I am still in crisis over the whole "REAL WORLD" idea. The caps indicate the serious foreboding that comes when people say the phrase. What is not real about my life right now? I guess my debt is only marginally real, since student loans are deferred until you graduate, but since I'm not officially graduating until December and have to start paying back loans in a few weeks, it's becoming more and more and more real. But gee, it's only $400 a month (which is more than $50 more than I pay in rent a month! Talk about screwing up a budget!). Yikes. Employment looks more and more enticing.
Let's see. It's been awhile. Since we both got on with things, the blog has suffered. I wish it wouldn't, but I'm guilty.
Visited Minneapolis for a wedding. Very interesting, since it was a religious affair of the variety I used to be a part of, but have rejected. Unlike S, I was raised in a religious household and am no longer open to Christianity's many flavors -- I have made my own informed decision. I support the major tenets of the religion: 1. Recognize that there is a power and force higher than us, and respect that; and 2. Treat other people the way that you would like to be treated. I cannot mesh that with the ceremony that surrounds it, seeming to enmesh it in hypocrisy. I have to live according to the laws of nature as I see them, not the law as interpreted by others. But that decision is based on a thorough knowledge of the religion of which I was part (not naming names, but they have been much in the negative news lately...). WIthout that experience, I agree that being open to the experience is good. I just wouldn't be able to "do" religion for someone else -- I could try it for them, but not continue if it didn't work for me.
I'm having a hard time recognizing all the hypocrisy in the world right now. I see it in my own life -- I see corporate America killing the American Dream it is an example of, and yet I shop at Target because I can't afford to buy Kleenex (another corporate brand) at the little grocery. I'm trying to figure out balance. One cannot really fight the system (and the "Man") at all levels of life without going slowly insane. But I cannot in good conscience embrace things I don't agree with -- even though I sometimes have to. It's this give and take that I am worried about -- once I get out into that "real world" everyone keeps talking about, will I be beat down and become one of the "suits" I see and pity in the airport? Were they filled with ideas and dreams once too? Are they still and I just cannot see it? I just don't want to stop fighting, and I'm not sure how to ensure that I don't get beaten down.
On a side note, the fight against corporate America is moving forward. A lawsuit filed by a female employee of WalMart, wherein she attacks their unfair prescription coverage (it covers Viagra and other sexual aids, but not birth control) has been declared an appropriate class action suit (the wording of that is awkward, but I'm not the one with the law degree). As WalMart is a huge employer nationwide, and more than 50% of their employees are women, if the employees win, this will set a beatifully clear legal precedent -- that birth control should be covered by company health insurance plans. Pray that we can chalk one up for women's reproductive rights! Just think: If everyone knew about and had reasonable access to good birth control options, we might be able to stop the ongoing and never productive debates about abortion. If there were many fewer unplanned pregnancies, there would be many fewer abortions. No woman wants to go through an abortion -- she just doesn't want to go through the pregnancy either.
15 September 2002
21 August 2002
Yep, still confused.
On the plus side, however, the man and I did talk. The boy-man, as some people like to refer to him. Crisis was necessary to bring about discussions we should have been having all along -- a discussion of the fact that we will both be leaving this place within the next three months or so. And we have no guarantee that we will end up near one another, even marginally close. And that long distance relationships are not really probable, for either of us.
And basically, I'm not sure that it's right or wrong. It just sort of is, right now, and that's all I wanted to say about that for the moment.
On the plus side, however, the man and I did talk. The boy-man, as some people like to refer to him. Crisis was necessary to bring about discussions we should have been having all along -- a discussion of the fact that we will both be leaving this place within the next three months or so. And we have no guarantee that we will end up near one another, even marginally close. And that long distance relationships are not really probable, for either of us.
And basically, I'm not sure that it's right or wrong. It just sort of is, right now, and that's all I wanted to say about that for the moment.
18 August 2002
I don't know why I'm publishing this, except that I have no voice to speak it out loud. I, well,
New Thread: Journal of the Heartbroken and confused.
Scenario: A graduate student who has been in school continuously for 21 years now, met a nice young man, a few years older than herself, in a concurrent field of study. She was attracted to him and pursued him until she found out he was already seeing someone. She then worked for his friendship, believing him to be worth knowing. She was correct. He turned out to be an honest, forthright, ambitious and driven man, with dreams that intersected hers, and beliefs in the same vein. After an off-and-on tenuous, flirtatious friendship of almost 8 months, she kissed him, and they have now been dating for almost 16 months. Exclusively, she feels the need to add, although to her it is redundant. [Dropping the useless third person voice.] I don’t have short term relationships. Any relationship worth investing my time, energy and emotion into should be worth having until it has played itself out, run its course. [Side note: How does one know that a certain relationship has run its course?? One of the eternal questions of life, methinks.] This relationship was worth having. For the first month it was awkward, as all new relationships tend to be. After that, it was blissful. Imagine the scene. It is summer. A Pacific Northwest summer, sunny, beautiful, temperate but warm. Blissful, in short. Two people newly in love have a house to themselves. A house with a large, fenced-in backyard with a small patio and deck. A barbeque. A chiminea (Mexican outdoor terracotta fireplace of sorts). Stars in the clear sky at night. Free weekends in which they ignore all possible obligations, school work, other people, world strife, anarchy, and more or less anything but love. Sounds like a cheesy movie, a Laura Esquivel book, I know, but its true. The summer was short, but it was ours. The sex was great, the food was delicious, the beer was cold, the nights were cool enough to cuddle. The days were warm enough for naked sunbathing. For the first time since high school romance, I wondered what it might be like to spend my life with someone. To spend Sunday mornings with the newspaper and the dog, to take vacations together, to come home each night to someone, the same someone, like a touchstone in the changeable world. To have a constant.
The end of summer arrives. Time begins to move frenetically, New York paced rather than Eugene paced. My roommates moved home, he moved into a new apartment, we went back to classes. Lots of classes, jobs, friends, studying, thesis writing, and generally life intruded. Some issues arose, but they were few, one-sided, and solvable. My thesis falls apart, causing serious funk in my life, and we manage through that.
December comes, Christmas break, we separate. My roommates leave, I move in on my own for the very first time in my life. All at once, I am living alone, taking few classes, being on campus little and seeing practically no one. I had no practice setting up social engagements – we all just saw each other in the halls and went out. No planning! I begin to spend more time with him, because I like to, but also because I need human contact and he is there and willing. Things begin to fall apart. Communication becomes an issue. Time management becomes an issue. Life becomes an issue, as does our relationship.
What do you do when you have problems that you cannot solve? You seek help. It is hard to admit that you cannot fix all of the problems in your life on your own. It is hard to admit that a relationship you desperately want to work out, isn’t. It’s hard to admit that you can’t always figure out what the problems are and how to solve them. And we admitted all of that and actually went to seek help. We found it in a wonderful councelor who reassured us of our generalized sanity. She taught us tricks to communicate, ways to show the person you are with that you are listening to them. Ways to express your needs and have them understood. The one hour a week that we spent with her was time devoted only to us, only to our relationship, and to all other problems and issues only insofar as they related to the relationship. It seemed to work. Things got better.
But I think that when things get bad, really really bad (and I’m not talking abuse, I’m talking serious misunderstanding of tiny small things and total inability to communicate) it’s hard to believe that they can really be okay again. You cannot recapture the bliss of the beginning, the anticipation, the learning, the days when everything about the person you are with is new, when everything is another reason to fall in love. The love develops from infatuation to understanding and acceptance, and then things fall apart, and the acceptance seems damaged somehow. As if no matter what, things may never be entirely copacetic again.
And yet I love him, and I want things to work. I have found somebody who is willing to listen to my rants about suburbia and contribute. Someone who listens to my other long-winded rants about one million other topics I find worth talking about, even if he disagrees or doesn’t think it worth a rant. Someone who seems to like the fact that I have an opinion about everything, even if he doesn’t always share his, or thinks that maybe I express the opinions a little more forcefully than necessary. Someone with whom I can be naked and yet comfortable, and I mean naked in an emotional and spiritual sense, as well as the physical. Someone who believes passionately in what he does. A man who believes in me, in what I can do, and encourages me when I get frustrated. And I love him. But it isn’t enough. Love isn’t enough. It can’t hold together two people who don’t know their own minds well enough to figure out what’s bothering them about a relationship. Or how to fix it. Or where it went wrong, or what went wrong, or why, or how. Love isn’t enough to hold together two people who need their independence to figure out in which direction their lives will move. Two people who, despite their passions about bricks and mortar, cannot hold themselves together. Two people who hold the same beliefs and dreams, but are going different paths to reach their destination.
Maybe there is a happy ending far on down the road. Maybe paths converge and destinies collide and fates merge in joyous union. But that would be then. Right now you have two people who are so scared that when things begin to go well, something must destroy the peace. Two people sick of fighting, tired of crying, sad to feel scared, and unwilling to admit all of that. One person, at least, who is tired of feeling useless in her own life, an unwitting pawn in some farcical game played by whimsical but mean-spirited gods. Because I am not a pawn. I am not someone else’s play thing. I make my own decisions. I have to live with them. I am in control of how I deal with the events of my life.
We agreed at the very beginning that there must be an end to something that makes you unhappy. We had both been in relationships that should have ended long before someone had the guts to admit that it wasn’t working out. But that point is always hard to find. We have to work at paying attention, to make sure that love does not rot into hate. To insure that this person I loved, still love, may one day be a friend, not a hated enemy.
This is why I must end a situation that is making me woefully unhappy. I have to have the guts to go it alone, to make my way in the world by myself right now. I had to say that it was over, that I could not go on feeling scared and tenuous in a relationship that should be bolstering me, making me more confident, ready to face the world. I had admit that I don’t want to cry about it anymore, that I don’t want to be putting myself in a position where I can be crushed with one argument, where I am so emotionally fraught and fragile that one act knocks the wind out of me. I can’t do this anymore, it is killing me. And I know all of this. So why does it hurt so much to say so? Why does it so much feel like I have ripped my own heart out?
