Quodlibets

You say potato, I say celery

I can't remember a time when I didn't know what a potato was.  What I'm saying is, I think I've always known what a potato looked like.  There were absolutely potatoes in my house--baked, mashed, sliced and baked, etc.  My mom always (ALWAYS) made mashed potatoes with real potatoes.  For that matter, I also ate every manner of meat--chicken, pork and beef, because my mom cooked a nice balanced meal every night.  Night after night, my mom managed a meat, a starch and a vegetable.  I didn't always love everything she made, but she rarely, if ever, made a second meal for us kids.  (Two meals I remember:  split pea soup and turkey tetrazzini--two meals we rarely had, as they required a ham bone and fresh cooked turkey meat respectively.)  Regardless, my sister, brother and I were always expected to eat enough to fill us up from the plates in front of us, and we ate what my parents ate.

Thus, it's incredibly distressing to watch "Jamie's School Lunch Project" on TLC.  In one classroom, Jamie says that half the kids think that celery is a potato.  What?  How can you grow up not knowing what a potato looks like?  One of the young kids in the show won't even eat plain baked chicken breast--a food that I cannot conceive of finding offensive, really--and will only eat plain noodles at one of the lunches.  Pathetic.  Of course, these kids are in England, but I can't imagine that things are substantially different here.  When I was a little older, my parents had some friends whose kids literally only ate chicken nuggets and buttered noodles.  When they came over for meals, they'd bring those two things, so their kids had something to eat.  And this was a family composed of a pediatrician, nurse and kids.  Really.  Not that S is much better, seeing as he refuses to allow any vegetable matter across his lips. 

Still, it baffles that some kids might not know their basic vegetables.  I'm pretty sure that even from a very young age S could pick a potato out of a line-up.  And he knew, I'm quite sure, what a chicken breast tasted like and could pick that out of a line-up.  It's baffling that there are kids that couldn't--and keep in mind, I'm not talking about liking.  I know plenty of people who don't like all kinds of things, but at least KNOW what they are, and probably don't like them because they tried them and hated them.  I have those things myself--still don't like turkey tetrazzini, and only reluctantly eat broccoli.  Oh, and we all know how I feel about squashes.  Again, the point isn't liking a food, it's simply being exposed to it.  And how, how in god's name do you go through 8 years of life not knowing what a potato is? 

In which we defend teen literature

I normally really enjoy reading Malcolm Gladwell; he strikes me as a rational sort of person who looks at things closely before he makes his statements, which, even if I disagree with him, make them pleasurable to read.

His latest post, however, just about made me want to reach in the computer and strangle him.  I personally think it's a very serious matter that Viswanathan (if you're not familiar with the story, 19 year-old Kaavya Viswanathan has reportedly stolen entire passages from one of Megan McCafferty's books, Sloppy Seconds, for her book, How Opal Mehta....) has appropriated entire sentences.  Regardless of whether it's a copyright infringement, or just a case of the author being faimilar with the other book and subconciously remembering entire passages, it's a serious business, and no one should send the message that it's not.

Especially because of what genre the book happens to be a part of.  Which is Mr. Gladwell's argument--the the offense isn't offensive because it's a part of *sneer* teen literature.  I don't think plagerism is less important because it occurs in some of those books that maybe aren't great, just like it's not okay to record a movie in a movie theater and sell it on the street because it's a bad movie.  It just doesn't work that way.  We don't only protect the things that are hypothetically "worth" protecting. 

Furthermore, it's pretty ridiculous for Mr. Gladwell to suggest that teen literature is all crap.  He's obviously never read any, because there are plenty of good teen novels, plenty of excellent teen novels.  It's not the ghetto that Gladwell makes it out to be--and neither is mystery or romance or horror.  I've defended genre more than once, and I'm not going to trot out the same arguments again, but suffice it to say that I ascribe more value to these genres than Gladwell does. 

I don't even know what else to say about this, because I think it's such crap.  I'm so angry about what he's said that I can't think clearly.  Regardless, the idea that Viswanathan should have been patted on the head and told what she did was okay is distasteful.  What she's done is clearly inappropriate, and we should hold her responsible for it.  She should have known better.  And so should Gladwell have.

Holy Jeezy

I very possibly had the worst dream of my life last night.  I woke up at 3:30 to use the bathroom, and immediately feel asleep after.  At 4:30, I was back up, but this time, I was afraid to go back to bed. 

