to his gender.)

I took one women's studies class in college (my little conservative school is JUST developing a major in women's studies; it barely offered a minor when I graduated), and we learned about the overlapping nature of privilege and how much we actually did have, regardless of what our economic status was.  It was interesting, and it's a concept I come back to time and time again, when thinking about things like the computer riot.  I can't picture myself ever having to endure a riot to acquire a computer, but I understand, fundamentally, what status a computer has, and how privileged you are if you can afford to buy one.  So it's not hard for me to understand why someone would piss in their pants for a $50 computer. 

It's just one perspective, I guess.  I'm sure there are other people who think the riot is ridiculous for the reason that they don't have $50 to even spare on new shoes, let alone a four year-old computer.  Shades of privilege.

Sheehan, Redux

You know, I commented on the blog of one of my sister's friends, and got flamed for it, by her husband no less.  I'm fine with it, mostly, except for the fact that how he said what he said was rude. 

In my comment, I could have been far ruder than I was, because I genuinely disagree with what the person was saying (something about how she thought it was asinine that Casey Sheehan was stupid if he didn't think he was going to see combat; she had quoted Cindy Sheehan as saying that Casey never thought he was going to see combat, when he enlisted in 2000).  And that's fine, except that the comment this girl is making is uninformed, and only half of the story.

Casey Sheehan RE-UPPED in 2003.  However his mother feels about it, however he felt about it, he RE-ENLISTED after the war had started.  It was a loyalty thing; he apparently didn't want to abandon his buddies to the war.  So, yeah, he fucking knew he was going to see combat, even if his mother never accepted the idea.

And frankly, Casey Sheehan joined the army partially so that he could become a Eucharistic minister/Chaplain's assistant during the war.  I'm not sure where the above quote (the my sis's friend quoted) came from; I've read and heard that Sheehan tried to convince Casey not to join, but he was determined.  Cindy Sheehan's crusade is separate from her son, except that her mourning of him is what prompted this.  We can't be sure how Casey felt about things, because he's not here anymore to tell us. 

Honestly, Sheehan's questions are the same questions that anti-war protesters have been asking from the beginning; she's getting attention because a) she's the mother of a fallen soldier, and b) and more importantly, she's frigging camping outside the President's vacation home.  I'm sure there are plenty of families that experience some sort of split in terms of support of the war; if my brother went (god forbid), I'd support him, but I'll never support a morally bankrupt war of no reason.  And if, god forbid, my brother died in a war I didn't support, you can damn well believe I'd want answers.  Damn, I want answers now, and I don't know anyone fighting in Iraq right now.  I can't believe, at this point, people don't want answers.  What we've done hasn't done anything; because when we pull out of Iraq (and we will, when it is politically expeditious for Bush to allow it), the Sunni and Shiite will continue to fight.  No true democracy will flourish in Iraq.  I'm sorry, but when two religious factions are fighting as the Sunni and Shiite are, no true democracy can live.  Not when the fighting is being done with suicide bombers, car bombs and guns. 

So I do believe that Sheehan has a right to ask any questions she wants.  I'm not saying she'll get answers, because after all, Bush just wants to get on with his life, but still.  She should ask, and she should ask, and she should ask.  And we should understand that it isn't Casey Sheehan asking these questions; he believed in what he was doing because, one more time, he RE-ENLISTED AFTER THE WAR HAD STARTED.

Update:  I've just read an interview with Cindy Sheehan about the circumstances surrounding her son's death.  The interview is from before the election, so it's a capture of her mindset before all the publicity.  Very illuminating.

Spooky

Last night, for the first time ever, I dreamed about blogging.  I remember my dreams really well, usually, and this is the first time I've woken up and thought that I posted something in my blog. 

Obviously, as the last thing I posted was the concert moan, it was all a dream.  Very strange.  I can't remember what the entry was about though; it was a short post, and the rest of the dream was about me being unwilling to go to a dance (you know, like in high school) even though I was looking forward to dancing with S.  Also, I had told my friend (she's at Divinity School, which is so damn cool) that of course we would go to the dance together, wouldn't it be fun?  And I wasn't looking forward to calling her and canceling.  And you know what else?  I was wearing an outfit that looked a lot like one my sister and I wore in a portrait when we were like, five and three.  I looked HORRIBLE in it, too, which might have added to my reluctance to go the dance. 