It has been less than two hours since the fight we had, in which he left my apartment and doors were slammed. I cried. I wandered about the apartment aimlessly. I stared into space for long spans of time. I tried to read and failed, turned the tv on and then off again (not that there would be anything worth watching on a Saturday night, but…). I gathered together things that were his, and things that he had given me that I cannot keep. They made me cry. I took down the pictures of us that were hanging on the fridge, so that I can eventually eat without sobbing. And I wrote, thinking that maybe if I sat down and wrote it all out, the ending would come out differently. I keep hoping that it will. I fantasize that he will show up and we will make up and things will be all better. Instead he has silently dropped off a brown paper grocery bag filled with the things I had left at his place: a few books, though he has missed half of them on the shelves, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and some contact solution. A few condoms, for good measure, maybe to remind me of things I am giving up. It is a paltry bit of togetherness, and a petty act which I cannot condemn having already gathered his things into a box. And a letter. Not much, just saying that he thought that things were going well recently, and that this was a shock. Of course things were going well. And then they fell apart. It is a cycle with which we should be familiar by now, for all it’s happened. And that he will always love me.
More tears. And I guess the healing eventually begins, but I don’t know how. I still don’t want it to end. But I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m too tired to fight. I have nothing left to give. I am em-ty, drained, and lost. I don’t even know what I’d be fighting for anymore.
New Thread: Journal of the Heartbroken and confused.
Scenario: A graduate student who has been in school continuously for 21 years now, met a nice young man, a few years older than herself, in a concurrent field of study. She was attracted to him and pursued him until she found out he was already seeing someone. She then worked for his friendship, believing him to be worth knowing. She was correct. He turned out to be an honest, forthright, ambitious and driven man, with dreams that intersected hers, and beliefs in the same vein. After an off-and-on tenuous, flirtatious friendship of almost 8 months, she kissed him, and they have now been dating for almost 16 months. Exclusively, she feels the need to add, although to her it is redundant. [Dropping the useless third person voice.] I don’t have short term relationships. Any relationship worth investing my time, energy and emotion into should be worth having until it has played itself out, run its course. [Side note: How does one know that a certain relationship has run its course?? One of the eternal questions of life, methinks.] This relationship was worth having. For the first month it was awkward, as all new relationships tend to be. After that, it was blissful. Imagine the scene. It is summer. A Pacific Northwest summer, sunny, beautiful, temperate but warm. Blissful, in short. Two people newly in love have a house to themselves. A house with a large, fenced-in backyard with a small patio and deck. A barbeque. A chiminea (Mexican outdoor terracotta fireplace of sorts). Stars in the clear sky at night. Free weekends in which they ignore all possible obligations, school work, other people, world strife, anarchy, and more or less anything but love. Sounds like a cheesy movie, a Laura Esquivel book, I know, but its true. The summer was short, but it was ours. The sex was great, the food was delicious, the beer was cold, the nights were cool enough to cuddle. The days were warm enough for naked sunbathing. For the first time since high school romance, I wondered what it might be like to spend my life with someone. To spend Sunday mornings with the newspaper and the dog, to take vacations together, to come home each night to someone, the same someone, like a touchstone in the changeable world. To have a constant.
The end of summer arrives. Time begins to move frenetically, New York paced rather than Eugene paced. My roommates moved home, he moved into a new apartment, we went back to classes. Lots of classes, jobs, friends, studying, thesis writing, and generally life intruded. Some issues arose, but they were few, one-sided, and solvable. My thesis falls apart, causing serious funk in my life, and we manage through that.
December comes, Christmas break, we separate. My roommates leave, I move in on my own for the very first time in my life. All at once, I am living alone, taking few classes, being on campus little and seeing practically no one. I had no practice setting up social engagements – we all just saw each other in the halls and went out. No planning! I begin to spend more time with him, because I like to, but also because I need human contact and he is there and willing. Things begin to fall apart. Communication becomes an issue. Time management becomes an issue. Life becomes an issue, as does our relationship.
What do you do when you have problems that you cannot solve? You seek help. It is hard to admit that you cannot fix all of the problems in your life on your own. It is hard to admit that a relationship you desperately want to work out, isn’t. It’s hard to admit that you can’t always figure out what the problems are and how to solve them. And we admitted all of that and actually went to seek help. We found it in a wonderful councelor who reassured us of our generalized sanity. She taught us tricks to communicate, ways to show the person you are with that you are listening to them. Ways to express your needs and have them understood. The one hour a week that we spent with her was time devoted only to us, only to our relationship, and to all other problems and issues only insofar as they related to the relationship. It seemed to work. Things got better.
But I think that when things get bad, really really bad (and I’m not talking abuse, I’m talking serious misunderstanding of tiny small things and total inability to communicate) it’s hard to believe that they can really be okay again. You cannot recapture the bliss of the beginning, the anticipation, the learning, the days when everything about the person you are with is new, when everything is another reason to fall in love. The love develops from infatuation to understanding and acceptance, and then things fall apart, and the acceptance seems damaged somehow. As if no matter what, things may never be entirely copacetic again.
And yet I love him, and I want things to work. I have found somebody who is willing to listen to my rants about suburbia and contribute. Someone who listens to my other long-winded rants about one million other topics I find worth talking about, even if he disagrees or doesn’t think it worth a rant. Someone who seems to like the fact that I have an opinion about everything, even if he doesn’t always share his, or thinks that maybe I express the opinions a little more forcefully than necessary. Someone with whom I can be naked and yet comfortable, and I mean naked in an emotional and spiritual sense, as well as the physical. Someone who believes passionately in what he does. A man who believes in me, in what I can do, and encourages me when I get frustrated. And I love him. But it isn’t enough. Love isn’t enough. It can’t hold together two people who don’t know their own minds well enough to figure out what’s bothering them about a relationship. Or how to fix it. Or where it went wrong, or what went wrong, or why, or how. Love isn’t enough to hold together two people who need their independence to figure out in which direction their lives will move. Two people who, despite their passions about bricks and mortar, cannot hold themselves together. Two people who hold the same beliefs and dreams, but are going different paths to reach their destination.
Maybe there is a happy ending far on down the road. Maybe paths converge and destinies collide and fates merge in joyous union. But that would be then. Right now you have two people who are so scared that when things begin to go well, something must destroy the peace. Two people sick of fighting, tired of crying, sad to feel scared, and unwilling to admit all of that. One person, at least, who is tired of feeling useless in her own life, an unwitting pawn in some farcical game played by whimsical but mean-spirited gods. Because I am not a pawn. I am not someone else’s play thing. I make my own decisions. I have to live with them. I am in control of how I deal with the events of my life.
We agreed at the very beginning that there must be an end to something that makes you unhappy. We had both been in relationships that should have ended long before someone had the guts to admit that it wasn’t working out. But that point is always hard to find. We have to work at paying attention, to make sure that love does not rot into hate. To insure that this person I loved, still love, may one day be a friend, not a hated enemy.
This is why I must end a situation that is making me woefully unhappy. I have to have the guts to go it alone, to make my way in the world by myself right now. I had to say that it was over, that I could not go on feeling scared and tenuous in a relationship that should be bolstering me, making me more confident, ready to face the world. I had admit that I don’t want to cry about it anymore, that I don’t want to be putting myself in a position where I can be crushed with one argument, where I am so emotionally fraught and fragile that one act knocks the wind out of me. I can’t do this anymore, it is killing me. And I know all of this. So why does it hurt so much to say so? Why does it so much feel like I have ripped my own heart out?
It has been less than two hours since the fight we had, in which he left my apartment and doors were slammed. I cried. I wandered about the apartment aimlessly. I stared into space for long spans of time. I tried to read and failed, turned the tv on and then off again (not that there would be anything worth watching on a Saturday night, but…). I gathered together things that were his, and things that he had given me that I cannot keep. They made me cry. I took down the pictures of us that were hanging on the fridge, so that I can eventually eat without sobbing. And I wrote, thinking that maybe if I sat down and wrote it all out, the ending would come out differently. I keep hoping that it will. I fantasize that he will show up and we will make up and things will be all better. Instead he has silently dropped off a brown paper grocery bag filled with the things I had left at his place: a few books, though he has missed half of them on the shelves, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and some contact solution. A few condoms, for good measure, maybe to remind me of things I am giving up. It is a paltry bit of togetherness, and a petty act which I cannot condemn having already gathered his things into a box. And a letter. Not much, just saying that he thought that things were going well recently, and that this was a shock. Of course things were going well. And then they fell apart. It is a cycle with which we should be familiar by now, for all it’s happened. And that he will always love me.
More tears. And I guess the healing eventually begins, but I don’t know how. I still don’t want it to end. But I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m too tired to fight. I have nothing left to give. I am em-ty, drained, and lost. I don’t even know what I’d be fighting for anymore.
06 August 2002
I think that the guy that lives below me is half deaf and part goat. He talks so LOUD ALL THE TIME, as though everyone around him were deaf, and he laughs like a goat bleating. This wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't frequently home and awake and active between 11pm and 2am. And he wins the award for the first person I've lived near who doesn't respond in any way to pounding on the floor. Most people shut up or get louder in response, depending on whether they're respectful of others or assholes. He's just deaf. And he laughs a lot.
My brain is dead and my neighbors are annoying.
My brain is dead and my neighbors are annoying.
04 August 2002
31 July 2002
Okay, week of madness. I have much to address.
Firstly, I will defend my thesis in a week! Ack! I have been working on this for more than a year, and writing this since February or March. It's the culmination of a lot of work, and it's exciting to see the light at the end of the tunnel and to think that I could be done.
Secondly, I got my hair cut, and the issue is always overblown. Just figure out what you want and be willing to pay to get it done right, and all is good.
And then issues. There are many of them. This morning I awoke to the sound of a child's voice yelling "Help! Help!" I immediately was concerned. Then I realized it was coming from the direction of the daycare that is 1000 feet away, there were other voices shreiking as well, and there wasn't fear or concern in the voice. But why would daycare workers allow a child to yell "Help!"? Shouldn't someone teach the children that one doesn't yell for help unless it is needed? That's dangerous, as well as annoying. I can only liken it to car alarms. They go off so often that I don't know anyone who pays any attention to them anymore. That's how I feel about the screaming kids around me. One of them could actually be in danger, and I've gotten up to check out so many false alarms that I hardly look anymore. I wish the parents around here would parent. It would make my life nicer, both now and later, when these kids are either my students or employees.