It wasn't conventionally scary--no one was chasing me, I wasn't naked in a public place, it didn't involve public speaking, there was no horrific plane accident/nuclear explosion/war--but it was terrifying nonetheless.  I'm even a little afraid to say what it was about in the blog, because it's that bad.  To me, it's that bad.

I killed someone.  In the dream.  It was someone who was a friend of my cousin J, but not a real person.  You know what I mean?  In the dream, I knew that it was a friend of his, and that's all.  It was self-defense, and I only knew that because my cousin Sketch said to me when he started helping me cover it up, "I wish you would have told me about this, because maybe I could have helped."  And I responded vaguely about being scared, and about my dad not being willing to help--except that in the dream my dad was a little old Asian man.  My mom and my sister were also there--I remember vividly the scene where Kate came upon me in a garden shed (empty) with the gun.  I also vividly remember opening and closing the chamber? (place where the bullets go, that's how little I know about guns) and taking out one bullet.  I remember cocking? (getting it ready for shooting) the gun and then playing with the bullet some more.  When Kate came into the shed, I was scared of something/one, because I aimed the gun at the door that was slowly opening.  I think when I saw Kate, I dropped the gun, but I can't be sure.  (Apparently, I shot this person, though I don't have any recollection of that part in my dream.  The dream sort of picked up after the actual shooting happened.)  Anyway, my mom, Sketch and Kate all helped me hide this dead person in a freezer/cooler, because we were on a dairy farm.  They were sure no one would discover what I'd done, and we made a getaway, Kate and I in my red car, and my mom and S (who suddenly appeared as we were leaving) in my mom's mini-van.  (Except that my mom doesn't have a mini-van.) 

I think the press/cops knew that there was a murder, and I think they were saying that this person had been hit lightly by a car earlier in the day, and shot later.  He wasn't a nice person, apparently.  But the kicker was that I had hit him with my car, and the cops knew because of a paint chip.  Except that the body wasn't yet found.  I'm not sure.  It was confusing.  I woke up as we were driving away from the press and the cops and I was TERRIFIED that I'd done something wrong and now I'd be caught and how could I do this?  I wasn't the murderous type!

After I woke up, I lay there in bed, my heart racing.  I considered reading for a little while to calm down, and stop thinking about the "cover-up" and what I had done--except that I hadn't "done" anything, and it was just a dream.  I think I just willed myself back to sleep, but when my alarm went off, I didn't feel well-rested, and I didn't forget the dream.  Clearly not, because I'm still thinking about it now.  I'm not very big on dream interpretation, because of the way my former therapist explained dreams, so I'm not really interested in how this dream translates.  Nonetheless, it was incredibly disturbing then, and I'm still slightly disturbed by it. 

I just want to wipe it from my memory.  I don't think that's going to happen soon, though.

Take this pink ribbon off my eyes

So...homosociality. I have to admit that I'm not formally educated in Women's Studies, besides one intro course in college.  (I'd take courses at the college I work at, except that they don't exist here.  No Women's Studies Dept.)  Anyway, the point is, I'd never heard the word before.  Of course, we've all experienced the effects of homosociality.  Men and women.  In fact, I think the only men I've met who don't play by homosociality's rules are gay men.  I've had a straight male best friend before, and he was theoretically all about treating me as an equal and so on.  Except that I never felt quite up to par as part of his boys club when he moved in with a few guys.  Unless I was willing to objectify women along with them.  At the time, I could have never given it a name, or even put a finger quite on what I was feeling.  But I felt less sometimes, like I wasn't right.

And frankly, I see homosociality at work in most of the men in my life.  Even my boyfriend, who is, quite honestly, providing me with more of an egalitarian relationship than my girlfriend ever did.  Honestly.  S and I are in the process of building a true partnership, one that doesn't have some bizarre power inequality based on something as arbitrary as money or gender.  That's what I'm aiming for, and he knows I'm aiming for that and I truly think he's working with me to create that.  But he works with a rabidly misogynistic supervisor who constantly and overtly makes very disagreeable statements about women, and do you think S ever says anything about it?  Better yet, have I ever expected him to say something about it?  No, and no. 