Anyway, where was I?  Maybe the post was about the dance, is what I'm saying. 

Another Concert Bitch-Session

At my sister's blog, you can read a rational, very nice review of the concert that we saw last night.  (And by the way, sister,  I did not know that man next to you guys was being such an ass.  What a dickface.)  I am not going to talk about the music, Chris Martin, the loud crowd singing, the hellish parking lot experience or how VIP parking does you fucking no good if you don't leave the concert early, because, in effect, you're the farthest car from the exit.  And since you essentially start the long hike up the hill from so far down on the hill, you're fairly screwed if you want to leave the concert within, oh, an hour or so of the end of the concert.  Unless you're a sneaky bitch Illinois driver, like me, and you squeeze your way into places that get you out faster.

No, I'd like to talk about the conspicuous, icky alcohol consumption at this event.  When I went to the bathroom (the VIP bathroom, with three stalls, no less) before Coldplay started, and after the opening band, the last, handicapped stall was taken up by a puker, and her friend.  I know this because a) my mom was in there before me and told me and b) every five seconds I was in the bathroom there'd be a horrible retching and a soothing voice.  My mom said that when she walked in to begin the puking process, many women around her (my mom) were saying things like, "Oh, I feel so bad for her." and "Oh, the poor thing."   WHAT!!???!!???  The dumb-fuck drank too much.  Okay?  That's all.  She's an idiot, doesn't know how to control herself, and drank too much.  I have no pity for that.  I just think it's idiotic.  And I expect better from adults.

This concert, unlike the hideous Dave Matthews Band concerts we've been attending, was populated by an older audience.  Oh sure, there were little idiots in abundance, but by and far, the audience was legal.  Apparently, I was remiss in assuming that most people are mature enough not to get so blitzed that a) they're not puking and b) they're safely going to be able to steer their car home.  No, no, people have to spend $7 dollars a beer or even steeper costs for other alcohols to have fun.  I don't get it.  I just don't get it.  One of the only areas of sanity around me in the pavilion (besides my family) was a pregnant woman, whose husband/boyfriend asked people to kindly blow smoke away from her and then proceeded to drink at least five gigantic beers ordered by his friends (and passed up through the seats by us) in the boxes three rows below him so that he wouldn't have to make any effort to leave the seats and GET MORE BEER.  It's like these people have little blinking neon signs above their heads that say, "MORE BEER NOW" because all they fucking do is drink drink drink. 

I've been drunk, too, so this isn't some diatribe against drunkenness by someone who doesn't know how fun it is.  What I don't understand is how drunkenness is fun at a concert.  I don't remember much once I start drinking hard (something I haven't done in almost a year, and that incident was preceded by possibly over two years of non-drunken fun, both at home and at concerts), so I can't believe you would spend a week's pay on concert tickets (as some girl reportedly did, self-proclaimed in the line for the bathroom) only to drink away the memory of the music.  I know people who have passed out at shows and missed what they paid for.  There's nothing worse than saying to someone, "Wasn't 'song x' great last night?" and having them say, "Song X?  Wow, did they play that?  I don't remember." 

Frankly, it'd be cheaper, safer, and more pleasant for all of us if you didn't drop hundreds of dollars to drive to Wisconsin, drink lots of beers, and not see a concert.  If you want to drink lots of beers, go out with your friends to a bar.  A concert is a social event, I can't deny it.  But I'm sick and tired of every irresponsible drinker in the world shelling out the big bucks to go drink with their friends at a concert.  It's bad in terms of a) our enjoyment of the show and b) my chances of getting home safely.  If you need to drink 5 gigantic beers to have a good time, then you're a lameass anyway, and you should just stay home.

Okay, I feel better now.

Cindy Sheehan

Because I too, like the rest of the world, have an opinion on this.  You may as well read this, written by a friend of mine, because it's probably a lot more articulate than I'll end up being.