Another issue. I subscribe to the local paper, which is my main source of news. I hate the television news, as it is utterly inane most of the time and I have to sit through stories that don't in the least interest me. With the paper, I can read the headlines and skip the articles I don't want to read. And I admit to skipping many of them because of lack of interest or because I know that they will only anger me. We have to choose our battles because we can't fight everything! So I've ignored most of the stories on Trafficant, but today I got caught up. The man has been a Congressman for a really long time, has been convicted on multiple charges involving fraud and dishonesty, still doesn't admit to having done anything wrong -- and this includes taking kickbacks from his employees' paychecks!!!! -- and being sent to prison for 8 years (well, that's his sentence). Regardless of all of this, he will still receive $37,000 a year in pension from the federal government, which means from the few dollars a year that I pay in taxes, as well as living off of my dollar in his "prison" which I'm willing to bet will be nicer than anything I've ever lived in, including my parents' house. AND, and this is the true kicker, as if the rest wasn't enough to really really piss me off, HE'S RUNNING FOR OFFICE AGAIN. How can this be possible, right, legit, or even conceivable???? How? Something is not right with a system that allows this to happen. But then again, we have a president who commissions studies and investigations and then bases policy on his whims instead of the facts revealed.
Okay, and related but separate, is the UN Bill of Women's Rights (-yes, I know, not the official name, but I've forgotten it). It's been around for year. Countries that are internationally-known for their women's rights and human rights abominations have signed it. We have not. The Bill does not have the power to infringe upon a country's legal system or government. It has little actual power. It's significance is mostly symbolic: We recognize that women deserve humane treatment equal to that given men. We agree that women have rights. These rights should be made law, but this isn't something that can be done quickly or easily, and the actual social treatment of women needs to change before laws will have any say. Laws that discriminate against women, that treat them as less than human, should be abolished. The people who enact them are wrong. We cannot necessarily enforce these beliefs in countries other than our own (and not even in our own) but we support them. The fact that Afganistan signed the bill and we did not could be considered in two ways: Either we could consider that this dilutes the power of such a bill, or that it dilutes our power in pointing out human rights violations, such as Taliban-sanctioned abuses of women. The power inequities in the US are nothing compared to the atrocities that have taken place in other countries, of which Afganistan is a good example, but they exist, and we only point to our inadequacies when we refuse to devote any consideration to such a Bill.
Firstly, I will defend my thesis in a week! Ack! I have been working on this for more than a year, and writing this since February or March. It's the culmination of a lot of work, and it's exciting to see the light at the end of the tunnel and to think that I could be done.
Secondly, I got my hair cut, and the issue is always overblown. Just figure out what you want and be willing to pay to get it done right, and all is good.
And then issues. There are many of them. This morning I awoke to the sound of a child's voice yelling "Help! Help!" I immediately was concerned. Then I realized it was coming from the direction of the daycare that is 1000 feet away, there were other voices shreiking as well, and there wasn't fear or concern in the voice. But why would daycare workers allow a child to yell "Help!"? Shouldn't someone teach the children that one doesn't yell for help unless it is needed? That's dangerous, as well as annoying. I can only liken it to car alarms. They go off so often that I don't know anyone who pays any attention to them anymore. That's how I feel about the screaming kids around me. One of them could actually be in danger, and I've gotten up to check out so many false alarms that I hardly look anymore. I wish the parents around here would parent. It would make my life nicer, both now and later, when these kids are either my students or employees.
Another issue. I subscribe to the local paper, which is my main source of news. I hate the television news, as it is utterly inane most of the time and I have to sit through stories that don't in the least interest me. With the paper, I can read the headlines and skip the articles I don't want to read. And I admit to skipping many of them because of lack of interest or because I know that they will only anger me. We have to choose our battles because we can't fight everything! So I've ignored most of the stories on Trafficant, but today I got caught up. The man has been a Congressman for a really long time, has been convicted on multiple charges involving fraud and dishonesty, still doesn't admit to having done anything wrong -- and this includes taking kickbacks from his employees' paychecks!!!! -- and being sent to prison for 8 years (well, that's his sentence). Regardless of all of this, he will still receive $37,000 a year in pension from the federal government, which means from the few dollars a year that I pay in taxes, as well as living off of my dollar in his "prison" which I'm willing to bet will be nicer than anything I've ever lived in, including my parents' house. AND, and this is the true kicker, as if the rest wasn't enough to really really piss me off, HE'S RUNNING FOR OFFICE AGAIN. How can this be possible, right, legit, or even conceivable???? How? Something is not right with a system that allows this to happen. But then again, we have a president who commissions studies and investigations and then bases policy on his whims instead of the facts revealed.
Okay, and related but separate, is the UN Bill of Women's Rights (-yes, I know, not the official name, but I've forgotten it). It's been around for year. Countries that are internationally-known for their women's rights and human rights abominations have signed it. We have not. The Bill does not have the power to infringe upon a country's legal system or government. It has little actual power. It's significance is mostly symbolic: We recognize that women deserve humane treatment equal to that given men. We agree that women have rights. These rights should be made law, but this isn't something that can be done quickly or easily, and the actual social treatment of women needs to change before laws will have any say. Laws that discriminate against women, that treat them as less than human, should be abolished. The people who enact them are wrong. We cannot necessarily enforce these beliefs in countries other than our own (and not even in our own) but we support them. The fact that Afganistan signed the bill and we did not could be considered in two ways: Either we could consider that this dilutes the power of such a bill, or that it dilutes our power in pointing out human rights violations, such as Taliban-sanctioned abuses of women. The power inequities in the US are nothing compared to the atrocities that have taken place in other countries, of which Afganistan is a good example, but they exist, and we only point to our inadequacies when we refuse to devote any consideration to such a Bill.
30 July 2002
29 July 2002
Yeah to the lonely, solitary blogger! I can't be in a police car today, unless my alter ego has some nefarious scheme in mind, and then I'd have to sit in the back. But since my life is so alone-like, I am here for the blogging community at large. Sigh.
I must conclude. My thesis, not the inane blog which keeps me from working on it. But what happens when you write 50+ pages and yet do not know what the point was? I cannot conclude that I just wasted my time, or that the reader did, but that's all I can think of right now. Again, sigh, and this time, melodramatically.
As for life, the universe and everything, I have been spared work today. That's good, because as I said over the weekend, I am behind schedule. I also have some company coming in Tuesday night, and should clean up around here. My former roommates all know me for a neat freak, but it's amazing how dirty things can get when you don't have the inclination to clean! And since all the filth is mine, all mine, it doesn't bother me as much. But she'll make fun of me if she sees how gross my kitchen floor has gotten!
Anyway, to anyone out there who is reading, I have a topic of sorts. It is fishy. A spoken word artist named Sarah Jones wrote a hip-hop influenced song entitled "Your Revolution," which lambasts the blatant sexism of mainstream hip hop. It was played on an independant Portland-based radio station, which was subsequently slapped with a $7000 FCC fine. The fine was appealed, but not removed. Jones has since filed a lawsuit against the FCC. The lyrics do include sexual suggestions and terms, but say (my paraphrase and take, no one else's) that a cultural revolution does not involve sex that subjugates half of the population. I agree. Regardless of the lyrics, why should this song be banned when songs like Eminem's "Kim," which graphically describe violence against women, or the latest P. Diddy, where he speaks of needing a girl to "ride, ride, ride," or the song wherein a man says "It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes," and the woman agrees, all be played non-stop on the radio? What motivated the FCC fine? Was it just the lyrics, which include a reference to a blow job? Or was it that a woman cannot speak out against the blatant sexism on our airwaves, a subjugation of women that is accepted and lauded, to the detriment of all of us? Or was it that a song like this would only be played by an independant radio station, who wasn't afraid of losing face with corporate sponsors? The independant media are the last true public bastion of free speech and idea sharing. Are we scared of that, in a corporate run world?
Just wondering. Questioning corporate America might be completely unAmerican, but then, my freedom to do so is inherently American.
If you're reading, and you're interested, check out www.sarahjonesonline.com or www.yourrevolutionisbanned.com. Speak out.
I must conclude. My thesis, not the inane blog which keeps me from working on it. But what happens when you write 50+ pages and yet do not know what the point was? I cannot conclude that I just wasted my time, or that the reader did, but that's all I can think of right now. Again, sigh, and this time, melodramatically.
As for life, the universe and everything, I have been spared work today. That's good, because as I said over the weekend, I am behind schedule. I also have some company coming in Tuesday night, and should clean up around here. My former roommates all know me for a neat freak, but it's amazing how dirty things can get when you don't have the inclination to clean! And since all the filth is mine, all mine, it doesn't bother me as much. But she'll make fun of me if she sees how gross my kitchen floor has gotten!
Anyway, to anyone out there who is reading, I have a topic of sorts. It is fishy. A spoken word artist named Sarah Jones wrote a hip-hop influenced song entitled "Your Revolution," which lambasts the blatant sexism of mainstream hip hop. It was played on an independant Portland-based radio station, which was subsequently slapped with a $7000 FCC fine. The fine was appealed, but not removed. Jones has since filed a lawsuit against the FCC. The lyrics do include sexual suggestions and terms, but say (my paraphrase and take, no one else's) that a cultural revolution does not involve sex that subjugates half of the population. I agree. Regardless of the lyrics, why should this song be banned when songs like Eminem's "Kim," which graphically describe violence against women, or the latest P. Diddy, where he speaks of needing a girl to "ride, ride, ride," or the song wherein a man says "It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes," and the woman agrees, all be played non-stop on the radio? What motivated the FCC fine? Was it just the lyrics, which include a reference to a blow job? Or was it that a woman cannot speak out against the blatant sexism on our airwaves, a subjugation of women that is accepted and lauded, to the detriment of all of us? Or was it that a song like this would only be played by an independant radio station, who wasn't afraid of losing face with corporate sponsors? The independant media are the last true public bastion of free speech and idea sharing. Are we scared of that, in a corporate run world?
Just wondering. Questioning corporate America might be completely unAmerican, but then, my freedom to do so is inherently American.
If you're reading, and you're interested, check out www.sarahjonesonline.com or www.yourrevolutionisbanned.com. Speak out.
Well, since my real schedule ran out today, I'm still a little behind. I got through, well, okay, just my Friday stuff. Since I've been working on the thesis since January, you think that I'd know by now that everything takes longer. Having to reinstall my printer software wasn't helpful.