Isn't that heinous?  I'm uncomfortable with the idea of S listening to such talk, but I've always just thought that as long as S didn't feel that way, it was okay.  But it's not okay.  If S really believes that women are not second class citizens, he should tell his supervisor that the talk makes him uncomfortable.  And then his supervisor would make some comment about men being men and the peer pressure part of homosociality would kick in.  What then should S do?  I mean, the right answer is to not play along, and to say that it doesn't matter what his gender is--talk of the rabidly misogynistic sort makes him uncomfortable.  But is that the real-world answer?  Especially when your supervisor is involved.  I don't have the answer.

But it's an interesting question.  What should I expect of S regarding homosociality?

Pet Peeve of the Week

And it's only Monday. 

I hate flakers.  Flakers are people who give you little to no notice that they're not showing up.  And usually without an explanation. 

Let me correct that.  I hate chronic flakers.  Because everyone does it, but I like to think that most people do it for emergencies.  For instance, if your car breaks down, and you're stuck on the side of the road, you're excused for missing a dinner date. However, if you agree to plans weeks beforehand, and simply call the morning of to back out, with no explanations, you're a flaker and a jerk.  There's no reason to be flaky; it can almost always be avoided, if common courtesy and respect are involved.  (Plans really should not be broken for any reason but an emergency, I think.  You made the plans--too frigging bad if something else comes up.  It's incredibly rude to leave people in the lurch, point blank.)

As a corollary to this pet peeve, there's the late committer, who says, "Maybe" until the morning of, at which point you've bought tickets/filled up the car with other folks/made other arrangements for the tickets/worked out a good time/made reservations for four and not five, etc.  I understand not knowing right off the bat--calendars must be checked, confirmations with sigfigs, I get it.  But you needn't wait until the morning of the event to decide you want to go.  It's inconsiderate, and extremely trying.  If you think there's a conflict, best to say no and take the hit if there isn't.  You'll have to miss the concert/dinner/game etc.

Socializing is a disaster with people like this around.  I used to think it was great to be spontaneous, but I think that's a load of crap now.  It's not so great to be spontaneous when you're being an asshole to your friends.  Not keeping plans; refusing to make plans--both bad. 

(There is another corollary to these people, and that's the chronically late jerk who refuses to call and warn you.  Dealing with people who are chronically late is an utter pain in the ass for people who are on time.  [I personally believe in promptness in all things; better to be early than late, for EVERY SINGLE EVENT EVER.]  However, I'm not so mad at the chronically late people right now, because at least they do eventually show up.  And they're more than happy to make plans.  So it's a slightly different problem, even if all three things are just plain old rude.)

What are we doing?

If you want to watch a heart-rending film, check out "Tying the Knot".  It's both life-affirming and desperately sad, all at once, which is just about the best way to descibe same-sex marriage, I think.  It's life-affirming to know that so many people love each other so much that they're willing to commit their lives to one another, and it's desperately sad that they're not allowed to, in the eyes the law.

I've talked about it before, and I'll talk about it again, but when I watch films such as this, I can't help but talk about it.  I can't help but want to cry and rip my hair out; I can't help but want to stand up and scream.  Arguments against same-sex marriage make no sense to me, but that's not news, since I don't believe in a Christian God, or the Bible.  I don't believe tradition is enough of a precedent (for if it were, women would be the property of men upon marriage, interracial marriage would be outlawed, etc etc.) for keeping marriage the way it is.  I don't believe that tradition=right.  And I certainly don't understand how we can categorically deny full humanity to a person, just because of what consenting adult they fall in love with.

And it blows my mind that so many people want to institutionalize their prejudice and hatred with some sort of Constitutional amendment saying that anybody who loves someone of the same sex is wrong, and isn't allowed, legally, to do so.  You can frame the debate any way you want--economics, tradition, Bible, blah blah blah--but this too, like so many issues, boils down to fear and hatred.  Only this issue is harder to understand than most, because this issue concerns two people, and whether or not they are allowed to love one another.

But I'm preaching to the choir.  I'm saying this to people who most likely agree with me.  So mostly, I'm just saying it to get it out of my head.  To have my rant.