The thing that strikes me about Sheehan is how smart she obviously is.  She's not letting the press run her over, not in the least.  S and I just watched an hour of the new Wolf Blitzer news vehicle (Situation Room) and her interviewed her again.  To me, he appeared to want to trip her up, with his questions about what Bush said yesterday about her, and his interview with the "other mother", a Bush-supporter who lost a son in Iraq.  But she's not playing into his hands.  She rightly pointed out that what Bush said is fine, but he's not answering her question, which is "Why?"

It sounds pretty dumb, if you think about it, to answer this question: "What reason did you have to send my son to die in Iraq?" with this answer: "I'm not pulling the troops out, dammit."  The problem is that Bush simply doesn't have the answer.  The answer he used to give is that we went to get rid of those pesky WMD, and that we had to stop terrorists, but like Sheehan says, those claims are proven false, now.  And that big humanitarian reason is bullshit, because we're not stopping the carnage anywhere else, and one of our biggest Middle East allies, the Saudis, have a deplorable human rights record.  And to depose a dictator?  Yeah, he was one, but we're not toppling Kim Jung Il, and he seems just as bad and duh, he has WMD too.

Of course, Bush belongs to that macho school of men who are afraid to admit they can be wrong, because they think it'll make them look like cowards, when the truth is, thinking he's always right makes him look like a bigger coward, and an idiot to boot.  And I think the polls are kinda bearing that out.  People are wising up, and like this Salon article points out, many Americans are changing their minds about Iraq.  There's no shame in making an informed decision, even if that involves changing your mind.  Oh yeah, unless you're Bush and the right-wingers in power. 

I'm not sure Cindy Sheehan will ever get what she wants.  I admire her for standing up and demanding accountability, on the President's front lawn (figuratively, I suppose), because whether or not Bush ever answers her questions, she's making those questions the focus of an entire nation.  As they should be, as they should have been. 

(A question:  Have the right-wing been lobbing the label "Un-American" at her?  Because that's what you got called, at the beginning, if you protested the war.  So, then, is Cindy Sheehan, who sent her son to Iraq, where he died for "the cause" un-American?)

Friday Random Ten

Quick and dirty:

1. She Cries Your Name -- Beth Orton
2. Such Great Heights -- Postal Service
3. Central Reservation -- Beth Orton
4. Coming Up (live) -- Paul McCartney
5. Can't Stop Now -- Keane
6. Maybe I'm Amazed (Live) -- Paul McCartney
7. Say Goodbye -- Dave Matthews Band
8. Trying Your Luck -- The Strokes
9. In The Morning of the Magicians -- Flaming Lips
10. Superstition -- Stevie Wonder

You know, the iPod's sucking this morning with two by Beth Orton and two by Macca.  Considering I've only got about 15 BO songs on the pod and ONE Macca album.  And that last song is from the Stealing Beauty soundtrack.  Also, what the hell happened to the Strokes?  Yes, their second album sucked giant asshole, but still.

Two kind of lame things

First of all, I watch a lot of the food network.  I mean, I leave it on in the background while cleaning, doing laundry, working out, reading, eating meals, sewing, doing this (it's on right now--Rachael Ray, who's annoying as hell but has some great ideas about food), etc.  Watching the food network has some bad consequences.  It makes me want new and better kitchen equipment, like grill pans and knives (knives especially.  I adore my expensive knives uncontrollably.  There's nothing like slicing through a homegrown, summer tomato with a good Wustof.).  It also makes me want to eat extravagant things, like prosciutto (which isn't cheap) and pancetta instead of bacon.  It makes me think ambitiously that I can do things that I most probably cannot, such as when I attempted to make brownie cupcakes upon Paula Deen's suggestion.  The recipe could not have been easier:  brownie mix made according to box with one extra egg, spooned into muffin tin, addition of peanut butter chips, more brownie batter on top.  Bada boom, done.  I cooked them according to Paula's directions, pulled them out of the oven, let them cool, and realized with a sinking heart that I'd created molten chocolate cupcakes.  Yes, that's right, the center of the cupcake things are so raw that I think they're mostly inedible.  Bless S's heart, he insists they're good, like he does with every cooking effort I make, but I'm no dummy.  I know they're just not that good.  Hence, I've now changed the channel to the nightly news.  It won't give me any big ideas about cooking.  (Also, I should stay away from places like this.  They give me grandiose ambitions as well.  Ask me how much I spent on spices.  Not a ridiculous amount, but enough that it's kind of lame.)