Okay, can I go back to a very previous blog? I guess since I'm mostly alone on the blog, I can do whatever I damn well please. Back in my sophomore year of college, my sweet and enlightened roommate got sick of me bitching about my hair (it was a little longer than chin length, I think) and dragged me to the Cut Zoo, a wonderful place with yellow and zebra striped decor, where they charged me $7 to chop off most of my hair. That was what was known as my dyke-chic phase, since the wardrobe that went with my blunt boy-cut consisted of oversized pants, boots, and tank tops. I wore the boots out, but I still have the rest of the wardrobe. Anyway, after getting sick of short hair, mainly getting sick of the constant maintenance which I couldn't afford, I decided to let it grow out. For two years, I just didn't cut my hair. I've now been through a few variations of long and layered, and my hair is a few inches above my bra strap. Not that anyone could tell, since it's always up, usually in a pony tail.
Basically what it comes down to is that I hate having this much hair. It takes me 15-30 minutes to wash and style it in the mornings, if that's what I choose to do. If I don't blow dry it, I have to put it up, and then it's still wet 7 hours later! I have sponge hair. So, I hate my hair. I want to cut it, do something chic and funky (NOT the boy-cut again, I want girly and sexy) but I'm hung up on it. I know that I have nice hair, and it doesn't necessarily look bad long, but I don't like it. So why do I feel like I shouldn't cut it? Because there's some idea that long, flowy locks are sexy, are the defining moment of womanhood. Bullshit! I KNOW that, intellectually. But I can't always make myself believe it. There's a fear factor, like I'll get it cut off and look stupid, but for gods' sakes, it's dead cells and it will grow out if I don't like it! What's the fuss?? Why do I have this belief (erroneous, I know) that this mop on my head could define me? Silly girly shit. Time to get past it -- I'm a woman, now, or working on it.
Chopping it off. Have to, and soon. Be free, head!!
Okay, can I go back to a very previous blog? I guess since I'm mostly alone on the blog, I can do whatever I damn well please. Back in my sophomore year of college, my sweet and enlightened roommate got sick of me bitching about my hair (it was a little longer than chin length, I think) and dragged me to the Cut Zoo, a wonderful place with yellow and zebra striped decor, where they charged me $7 to chop off most of my hair. That was what was known as my dyke-chic phase, since the wardrobe that went with my blunt boy-cut consisted of oversized pants, boots, and tank tops. I wore the boots out, but I still have the rest of the wardrobe. Anyway, after getting sick of short hair, mainly getting sick of the constant maintenance which I couldn't afford, I decided to let it grow out. For two years, I just didn't cut my hair. I've now been through a few variations of long and layered, and my hair is a few inches above my bra strap. Not that anyone could tell, since it's always up, usually in a pony tail.
Basically what it comes down to is that I hate having this much hair. It takes me 15-30 minutes to wash and style it in the mornings, if that's what I choose to do. If I don't blow dry it, I have to put it up, and then it's still wet 7 hours later! I have sponge hair. So, I hate my hair. I want to cut it, do something chic and funky (NOT the boy-cut again, I want girly and sexy) but I'm hung up on it. I know that I have nice hair, and it doesn't necessarily look bad long, but I don't like it. So why do I feel like I shouldn't cut it? Because there's some idea that long, flowy locks are sexy, are the defining moment of womanhood. Bullshit! I KNOW that, intellectually. But I can't always make myself believe it. There's a fear factor, like I'll get it cut off and look stupid, but for gods' sakes, it's dead cells and it will grow out if I don't like it! What's the fuss?? Why do I have this belief (erroneous, I know) that this mop on my head could define me? Silly girly shit. Time to get past it -- I'm a woman, now, or working on it.
Chopping it off. Have to, and soon. Be free, head!!
27 July 2002
26 July 2002
Well, since you aren't allowed to blog at work anymore, I can see that the blog has died. Sigh.
Anyway, not that anyone reading this would be interested, (and I'm not convinced anyone is reading), but I am finishing my final draft of my thesis this weekend. My goals are as follows:
Finish the final edit of chapters 1-3 today
Write chapter 4, the conclusion, tomorrow
Reedit the whole thing and make the chapter title pages on Sunday
Submit to my committee on Monday
Work on formatting issues, per the grad school rules, next week
Defend 7 Aug
YIKES! That fear of finishing thing is happening. The "what will I do then when this thing that is my life is passed off as complete" fear.
So, back to editing.
Anyway, not that anyone reading this would be interested, (and I'm not convinced anyone is reading), but I am finishing my final draft of my thesis this weekend. My goals are as follows:
Finish the final edit of chapters 1-3 today
Write chapter 4, the conclusion, tomorrow
Reedit the whole thing and make the chapter title pages on Sunday
Submit to my committee on Monday
Work on formatting issues, per the grad school rules, next week
Defend 7 Aug
YIKES! That fear of finishing thing is happening. The "what will I do then when this thing that is my life is passed off as complete" fear.
So, back to editing.
21 July 2002
Okay, so I can be melodramatic and overwrought. I have been steeped in a Cinderella/fairy tale culture in which there is no room for human frailty and fault within a relationship, especially not a romantic one. I admit that communication is a problem, not just for me, but for my s.o. and for other people I know as well. We have issues, but they are not necessarily life and death issues, and they are not unique to us. I am still not sure that they can be worked out, but I'm again and still willing to give it another chance, to try at it. It just seems like it's a lot of work sometimes. But why shouldn't it be? Keeping myself on track and liking myself are hard enough tasks, and they take work. Why do we have a notion that if you fall in love with someone that everything should work out blissfully perfectly? Why do we perpetuate this falsehood? People are fallible pains in the ass, and I include myself among them. Frequently we cannot see past our own needs and desires enough to see other people clearly -- not just lovers, but friends and family too.
I probably just shouldn't drink, but sometimes I think that I do it (as unwise as this may be) to dull the confusion enough that I can think. An inbred habit, I guess. Besides, can you call a very small two shots of tequila binge drinking? Or three glasses of wine? Well, maybe, with my tolerance level, but still....
I probably just shouldn't drink, but sometimes I think that I do it (as unwise as this may be) to dull the confusion enough that I can think. An inbred habit, I guess. Besides, can you call a very small two shots of tequila binge drinking? Or three glasses of wine? Well, maybe, with my tolerance level, but still....
19 July 2002
Christ on the fucking cross and dripping blood, he was human and he needed to be loved, right? Savior complex aside, we all need human love, not just divine, if there is such a thing. Damn it, is it too much to fucking ask that we might have "the ghost of a chance we can find someone to love"? Okay, so maybe mixing Morrissey and Rush isn't right, but you get the point, right?
Actually, it's more than love that we all need. I need emotional support, I need to talk and be heard, I need to be spoken to and shared with, and I need to listen, to hear another human being's soul, dreams, hopes and fears, to connect and be able to continue that connection. Instead, I am "speaking" to the internet community and to my blogger compatriot through my keyboard. I don't care how good friends you are, face-to-face communication is a requirement in a person's life. We cannot exist by voice and typed word alone. It isn't possible.
Gods above, I have no idea what I'm trying to say. There are so many thoughts and words inside my head that I'm having writers' constipation. I just don't understand how communication can be so difficult. We have to learn how to do it, obviously, and we aren't really taught it at any given point, so how do we learn? We fuck up over and over, and hopefully eventually learn from our mistakes. I know that I am unable to verbally acknowledge and express my needs sometimes, leaving me alone to deal with issues. Apparently I can be confrontational in my speech patterns, sometimes unwillingly so. Sometimes this is because I believe strongly in what I have to say, sometimes I think it is pure accident. Instead of recognizing this as a character trait, my s.o. sees this as direct confrontation, which isn't really useful. I don't realize when I do it, and it tends to shut him down. Useful communication skills: Being able to stop conversations you wanted to have, unintentionally.
Oooo. I'm feeling all floaty. I like tequila. Yeah, I know, turning to alcohol to "deal" with problems is so not my style, but I'm not being rational here. I sick and fucking tired of being fucking rational. Where has it gotten me? Well, to the west coast, to a university graduate program, to a thesis under an advisor who obviously doesn't think that my work is worth reading, since he hasn't, into an unworkable thesis situation that I cannot get out of, into debt to Uncle Sam, to student family housing where the kids are loud and the square footage is cheap, to 3000 miles away from most of my friends, into a relationship that, no matter how I figure it, just isn't working.
How is it not working? Well, communication-wise, really. I made a few mistakes. The first, I think, was getting involved in a serious relationship while trying to write my thesis, which is time and mind consuming. The second was choosing an original topic and then finding out that it had already been done. The third was sort of hydra-headed, moving into my own apartment, sans roommates, just as I quit taking classes full time. Too much time on my hands meant too much time spent with him and setting a strangely co-dependant precedent which I don't seem to be able to break. We have issues when we go about our normal routines, yes, but who doesn't? But when we break routines, meaning we don't talk or see one another for a day or a few, things seem to break down. I think about him, just being with him, being able to tell him what I've been up to, and sexually, too. But then it seems like I'm setting myself up for disappointment, like thinking out a vacation in detail in advance, and then being disappointed when it turns out differently. Not bad, really, just so different from your expectations that you can't relate the two and therefore cannot enjoy yourself. And I'm the original advocate for taking things as they come and not prethinking everything! Fuck me, I can't even follow my own fucking advice.
Why is it that I cannot communicate with this man I love? And yeah, though I can't really define love, I do love him. I don't even mean to, it makes me too vulnerable to exactly this: when things between us do not go well, I cannot put it from my mind until it is resolved. I can't help thinking about just what I might be able to do to make it right between us again. Big problem or small, I can't let it go without resolution. And I guess I feel like a gullible shit because I'm thinking about it and I'm just positive that he's going on with his daily life, tripping happily through the daisies, either thinking it will work itself out mysteriously or not caring.
Dude, me and Morrissey, we're going celibate and abstinent and lonely for fucking life. It's just easier that way. And I want no lines about taking the easy way out. Shouldn't something in life be easy right now?
Actually, it's more than love that we all need. I need emotional support, I need to talk and be heard, I need to be spoken to and shared with, and I need to listen, to hear another human being's soul, dreams, hopes and fears, to connect and be able to continue that connection. Instead, I am "speaking" to the internet community and to my blogger compatriot through my keyboard. I don't care how good friends you are, face-to-face communication is a requirement in a person's life. We cannot exist by voice and typed word alone. It isn't possible.