I am not a commodity; I am not my weight

There is a fast and furious discussion going on around the internets about this concept of "false advertising" in reference to women's bodies.  To fully understand what I am about to say, you must go read this post, and at least some of the links in it.  It's an incredibly interesting discussion, and I wanted to sleep on the issue before I spewed forth my venom.  I also want to say that almost without exception, it seems every woman in this discussion is a mother, or is actively pursuing motherhood.  That is the impression I get from all the reading I've done.  As you know, I am not a mother, nor do I have any desire to be one.  But I don't think, in the end, that fact is all that important.  I'm just pointing it out in the interests of disclosure.

First of all, the phrase "false advertising" as it relates to human beings makes me want to puke.  I hate the thought of myself as some sort of product that I have to "sell" to people.  I especially hate the idea that I am a product that S "bought", because it puts me in the position of a slave, in the position of something owned, and I find that repugnant.  Ultimately, it puts S in a position of power over me.  It gives him the absolute right to have a say in every single thing I do, from the clothes I buy and wear, to the music I listen to, right down to the color I paint my toenails.  Now, I feel confident that S wouldn't be such a micro-manager of his assets--I'm pretty sure he'd let me have toenail autonomy.  But damn, it's sick to be thinking this way!  The issue of control and power in relationships is very important, and to me, it's important that I know that we are equal, in every way.  We can't be equal if I see myself as something I "marketed" to him, something that he "bought."

Secondly, I cannot bear people who stop loving someone because they change how they look.  If there is anything more certain in life, I'm not sure what it is--people change.  We wrinkle, we gray, and yes, we gain weight.  Our bodies slow down; it's the natural way.  If S expected me to look 25 until I died, well, I'd worry about him.  And then I'd break-up with him.  Post-haste.  I like to think that he accepted our relationship on the understanding that I'm not static.  Not in any way, but certainly not in looks. 

Let's look at an example.  Hair.  When he met me, my hair was short.  Like, short short.  Not even an inch long short.  His hair?  Long.  Down his back, pony-tailed every day.  Now?  My hair is long, down to my shoulders.  Longer than it's been in years.  His?  Short.  As short as mine was when he met me.  And in the intervening years, I've had bright red streaks, no color, various lengths, blond highlights and my current red/blond streaks.  Do I care how he feels about my hair?  Not really.  I hope that all he cares about is if I keep it clean.  If he's going to break up with me because I color my hair, I don't want him.  Sure, it's a bonus if S likes my hair as much as I do, but I'm not letting anyone dictate how I can and can't wear my hair.  Point blank.

And I really feel this way about every single appearance issue we can talk about (short of the issue of hygeine, which is a completely different issue; I don't consider weight a hygeine issue--cleanliness is a hygeine issue).  If he doesn't love me no matter what I look like, then he doesn't love me.  And he's amazing on that count.  He never cared what I weighed, and he doesn't care now.  He didn't understand when I started WW, because he thought I was beautiful.  He thinks I'm beautiful now, and he never, ever mentions any sort of difference.  And damn it, that's how I want it.  I want to know that my worth to him has NOTHING to do with how I look, and everything to do with who I am.  His worth to me can't even possibly be measured in appearance, so I don't think he can measure mine that way. 

I'm not sure what else to say about this, except that all the issues that come up in the discussion after this relate to how, as a society, we've become obsessed with fat.  And I hate it.  I obviously struggle with it, and I hate reading stories of women who think it's okay to condemn themselves (and others) for carrying a few extra pounds.  For being a 6 instead of a 4, a 16 instead of a 14, and so on.  It seems to me that instead of being unhealthily obsessed with this, and thinking our partners have a right to be obsessed with our weight, we just need to be, to just exist.  It's a struggle, there's no doubt about it.  And I can't imagine how much worse it would be for me if I had a partner that said hurtful things about my weight.  I can't imagine staying with a person who did say hurtful things about my weight, first of all.  But I especially can't imagine the struggle for self-esteem; I struggle enough, and S is perfect about this sort of thing.  It is, I think, the height of cruelness for any partner to add to the hurt and struggle by saying something, no matter how helpful or positive they think they're being.  I sincerely can't imagine what would compel someone to do such a thing.  It only ever hurts. 

So I guess, long story short, the answer to the question is:  No.  No, you don't have a responsibility to look a certain way for your partner.  You don't have to live up to some non-existant promise that you'd always look the way you do now.  You don't have to lose or gain weight at the pleasure of your partner, and you don't have cut your hair or shave your legs or wear make-up or not for him/her.  All you have to do is be the person you are, and hope that the two of you love each other enough to weather the changes each of you will go through.  Superficial and otherwise.