Secondly, I'm going to Disney again.  I know, I know, I just went.  But now my mom is planning a trip with my sis and bro, and no way am I missing out on Disney with the fam.  Do you know how much fun it will be with all of us?  And S wants to go again, which is a-okay with me.  I'm hoping that the experience with a bigger group with be better for him.  I can't imagine it wouldn't be, esp. since we're not going at a major school break time.  So, lamely, I'm going to Disney twice in one year, but I'm not ashamed.  This was chance, and I'm just taking it.  I'm not letting it pass by.  (Even I can admit too that S and my experience at Disney in March was maybe not optimal, and this will be much more pleasant; we also missed quite a few things that I would have liked to do 1) because it was so crowded and 2) because I refused to go on roller coasters alone, and couldn't coax S onto a few of them.)

A Little Bit of Honesty

Like so many other people, I read Dooce every day.  There's something about the way that Heather writes that draws you in, instantly.  I've even been slowly making my way through the archives; it's like reading a book of essays, but so much better. 

Part of the reason Heather's writing means so much to me is her unflinching honesty about the depression she suffers.  Her posts don't make it hard to understand how hard it is, and you get the sense that she really isn't pulling any punches.

I am.  Pulling punches, that is.  I don't know that I ever really talked about the almost-severe depression that I fell into last November, that lasted through January.  I may have made reference to the fact that I was down, but I don't know that anyone, besides S (and maybe my mom) understood how bad it really was.  It's hard to be honest about not being able to get out of bed until noon, and then not being able to shower, or dry your hair.  Most days, I could just about get myself to the workout room, do a little homework, and nothing else.  There was no room for anything else.  I had no time for intimacy with S, I could in no way easily or happily participate in Christmas doings--something I normally LOVE--and little things, like movies and concerts, and dinners out seemed insurmountable.  I did drag myself out; I had to, because I had people who made demands on my time (and thank god, too).  But inevitably, before I went out I would feel like going out was a bad idea, while I was out I would feel like I was drowning in the outness of it, and when I got home I would feel such relief. 

I can't remember crying more, or feeling more hopeless about life in general.  I never, not for one minute during one day, felt like me.  I felt like the normal Mano had gone on vacation somewhere, and left this shell-person to do her job.  It's pretty miraculous that my Christmas presents were bought, and that I actually got A's in my classes (a testament to how incredibly NOT hard they were).  In fact, some days, it felt miraculous if I put on actual pants. 

But here's the thing:  I hid it.  I hid it so well that when I told my then-boss (short-lived, awful awful awful job) that I couldn't handle the job (okay, I hated the job too) and the reason, she was shocked.  "You don't seem depressed," she said.  And unless you knew me, she was right.  I was doing a masterful job of seeming to function, of not showing that I thought my world was falling down around me.  But again, S knew, and my mom knew how bad it was, and my mom helped me.  My mom called around and she found a therapist for me, and I started going.  The relief of help was enough to calm me enough that I didn't need to go on an anti-depressant (though my therapist strongly wanted me to go on one; I demurred and she agreed to leave it two weeks), and by a month or so after seeing her, I felt better.  I felt more like me with every appointment, and I have even stopped seeing her now.  It's been a good summer for me; I feel very happy with my life.

But I'm slipping into depression again.  I can feel it more strongly than I could last time; having never experienced a serious depression, it took me some time to recognize it the first time.  This time, I know.  I'm not so bad that I can't get out of bed, or that the world feels like its falling apart.  But I'm having a hard time warming to S again, and going to a concert tonight took all the willpower I could muster.  I cried twice today because of how helpless I felt.  I cried yesterday too.  And the gaping chasm that is my tomorrow fills me with fear. 

I'm pretty sure that this is a temporary thing; I think that when I get a job I'll stop feeling this way.  In fact, I'd guarantee it.  But the question is, what do I do in the meantime?  Do I get a part-time job to stave off serious depression?  Do I bear down through it, knowing it will lift when I find a place for myself?  Or do I start seeing a therapist again, hoping that it pulls me through?  (And FYI, I don't want to see the same therapist.  Part of the reason I stopped seeing her was that I thought we had been over it, and that she had no new insight to add to my life.  I still feel that way, and don't really relish the thought of seeing her professionally again.)  Or maybe it's just a little downswing, and not depression at all.  Things will get worse before they get better though, because next week is sugar pill week, and that week isn't fun when I'm not feeling down; I can't imagine how it will be now.