Gods above, I have no idea what I'm trying to say. There are so many thoughts and words inside my head that I'm having writers' constipation. I just don't understand how communication can be so difficult. We have to learn how to do it, obviously, and we aren't really taught it at any given point, so how do we learn? We fuck up over and over, and hopefully eventually learn from our mistakes. I know that I am unable to verbally acknowledge and express my needs sometimes, leaving me alone to deal with issues. Apparently I can be confrontational in my speech patterns, sometimes unwillingly so. Sometimes this is because I believe strongly in what I have to say, sometimes I think it is pure accident. Instead of recognizing this as a character trait, my s.o. sees this as direct confrontation, which isn't really useful. I don't realize when I do it, and it tends to shut him down. Useful communication skills: Being able to stop conversations you wanted to have, unintentionally.
Oooo. I'm feeling all floaty. I like tequila. Yeah, I know, turning to alcohol to "deal" with problems is so not my style, but I'm not being rational here. I sick and fucking tired of being fucking rational. Where has it gotten me? Well, to the west coast, to a university graduate program, to a thesis under an advisor who obviously doesn't think that my work is worth reading, since he hasn't, into an unworkable thesis situation that I cannot get out of, into debt to Uncle Sam, to student family housing where the kids are loud and the square footage is cheap, to 3000 miles away from most of my friends, into a relationship that, no matter how I figure it, just isn't working.
How is it not working? Well, communication-wise, really. I made a few mistakes. The first, I think, was getting involved in a serious relationship while trying to write my thesis, which is time and mind consuming. The second was choosing an original topic and then finding out that it had already been done. The third was sort of hydra-headed, moving into my own apartment, sans roommates, just as I quit taking classes full time. Too much time on my hands meant too much time spent with him and setting a strangely co-dependant precedent which I don't seem to be able to break. We have issues when we go about our normal routines, yes, but who doesn't? But when we break routines, meaning we don't talk or see one another for a day or a few, things seem to break down. I think about him, just being with him, being able to tell him what I've been up to, and sexually, too. But then it seems like I'm setting myself up for disappointment, like thinking out a vacation in detail in advance, and then being disappointed when it turns out differently. Not bad, really, just so different from your expectations that you can't relate the two and therefore cannot enjoy yourself. And I'm the original advocate for taking things as they come and not prethinking everything! Fuck me, I can't even follow my own fucking advice.
Why is it that I cannot communicate with this man I love? And yeah, though I can't really define love, I do love him. I don't even mean to, it makes me too vulnerable to exactly this: when things between us do not go well, I cannot put it from my mind until it is resolved. I can't help thinking about just what I might be able to do to make it right between us again. Big problem or small, I can't let it go without resolution. And I guess I feel like a gullible shit because I'm thinking about it and I'm just positive that he's going on with his daily life, tripping happily through the daisies, either thinking it will work itself out mysteriously or not caring.
Dude, me and Morrissey, we're going celibate and abstinent and lonely for fucking life. It's just easier that way. And I want no lines about taking the easy way out. Shouldn't something in life be easy right now?
18 July 2002
Dude, 7:30 is totally a psycho bedtime. But hey, your schedule has never been normal. Not that I can talk. I'm currently not talking to my boyfriend because he's not slept more than a few hours each night and is beyond cranky. I almost can't talk to him without getting into an argument. Which would be okay, I guess, or dealable, if it weren't a reoccuring problem.
Speaking of reoccuring problems, I'm currently blasting, and I do mean blasting music to drown out the kids shrieking outside. Little fucking bastards and their fucking useless limp dishrag parents. Can I call them parents? They don't parent. Let's call them "keepers." This morning I blasted Dave Matthews Band, an old CD, just because it was in the player. This evening I dug out the Tool CD. I don't think I own much else that could warrant a parental warning sticker. Tori would probably annoy them, too, but I like the idea of blasting Prison Sex as a revenge tool. No pun intended, no intent behind it, other than that it could be considered offensive, and I want to offend as much as possible. I have no rights here! Fuck. I am totally trapped in situations beyond my control in which I cannot do what I feel is necessary and/or right. Fuck. And once again, for good measure, FUCK.
So, anyway, my days in Boring were spent learning the secrets of construction. I know that I'm a nerd, but when I can be outside, doing something which will create a finished product, and learning something in the process, I'm in. Totally and completely. I watched the pouring of a concrete slab, though I didn't offer much help there, got to learn to use a ground compactor (weird equipment), and helped frame out and deck over a basement. This studio is going to be amazing once it's done, a great place for woodworking, and it will befit the man who designed it and is building it for himself. He's one of those teachers that one will never forget.
Okay, and speaking of other things, well, now I can't remember what I wanted to say. I'm losing my mind at age 25.
I have to meet with my thesis committee, or most of it, tomorrow. Yikes. I have two meetings in the afternoon, and I'm seriously freaking out. I have worked so hard on this, and I don't know how much it will be gutted tomorrow. At least one of the committee members I'm meeting with always has constructive criticism and guidance to offer. Phew. I could get out of here someday. Right? I could?
Speaking of reoccuring problems, I'm currently blasting, and I do mean blasting music to drown out the kids shrieking outside. Little fucking bastards and their fucking useless limp dishrag parents. Can I call them parents? They don't parent. Let's call them "keepers." This morning I blasted Dave Matthews Band, an old CD, just because it was in the player. This evening I dug out the Tool CD. I don't think I own much else that could warrant a parental warning sticker. Tori would probably annoy them, too, but I like the idea of blasting Prison Sex as a revenge tool. No pun intended, no intent behind it, other than that it could be considered offensive, and I want to offend as much as possible. I have no rights here! Fuck. I am totally trapped in situations beyond my control in which I cannot do what I feel is necessary and/or right. Fuck. And once again, for good measure, FUCK.
So, anyway, my days in Boring were spent learning the secrets of construction. I know that I'm a nerd, but when I can be outside, doing something which will create a finished product, and learning something in the process, I'm in. Totally and completely. I watched the pouring of a concrete slab, though I didn't offer much help there, got to learn to use a ground compactor (weird equipment), and helped frame out and deck over a basement. This studio is going to be amazing once it's done, a great place for woodworking, and it will befit the man who designed it and is building it for himself. He's one of those teachers that one will never forget.
Okay, and speaking of other things, well, now I can't remember what I wanted to say. I'm losing my mind at age 25.
I have to meet with my thesis committee, or most of it, tomorrow. Yikes. I have two meetings in the afternoon, and I'm seriously freaking out. I have worked so hard on this, and I don't know how much it will be gutted tomorrow. At least one of the committee members I'm meeting with always has constructive criticism and guidance to offer. Phew. I could get out of here someday. Right? I could?
Nah, fuck your six. Well, not literally. Seriously, though, how is flirting un-feminist? The point I got out of feminist philosophy was that for too long women have been valued only for our physical qualities. Flirting, unless it's the lambada or the dance floor grind, is more of a mental thing. Not quite intellectual exactly, but thoughtful, at least. Flirting is the safest sexual intercourse there is, unless you do it with some complete psycho that ends up stalking you (or worse). I don't think maj. flirt sounds like that kind of dude. Though, if he shows tendencies, STOP, DROP, and ROLL, but not on top of him.
Hmmm. I had more to say. The paper pissed me off this morning, aroused my ire to say the least, but I don't feel like writing about it right now. Maybe more later.
Hmmm. I had more to say. The paper pissed me off this morning, aroused my ire to say the least, but I don't feel like writing about it right now. Maybe more later.
12 July 2002
I always have to pee in the morning -- probably the coffee, really. But then, I have a small bladder, too. I think we've just got more stuff around our bladders than men. I know that the three or four days before my period I have to pee practically every half hour.
I don't know, but besides KT I don't think any other nickname has ever really stuck to me, barring the stupid cutesy things parents call you every once in a while. Am I just not a nickname kind of person? What makes someone a nickname-worthy person?
I am absolutely scared shitless about contacting my thesis committee. My advisor really isn't much of one, so I've had no feedback as yet on the fourty pages I've turned in to him. But I finished chapter three last night, have corrections to type in this morning, and then I've got to get a hold of everyone and deliver. All I have left to do are the intro and conclusion, which I'm not doing until I get feedback, and the pictures, which I'm working on. Have to update the bibliography, too. But the way it's supposed to work is that you write, you meet with your advisor, you discuss. He's supposed to read it and give me feedback so that I can change things, make it better, and then give it to the rest of the committee -- a fourth draft, rather than a third. But I get no feedback, and I found out at the end of the last term that he still didn't know what my topic was! What kind of bullshit is that? I don't have much of a choice, though. And I can't even explain to the rest of the committee, because that's unpolitic for academics, and my advisor controls my destiny. Total suckage.
Well, I should go do that, shouldn't I? I will remember to resend chapter two to you, and now chapter three, as well. But later today.
Peace out, pitstop.
I don't know, but besides KT I don't think any other nickname has ever really stuck to me, barring the stupid cutesy things parents call you every once in a while. Am I just not a nickname kind of person? What makes someone a nickname-worthy person?
I am absolutely scared shitless about contacting my thesis committee. My advisor really isn't much of one, so I've had no feedback as yet on the fourty pages I've turned in to him. But I finished chapter three last night, have corrections to type in this morning, and then I've got to get a hold of everyone and deliver. All I have left to do are the intro and conclusion, which I'm not doing until I get feedback, and the pictures, which I'm working on. Have to update the bibliography, too. But the way it's supposed to work is that you write, you meet with your advisor, you discuss. He's supposed to read it and give me feedback so that I can change things, make it better, and then give it to the rest of the committee -- a fourth draft, rather than a third. But I get no feedback, and I found out at the end of the last term that he still didn't know what my topic was! What kind of bullshit is that? I don't have much of a choice, though. And I can't even explain to the rest of the committee, because that's unpolitic for academics, and my advisor controls my destiny. Total suckage.
Well, I should go do that, shouldn't I? I will remember to resend chapter two to you, and now chapter three, as well. But later today.
Peace out, pitstop.
11 July 2002
The word would be heterogeneity, but that would mean diverse, so I think you want homogeneity. I think those are spelled correctly.