Whoooo, boy

S and I just saw the WORST. MOVIE. EVER.  Now, this will not be a surprise when I tell you what movie we saw.  You will say, "Manogirl, what were you thinking?  The reviews SAID this movie was terrible.  You knew this movie would be bad and yet you optimistically thought it might be better than bad.  Are you completely brain dead?"

If you haven't already guessed, we went to see Failure to Launch.  Yes, it of the bad reviews ("Failure is a failure") and the huge box office numbers.  In our defense, there wasn't much else out that we could agree upon.  (I suggested Capote or Mrs. Henderson presents or Transamerica, and S countered with V for Vendetta, and that's how we arrived at Failure.)  And it was AWFUL.  It started out very, very promising.  There were laugh-out-loud lines, good performances, and it even seemed to be a good premise. 

Enter chipmunk.  Enter dolphin and LAUGHING LIZARD, as well as stunned, fake-as-hell mockingbird.  Honestly, I can't imagine who thought these scenes were a good idea.  Cut them out, and the movie is 500% better.  I'm NOT kidding.  I simply don't think I've ever seen a movie with such incongrous scenes.  I can't even describe how bad it was.  S and I were laughing, and not at the movie, but at the lamey animal scenes.  Laughing hard.  In disbelief. 

(Thinking....in fact, the last time I laughed in disbelief at a movie was Vanilla Sky.  Only that time, S was not laughing with me, nor were any of the people we were with.  I think they all thought I was losing it.  Anyway, that's a digression.)

Let me just say, finally, that I'm not sure I'd recommend anyone away from Failure.  It was terrible,  it's true.  It's certainly not for the faint of heart.  I know!  Rent it, if only so that you can see what I'm talking about.

Startling Realizations

Is it just me, or is the OC suddenly the worst show on television?  I can barely watch it anymore.

That is all.

First, they came for my right to choose. Next, they came for my birth control. After that, they came for....

Holy jesus god.  I don't even know where to start.  Apparently, (Planned Parenthood and Broadsheet [on Salon] the Senate is considering a bill that would allow insurance companies to weasel out of paying for birth control, even if state law mandates it.  The bill also allows them to weasel out of annual cervical cancer exams, and allows them to make it harder to see your ob/gyn.  I'm confused for several reasons.  First of all, Roe v. Wade, in some ways, is all about State's rights.  This bill is....well....not. 

Okay, wait, not confused anymore.  These fuckers (sorry, Kate, but I don't know how else to say it) are chipping away slowly at the idea of women as independent moral agents.  It's starting with sexuality, but if you think it won't move farther, you're wrong.  I just never thought they'd try to make contraception hard to get, but here it is.  For many, many women, insurance makes the pill possible.  Birth control is expensive, man.  If you take away that insurance, you take away the pill.  Point.  Fucking.  Blank. 

It's very clear, from this, that the right-wing religious fundie people aren't concerned about stopping abortion.  They're all about stopping women from having sex.  I think that they think if you take away contraception, and abortion, women will stop having sex.  Women will stop having sex, and when they stop having sex freely, they'll submit to men.  As it should rightly be.  You know what?  That makes sense.  You know what it must be?  All the semen.  That's right, all the semen us slutty women are, um, acquiring is making us want to be like men.  Stupid women!  Sexual free agency is for morally superior men. 

I think this is where I'm confused.  Do these men really believe they can get two (three?) generations of women who have only known the freedom to do what they want and when they want and how they want to stop being liberated and start being drones?  Wife-y drones?  And why precisely do they care?  I mean, don't they aleady have traditional ladies to stay home and cook for them, and pop out as many babies as daddy wants?  Why the hell do they care what I do?  Who I sleep with?  This is my major lapse of understanding, as far as these righties go.

Anyway, the point is, there has to be something we can do.  I'm sick of sitting around bitching about this and feeling helpless.  I don't know WHAT it is I can/should do, however.  I've donated money, and will donate more, but I'm not sure how far my limited resources will go.  I've looked at PP's events for the next month, and there's nothing in this area.  I'll probably write letters to both my state's senators and ask them to pleeeease not support this ugly anti-woman contraception bill.  (But not in those exact words.)  But then what?  I can't help feeling hopeless.