I'm not sure why I'm being honest now.  Maybe so that the burden of it isn't on S so much.  He's the one who has to deal with the listlessness and the crying, and I can't tell you in words how much that means to me.  My throat gets tight just thinking about it.  Maybe I'm hoping that writing about it will be therapeutic.  Maybe it will help.  I don't know.  I just know that this came out when I sat down, and I won't erase this post, like I did all the others I've written, and never posted.

Meditations on an Older, Different World

My grandparents are members of a ritzy, very famous country club in this area.  S had never seen the place, which is quite beautiful, so I thought he might want to have a photographic field trip.  Duly, the trip was arranged, and this evening it happened. 

It really is a gorgeous place, if you find beauty in the quietness of a golf course.  I know some people find them environmentally offensive, and that's fine.  I was raised in a household that elevated golf to something akin to god, so I personally have learned to find some sort of loveliness in the rolling, stark green of fairways, and the clipped precision of a green.  But that's just me.  The clubhouse has a far Eastern flair, and it's an older building.  It's aged gracefully.

When we were little, we saw Santa Claus at this CC, so I have lots of old memories of the place.  It's changed some, especially from a renovation in '97, but it's still stately.  I definitely haven't been to the club since 97.  I'm sure I haven't.  So it was a shock to find the chandeliers I remembered gone.  And of course, I remember the rotunda decked out in Christmas decorations, so that was a little different too.  (My mom tells me that we also did an Easter thing at the CC, but I don't remember that.)

The only thing about the trip that left a bad taste in my mouth was the actual golf courses.  There is number one, the ladies' course, and number three.  (The ladies' is really number two.)  Golf is, of course, a hyper-patriarchal sport.  At my mom's CC, women are effectively banned from play on the weekends in the morning, as only the person who "holds" the membership can play, and mostly, that's men.  I should say that if a man was in a secondary position on the membership, I'm sure he's be allowed out on the course on weekend mornings; it's a rule basically designed to keep women off the course.  And there are reasons, I'm sure.  I don't know exactly what those reasons are, though I suspect that men feel as if women have the course all week while they stay home and "homemake" and men only have the weekends to play.  That's making quite an assumption.  Regardless, from one course clubs to three course clubs, there is a sexism inherent.

At the CC tonight, course one is "the men's" course, and there are no ladies' tees.  (Because, if you don't know golf, most courses have three tees: ladies', mens', and championship, listed in order of distance from the green, closest to farthest.)  Number two (Ladies' course; never womens' course) is not open to men at all in the mornings, which is kind of nice, but it's also a very easy course.  My mom, for instance, said it was probably easier than her home CC's course.  The third course is championship caliber.  In fact, there will be PGA tournaments on it again in the future.  I assume that three is the hardest course at the CC, and that it is even substantially harder than one, which is substantially harder than two.  I get the sense that women don't play three, but I could be mistaken. 

I'm not sure how to end this; I only know that I left tonight ambivalent about a place where good memories reside.

It Might Be Time

To find a part-time job.  I feel like a money-panic is coming on.  But then I won't have benefits, which is very, very bad.  My COBRA benefits only last through November. 

I just don't want to get into the place I was in last fall, when my money was running out, and I felt like every single dollar S and I spent was hastening our fall into disgrace and the poorhouse.  I think I seriously somehow thought that we would fail at living on our own, and end up homeless.  So I became psychotic and accused S constantly of spending too much money, and trying to sabotage our relationship by refusing to plan for a life together. 

Let's just get it out there and admit that it wasn't a good place to be in.  I feel like I should give it another week or two, and start applying for part-time jobs, just so that I have a trickle of money coming in.  I might still have a job/career panic, but at least money will be (meagerly) flowing in.

And by the way, there are 5 million part-time library jobs in the world, and like, 10 full-time jobs.  So I don't think that a part-time position will be terribly horrifically hard to get.  What's the move, here?