I agree that monogamy is suspect, but I'm a practicing advocate of serially monogamy. Okay, so there aren't many stages in my history, but I don't get around too much by choice. I couldn't carry on two or more relationships simultaneously. Sometimes it's hard to carry on several friendships at once! Jealousy does come into play. Thousands of years ago, from what we know, not only did men run around fathering children with many women, the corrolary is that women bore children by many men. Procreation was necessary to the survival of the species, and genetically, polyamory made more sense. But when things were all willy-nilly sex, only women were sure who their children were. Enter property and a stable lifestyle, and you have a reason for men to want to know who their children are -- to pass the land on to. Hence the empahsis on feminine purity and chastity. But I do wonder about jealousy. I would wonder, if, in hunter gatherer societies, food was shared equally? Because if you gathered only for your family, and men hunted only for theirs, wouldn't you want to know who the father of your children was so that you could demand your share of his pterodactyl steaks?
Ducks mate for life, as do several other species. It is the exception, rather than the norm, I believe, but it happens.
Do you ever have something really important happen, and then eventually you get to tell all of the important people in your life, but some of them get to hear it twice because you forget that you told them? I think being more specially with one person is about having that one person that you tell everything, or almost everything. You should love more than one person, but having one partner in life, often someone you sleep with, is somewhat special. I know that that's been pounded into my mind by our society at large, but it's there nonetheless. I am not less of a person when I am on my own, but being with that one special person enhances certain things. In a way, that's true of your really good friends, too.
I was one syllable off in the haiku. Poetic license.
Sexual flirtation and sexual harassment, as you know, are two very different animals. One is unwanted. The other is reciprocal. Major difference, pun intended. Off to finish chapter 3!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
I agree that monogamy is suspect, but I'm a practicing advocate of serially monogamy. Okay, so there aren't many stages in my history, but I don't get around too much by choice. I couldn't carry on two or more relationships simultaneously. Sometimes it's hard to carry on several friendships at once! Jealousy does come into play. Thousands of years ago, from what we know, not only did men run around fathering children with many women, the corrolary is that women bore children by many men. Procreation was necessary to the survival of the species, and genetically, polyamory made more sense. But when things were all willy-nilly sex, only women were sure who their children were. Enter property and a stable lifestyle, and you have a reason for men to want to know who their children are -- to pass the land on to. Hence the empahsis on feminine purity and chastity. But I do wonder about jealousy. I would wonder, if, in hunter gatherer societies, food was shared equally? Because if you gathered only for your family, and men hunted only for theirs, wouldn't you want to know who the father of your children was so that you could demand your share of his pterodactyl steaks?
Ducks mate for life, as do several other species. It is the exception, rather than the norm, I believe, but it happens.
Do you ever have something really important happen, and then eventually you get to tell all of the important people in your life, but some of them get to hear it twice because you forget that you told them? I think being more specially with one person is about having that one person that you tell everything, or almost everything. You should love more than one person, but having one partner in life, often someone you sleep with, is somewhat special. I know that that's been pounded into my mind by our society at large, but it's there nonetheless. I am not less of a person when I am on my own, but being with that one special person enhances certain things. In a way, that's true of your really good friends, too.
I was one syllable off in the haiku. Poetic license.
Sexual flirtation and sexual harassment, as you know, are two very different animals. One is unwanted. The other is reciprocal. Major difference, pun intended. Off to finish chapter 3!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
On Sex, because it is, after all, why we're all here:
Why is it that sex is consider more a man's domain than a woman's? I don't think that most folks consider masturbation sex, so generally it takes two to have sex. Or more, if that's your thing. So, if we throw out gay male sex, which we will for now because it's something that neither of us will be a part of ever, lacking the equipment, then women are a primary part of sex.
BUT, consider these things before refuting the validity of my question. Thing One: A girl who chooses to have sex with many boys is considered a slut, whore, or other derrogatory term. A boy who has sex with many girls is considered a stud, or a player, and while the latter has some negative connotations, it isn't generally negative to other guys. Thing Two: Pornography of most genres is created for (and usually by) men, with the acquiesence of women. Thing Three: Viagra is covered on many health care plans, including federal ones like Medicaid. Viagra is for men, to help them get their groove on and last longer, because it's only really sex if he's inside you. On the other hand, birth control is NOT covered by most health care plans and is godawfully expensive, meaning that us poor folk who want to get our groove on but not procreate -- and can't afford to -- can't always afford the pill, which is the only thing effective enough to be truly considered. The pill is for women.
Also, women aren't generally supposed to be the agressors in sexual relations. It doesn't seem that most guys really mind, but it's still societally frowned upon. Girls are frequently told that their virginity is a gift to give a man, preferrably on her wedding night. Seems like a lousy gift to me. Pain and usually some blood. Men are almost encouraged to get rid of their virginity and get some experience, as this is considered sexy. Double-standard anyone?
There is no slut-virgin dichotomy for guys.
Why is the number of people one has slept with an important number? And people seem proud of it, the higher it is! It seems to me like sex is something a little more intimate than I want to share with any guy off the street, but that's just me. It involves him entering me in a very personal way, a way in which many diseases can be transmitted and also the supposed gift of life can be given. Maybe it's just me doing that thinking ahead thing, but I wouldn't want to end up accidentally pregnant and not know who the other half of the gene pool was, or how to find him.
Random thoughts, I know, but that's what's inside my head, so there.
Why is it that sex is consider more a man's domain than a woman's? I don't think that most folks consider masturbation sex, so generally it takes two to have sex. Or more, if that's your thing. So, if we throw out gay male sex, which we will for now because it's something that neither of us will be a part of ever, lacking the equipment, then women are a primary part of sex.
BUT, consider these things before refuting the validity of my question. Thing One: A girl who chooses to have sex with many boys is considered a slut, whore, or other derrogatory term. A boy who has sex with many girls is considered a stud, or a player, and while the latter has some negative connotations, it isn't generally negative to other guys. Thing Two: Pornography of most genres is created for (and usually by) men, with the acquiesence of women. Thing Three: Viagra is covered on many health care plans, including federal ones like Medicaid. Viagra is for men, to help them get their groove on and last longer, because it's only really sex if he's inside you. On the other hand, birth control is NOT covered by most health care plans and is godawfully expensive, meaning that us poor folk who want to get our groove on but not procreate -- and can't afford to -- can't always afford the pill, which is the only thing effective enough to be truly considered. The pill is for women.
Also, women aren't generally supposed to be the agressors in sexual relations. It doesn't seem that most guys really mind, but it's still societally frowned upon. Girls are frequently told that their virginity is a gift to give a man, preferrably on her wedding night. Seems like a lousy gift to me. Pain and usually some blood. Men are almost encouraged to get rid of their virginity and get some experience, as this is considered sexy. Double-standard anyone?
There is no slut-virgin dichotomy for guys.
Why is the number of people one has slept with an important number? And people seem proud of it, the higher it is! It seems to me like sex is something a little more intimate than I want to share with any guy off the street, but that's just me. It involves him entering me in a very personal way, a way in which many diseases can be transmitted and also the supposed gift of life can be given. Maybe it's just me doing that thinking ahead thing, but I wouldn't want to end up accidentally pregnant and not know who the other half of the gene pool was, or how to find him.
Random thoughts, I know, but that's what's inside my head, so there.
10 July 2002
The two FL folk I refer to are neither you. I refer to our frumpy friend and the wannabe goth. You are like neither except in respects of schooling and city of high school attendance.
Personally I consult the screaming children. Right now the Cranberries mostly drown them out.
[page 14 of 20!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! the end is nigh]
Personally I consult the screaming children. Right now the Cranberries mostly drown them out.
[page 14 of 20!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! the end is nigh]
As long as you're rejecting what people think because it's outdated and sheep-like rather than because you disagree with it, then it sounds like a plan. I know that this isn't what you mean, but sometimes people use the "I don't give a damn what other people think" as an excuse to be assholes. It's one thing if people just refuse to see the logic and/or rightness in what you've decided to do, and another when they raise valid questions which you refuse to consider because you're being stubborn. I know that I've done that.
Most of us aren't very good at listening to the advice others have to offer, but for a variety of reasons. Some of us just know that if we don't do it our way, we will never figure it out (me). Some people unknowingly put on blinders in certain situations, and can't see the faults in logic that other people point out (you in romatic situations). Some people like to argue (also you). Some think that being stupidly stubborn is cute and child-like, as befits a youngest child that never had to do anything for herself (our good friend from Pensacola. Wait, actually both of them.) Some people are just dumb and think they know everything (our dear other friend from FL). Crazy folks.
Most of us aren't very good at listening to the advice others have to offer, but for a variety of reasons. Some of us just know that if we don't do it our way, we will never figure it out (me). Some people unknowingly put on blinders in certain situations, and can't see the faults in logic that other people point out (you in romatic situations). Some people like to argue (also you). Some think that being stupidly stubborn is cute and child-like, as befits a youngest child that never had to do anything for herself (our good friend from Pensacola. Wait, actually both of them.) Some people are just dumb and think they know everything (our dear other friend from FL). Crazy folks.
09 July 2002
Go Pussy Power!
But we have brain power, too. And I think that, sometimes, we control our desires better than men do. We're taught to. Men can go willy-nilly chasing tail (wait, how does that work? Aren't they the ones with tails?) and it's all okay with most everyone, or at least society in general. It's a "boys will be boys thing." What bullshit. Boys will be asses, yes, sometimes, but they too can learn to control it. Girls are taught that they have what boys want, but we must never give it to them, because then they won't respect us anymore. So basically, in this scenario of things, we all lose, because no one has control. Boys want it and can't resist it or control themselves in relation to it. Girls have it but can't give it up at their will. Or they get nothing in return for giving it up, since a lot of guys haven't a clue how to pleasure a woman.
The entire world seems to come down to sex, power, and money. And since sex and money equal power, it all comes down to sex and money. No wonder women become prostitutes or exotic dancers!
But we have brain power, too. And I think that, sometimes, we control our desires better than men do. We're taught to. Men can go willy-nilly chasing tail (wait, how does that work? Aren't they the ones with tails?) and it's all okay with most everyone, or at least society in general. It's a "boys will be boys thing." What bullshit. Boys will be asses, yes, sometimes, but they too can learn to control it. Girls are taught that they have what boys want, but we must never give it to them, because then they won't respect us anymore. So basically, in this scenario of things, we all lose, because no one has control. Boys want it and can't resist it or control themselves in relation to it. Girls have it but can't give it up at their will. Or they get nothing in return for giving it up, since a lot of guys haven't a clue how to pleasure a woman.
The entire world seems to come down to sex, power, and money. And since sex and money equal power, it all comes down to sex and money. No wonder women become prostitutes or exotic dancers!
Sometimes one finds out after the fact that boys do notice some of the goofy, stupid, girly things we do to flirt -- they just don't respond in a manner that recognizes the notice. Dumb boys. Makes it difficult.
Btw, I have never been able to determine whether or not a man is gay before I get interested. Personal flaw, I know. I'm just clueless.
I shouldn't say anymore -- I'm very anti-boy right now. I need to go blow off some steam. Unfortunately, I worked out yesterday, just a little, and I hurt from it. I think part of that is from hauling this dumb laptop all over campus yesterday. It was worth it, since I think I may have almost all the images I need for my thesis in digital format now, but still, it gets heavy! And I first had to get it to campus, which is several miles. Ouch. I'm such an out of shape wimp.
Btw, I have never been able to determine whether or not a man is gay before I get interested. Personal flaw, I know. I'm just clueless.
I shouldn't say anymore -- I'm very anti-boy right now. I need to go blow off some steam. Unfortunately, I worked out yesterday, just a little, and I hurt from it. I think part of that is from hauling this dumb laptop all over campus yesterday. It was worth it, since I think I may have almost all the images I need for my thesis in digital format now, but still, it gets heavy! And I first had to get it to campus, which is several miles. Ouch. I'm such an out of shape wimp.
08 July 2002
Too bad my original response to this morning's post has been swallowed by technology. It advocated caution in the obsession field, and enjoyment of the early stages of a relationship -- even if it turns out to just be an infatuation. If the relationship goes anywhere, you will find out all the sordid details of your lover's past. If not, why not just hold on to the fantasy that could have been?
I think that obsessively trying to root out information on this guy will lead to disaster. You are dealing with a cop, someone hopefully more perceptive than the lame-ass boys our age. Besides, obsession isn't sexy or attractive; it's creepy.
I think that obsessively trying to root out information on this guy will lead to disaster. You are dealing with a cop, someone hopefully more perceptive than the lame-ass boys our age. Besides, obsession isn't sexy or attractive; it's creepy.
07 July 2002
I guess if you consider that you are the center of your universe, the birthday equates to the creation of your world. To a degree, I agree with this idea -- if you don't take care of yourself, not much else in your life will matter. There is call for a little selfishness in life. But I think that people, particularly Americans, take this a tad too far. We are NOT the only people in the world. Without consideration and politeness, there is little left to grease the cogs of society. Heinlein has a saying (one of the Lazarus Long musings) that says something along the lines of this: The younger generations think that many of the social graces and ceremonies and politenesses are empty, meaningless, and outdated, which may be true, but they are also what allows us to get along with the vast numbers of people we come in to contact with regularly. He says it better, of course, but I don't feel like looking it up.
Personal responsibility and consideration for others are intertwined. One of my pet peeves is when people leave their shopping carts in the middle of the parking lot rather than taking them to a cage or back to the store. Not only do the freewheeling carts pose somewhat of a risk to people's precious automobiles, but they cost me money! When people regularly leave carts all over creation, the store must pay an employee for her time to go and collect them. The store then, in turn, will eventually charge me more for the goods I purchase because they have higher overhead costs. Now I admit that Oregon, or at least Eugene, has a lack of cart corrals, but it only takes a minute to stow your cart safely away. It's a small thing, I know, but it demonstrates laziness and lack of foresight, in my opinion.
As for the Uno, yes, you usually won, but you would also pick up the whole deck in order to keep me from winning, which goes beyond the friendly, healthy competitiveness that is natural and Darwinian, and turns meaningless card games into a life-and-death struggle. Some wise folks advise us to pick and choose our battles.... just a thought. And nobody always wins.
I spent my patriotic holiday engaging in non-participatory sports watching, a good American pasttime. I went to a baseball game. We won. There were fireworks afterwards, although they were pretty amateurish. Spent the rest of the evening in the company of a wonderfully entertaining group of men.
Personal responsibility and consideration for others are intertwined. One of my pet peeves is when people leave their shopping carts in the middle of the parking lot rather than taking them to a cage or back to the store. Not only do the freewheeling carts pose somewhat of a risk to people's precious automobiles, but they cost me money! When people regularly leave carts all over creation, the store must pay an employee for her time to go and collect them. The store then, in turn, will eventually charge me more for the goods I purchase because they have higher overhead costs. Now I admit that Oregon, or at least Eugene, has a lack of cart corrals, but it only takes a minute to stow your cart safely away. It's a small thing, I know, but it demonstrates laziness and lack of foresight, in my opinion.
As for the Uno, yes, you usually won, but you would also pick up the whole deck in order to keep me from winning, which goes beyond the friendly, healthy competitiveness that is natural and Darwinian, and turns meaningless card games into a life-and-death struggle. Some wise folks advise us to pick and choose our battles.... just a thought. And nobody always wins.
I spent my patriotic holiday engaging in non-participatory sports watching, a good American pasttime. I went to a baseball game. We won. There were fireworks afterwards, although they were pretty amateurish. Spent the rest of the evening in the company of a wonderfully entertaining group of men.
03 July 2002
Okay, it's monologue day!
I have become a total insomniac lately. I hate lying in bed patently not sleeping, so I just don't go to bed. Last night (this morning??) I discovered that my newspaper is delivered at 3:18 am. Since I don't have to get up, I don't, and the cycle continues.
Much of life is cyclical like that, isn't it? Chains of cause and effect that loop back around again until you are sure where something started or how to end it or stop the insane circling. It frightens me a little.
So anyway, I am in the process of hitting a supposed milestone, that of a quarter century, and, of course, I feel the need to evaluate where I am in this circular time called life. I'm still in graduate school, a mere 25 or so pages from completion (and probably some editing after that, but still....). I have a liberal arts diploma nestled somewhere in a bookcase I've owned for 24 years which is currently 3000 miles away and being used by my grandmother. She's 89, still mobile, although slower, and still processing thoughts on a minute-by-minute basis. Of course, a lot of the things she thinks about are based on right-wing talk radio, but still, she's thinking and that gives me home. Sixty-four more years gives me time to accomplish something, to do something worthwhile, to be someone, right? There are lists of geniuses who accomplished something earth-shattering by the time they were 12, but there are also lists of folks who didn't figure out what their major public contribution to the world would be until they were well past what we consider to be a retirement age. My mom didn't find her current career until she was in her mid-50s, and she's contemplating a complete change when they force her to retire. So I guess I feel secure in the fact that I don't have to figure "IT" all out right now.
But since my life expectancy is about 89 (at least according to the Quicken retirement calculator), why is this a landmark age? It in no way relates to how long anyone expects to live. I guess that I've hated celebrating my birthday since I was about 12. No trauma or anything of the sort caused this, but I started to wonder why exactly one celebrates this "occasion" at all? It seems as though the birthday party is like the funeral, celebrated or marked not so much for the honoree but for those around her. I do know that this may just be me -- there are some people, my brother, someone we both remember from college, that remind people that their birthdays are coming up for about 6 weeks (my brother starts about 6 months in advance, but he isn't a good indicator of the norm). I know that I sound like a party pooper, but I just don't understand the celebration.
Then again, in a culture that bases worth on money far too frequently, I have no say at all. My income since March averages out to about $100 per month. Thank the gods that be that I'm getting an education!!
I have become a total insomniac lately. I hate lying in bed patently not sleeping, so I just don't go to bed. Last night (this morning??) I discovered that my newspaper is delivered at 3:18 am. Since I don't have to get up, I don't, and the cycle continues.
Much of life is cyclical like that, isn't it? Chains of cause and effect that loop back around again until you are sure where something started or how to end it or stop the insane circling. It frightens me a little.
So anyway, I am in the process of hitting a supposed milestone, that of a quarter century, and, of course, I feel the need to evaluate where I am in this circular time called life. I'm still in graduate school, a mere 25 or so pages from completion (and probably some editing after that, but still....). I have a liberal arts diploma nestled somewhere in a bookcase I've owned for 24 years which is currently 3000 miles away and being used by my grandmother. She's 89, still mobile, although slower, and still processing thoughts on a minute-by-minute basis. Of course, a lot of the things she thinks about are based on right-wing talk radio, but still, she's thinking and that gives me home. Sixty-four more years gives me time to accomplish something, to do something worthwhile, to be someone, right? There are lists of geniuses who accomplished something earth-shattering by the time they were 12, but there are also lists of folks who didn't figure out what their major public contribution to the world would be until they were well past what we consider to be a retirement age. My mom didn't find her current career until she was in her mid-50s, and she's contemplating a complete change when they force her to retire. So I guess I feel secure in the fact that I don't have to figure "IT" all out right now.
But since my life expectancy is about 89 (at least according to the Quicken retirement calculator), why is this a landmark age? It in no way relates to how long anyone expects to live. I guess that I've hated celebrating my birthday since I was about 12. No trauma or anything of the sort caused this, but I started to wonder why exactly one celebrates this "occasion" at all? It seems as though the birthday party is like the funeral, celebrated or marked not so much for the honoree but for those around her. I do know that this may just be me -- there are some people, my brother, someone we both remember from college, that remind people that their birthdays are coming up for about 6 weeks (my brother starts about 6 months in advance, but he isn't a good indicator of the norm). I know that I sound like a party pooper, but I just don't understand the celebration.
Then again, in a culture that bases worth on money far too frequently, I have no say at all. My income since March averages out to about $100 per month. Thank the gods that be that I'm getting an education!!
New subject to blog on.
There was an article on salon.com (http://www.salon.com/mwt/style/2001/05/07/girl_guides/) about the rash of "girl guides" on the market, including non-fiction, sassy guides to single living, as well as books like Bridget Jones' Diary and others of that ilk. The author relates the advice in these books to those advice books from as far back as the 1890s that give advice to a girl on how to get a man. She has a point. These books give tons of advice for what to do as a single girl on her own, presumably in the big, bad, scary city. Why do we need advice on what to do when we're alone? Do men need advice on what to do when alone? (Dirty aside: no, they don't need advice, but then again, their equipment is easier to use!)
I will sometime brood on the fact that I'm sitting alone in my apartment, but it isn't that I can't figure out anything to do. It's that I'm too lazy to do anything. I admit to some singular dislikes: I hate eating alone in a restaurant. I have only done it a few times, but if anything can convince me to cook or scavenge in my cabinets, it's the thought of eating by myself in a restaurant. I also don't really like clothes shopping by myself. Who do you bounce ideas off of if you're alone? And who do you make fun of the crappy clothes on the market with? It's not like I buy that much, since there is either nothing that fits or nothing worth buying, but the whole experience is better if you have a friend to do it with. But the advice in these books seems to say too often, "it's okay to be alone! You're good enough!" The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
I think, in generaly, that we all want someone in our lives. We are social people, human beings, and most cultures revere the couple as the smallest social group. Despite our claims to individuality, we have raised the couple to a pedestal, a pinnacle to which all people must aspire. I'll admit I feel the pressure, and I'm in a relationship! But do we, as women, need guidebooks telling us how to live a single life while masquerading as a guide to get a man? At least "The Rules" doesn't disguise it's purpose!
There was an article on salon.com (http://www.salon.com/mwt/style/2001/05/07/girl_guides/) about the rash of "girl guides" on the market, including non-fiction, sassy guides to single living, as well as books like Bridget Jones' Diary and others of that ilk. The author relates the advice in these books to those advice books from as far back as the 1890s that give advice to a girl on how to get a man. She has a point. These books give tons of advice for what to do as a single girl on her own, presumably in the big, bad, scary city. Why do we need advice on what to do when we're alone? Do men need advice on what to do when alone? (Dirty aside: no, they don't need advice, but then again, their equipment is easier to use!)
I will sometime brood on the fact that I'm sitting alone in my apartment, but it isn't that I can't figure out anything to do. It's that I'm too lazy to do anything. I admit to some singular dislikes: I hate eating alone in a restaurant. I have only done it a few times, but if anything can convince me to cook or scavenge in my cabinets, it's the thought of eating by myself in a restaurant. I also don't really like clothes shopping by myself. Who do you bounce ideas off of if you're alone? And who do you make fun of the crappy clothes on the market with? It's not like I buy that much, since there is either nothing that fits or nothing worth buying, but the whole experience is better if you have a friend to do it with. But the advice in these books seems to say too often, "it's okay to be alone! You're good enough!" The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
I think, in generaly, that we all want someone in our lives. We are social people, human beings, and most cultures revere the couple as the smallest social group. Despite our claims to individuality, we have raised the couple to a pedestal, a pinnacle to which all people must aspire. I'll admit I feel the pressure, and I'm in a relationship! But do we, as women, need guidebooks telling us how to live a single life while masquerading as a guide to get a man? At least "The Rules" doesn't disguise it's purpose!
I don't think that anyone can be paid enough to "raise" children properly. It would be nice if raising kids were considered important enough to be a paid position, or to be compensated in some way. Parents who stay home to raise their children are penalized in many ways. Frequently, one parent's income is not enough to raise children in the way most people would like to raise them. Or, after the children have started school, the parent who was staying home with them full time decides that being home alone with housework (which is underrated, repetitive, and unpaid) isn't enough. Either way, the parent raising the children is usually the woman. When this woman chooses to go back to work, she has two options: full-time or part time, and with a part-time job, there is little compensation, no room to move up, and no benefits. With a full-time job, she is unlikely to be hired without reservations as to her job committment, seeing as how she might have to take time off if her child(ren) got sick, or otherwise needed her. What kills me about the whole matter is that regardless of the gender of the stay-at-home parent, if he or she chooses to return to work parttime, in order to be at home the other times, nurturing the children, as might be consistent with the "return" to "family values" touted these days, the penalty is no benefits and little, if any, upward mobility.
Also consider the options for childcare. Since we have no really good system in place, and financing it is not easy for everyone, daycare is not universally available. It is also not necessarily easy to get to or available at all times.
Also consider the options for childcare. Since we have no really good system in place, and financing it is not easy for everyone, daycare is not universally available. It is also not necessarily easy to get to or available at all times.
01 July 2002
Btw, since there are only the two of us, and you only use capital letters intermittently and/or artistically, it should be easy for anyone reading to distinguish between the two authors. Funny, though since your initials are caps and mine are lower-case....meaningful? or artistic accident?
I can hear a child screaming right now. It sounds like murder is being committed right on our playground, right outside my window, but usually, when I, as a concerned citizen, go to look, he or she is just standing there with the impetus of the banshee-like howling being apparent only in the small, still-forming brain.
I can hear a child screaming right now. It sounds like murder is being committed right on our playground, right outside my window, but usually, when I, as a concerned citizen, go to look, he or she is just standing there with the impetus of the banshee-like howling being apparent only in the small, still-forming brain.
New Rant: CHILDREN
First, let me admit two things that may explain the irrational nature of my issues. One, I do not have, nor am I convinced that I will ever want, children. Two, I live in student family housing, in a building located between an elementary school, the University-sponsored playschool/daycare, and a playground for the community. Now that I have revealed my situation-related biases ....
Children are obnoxious creatures unless they have been trained. I was under the impression that the reason we reproduce the way we do is meaningful. Firstly, if the act of reproduction were not pleasant, we would not do it as often (and probably would not have overpopulated this planet). Secondly, the offspring come out completely defenseless, eventually growing into self-sufficient beings, presumably with the guidance of their parents. (Since the biological parents are not always equipped to guide, we have institutionalized other ways to care for children, though admittedly our systems are flawed. One main flaw could be the emphasis on biological connection which supercedes the true needs of a child, but that is another discussion).
I personally cannot imagine trying to raise children while being a student, especially not the young ones that need more or less constant guidance, companionship, and supervision. Being a student is a 24/7 job in which one can rightfully feel guilty for every minute not spent on studenting, as there is always work that should or could be done. I get the impression parenting is the same. Neither one can actually engage us for 168 hours a week; it just isn't possible. But as a student, the only thing that gets neglected when I slack off or procrastinate are my books, and most of them are "rented" from the library anyway. (Many of them haven't been checked out in more than 20 years and being out of the library is probably enough of a scenery change for them anyway!)
I know that parents, in general, hate to hear advice from non-parents. I admit that I don't know what raising a child is like. But I do know that your children are obnoxious, and I blame you, the parent. There is a child who is regularly out on the playground with his parents. He's probably about 4. He regularly screams for no apparent reason other than to gain attention, throws fits, throws cups, socks and other random objects at his mother, and generally receives a "good talking to" from his mom, if she takes any action at all. I couldn't stand the noise of living with this child, and in fact have the urge to duct tape his mouth shut almost daily. And I would never have gotten away with such things as a child -- my mother wouldn't have stood for it. My parents were not unduly harsh, but occasionally I was spanked (and survived without violent tendencies) when I deserved it -- when nothing else would have suitably driven the point home. I knew who was in charge -- not me, my parents. Until a child reaches a certain age or stage of development, it is useless to try to reason with her. They can't reason!!!! You just say "no." As a parent, you must establish credibility to be obeyed by a three-year-old. Why don't people get that? If you can't work on that, don't have kids yet!
ARGH!
First, let me admit two things that may explain the irrational nature of my issues. One, I do not have, nor am I convinced that I will ever want, children. Two, I live in student family housing, in a building located between an elementary school, the University-sponsored playschool/daycare, and a playground for the community. Now that I have revealed my situation-related biases ....
Children are obnoxious creatures unless they have been trained. I was under the impression that the reason we reproduce the way we do is meaningful. Firstly, if the act of reproduction were not pleasant, we would not do it as often (and probably would not have overpopulated this planet). Secondly, the offspring come out completely defenseless, eventually growing into self-sufficient beings, presumably with the guidance of their parents. (Since the biological parents are not always equipped to guide, we have institutionalized other ways to care for children, though admittedly our systems are flawed. One main flaw could be the emphasis on biological connection which supercedes the true needs of a child, but that is another discussion).
I personally cannot imagine trying to raise children while being a student, especially not the young ones that need more or less constant guidance, companionship, and supervision. Being a student is a 24/7 job in which one can rightfully feel guilty for every minute not spent on studenting, as there is always work that should or could be done. I get the impression parenting is the same. Neither one can actually engage us for 168 hours a week; it just isn't possible. But as a student, the only thing that gets neglected when I slack off or procrastinate are my books, and most of them are "rented" from the library anyway. (Many of them haven't been checked out in more than 20 years and being out of the library is probably enough of a scenery change for them anyway!)
I know that parents, in general, hate to hear advice from non-parents. I admit that I don't know what raising a child is like. But I do know that your children are obnoxious, and I blame you, the parent. There is a child who is regularly out on the playground with his parents. He's probably about 4. He regularly screams for no apparent reason other than to gain attention, throws fits, throws cups, socks and other random objects at his mother, and generally receives a "good talking to" from his mom, if she takes any action at all. I couldn't stand the noise of living with this child, and in fact have the urge to duct tape his mouth shut almost daily. And I would never have gotten away with such things as a child -- my mother wouldn't have stood for it. My parents were not unduly harsh, but occasionally I was spanked (and survived without violent tendencies) when I deserved it -- when nothing else would have suitably driven the point home. I knew who was in charge -- not me, my parents. Until a child reaches a certain age or stage of development, it is useless to try to reason with her. They can't reason!!!! You just say "no." As a parent, you must establish credibility to be obeyed by a three-year-old. Why don't people get that? If you can't work on that, don't have kids yet!
ARGH!
Hey, it's not nice to insult other people's blogs. They have feelings, too. I don't think that we're quite universal or bland enough to become the "starbucks" of blogs, and you can't have starbucks without having the evil corporate thing. They are one and the same.
[Morrissey Moment: "I am human and I need to be loved -- just like everybody else does" How Soon is Now?]
[Morrissey Moment: "I am human and I need to be loved -- just like everybody else does" How Soon is Now?]
OOOooooo!!!! I want to subscribe! Oh, wait, I would just get to read my own drivel again. Darn. So much for that. Always wanting to join, yet never being part of the group.
So, honestly and with all candor, would anyone really want to subscribe to this, the (in)sane ramblings of two twenty-somethings searching for a clue, a purpose, (a job), and meaning in this restless chaotic world populated by people more concerned with the state of their finances than with the state of humanity?
Just wondering.
So, honestly and with all candor, would anyone really want to subscribe to this, the (in)sane ramblings of two twenty-somethings searching for a clue, a purpose, (a job), and meaning in this restless chaotic world populated by people more concerned with the state of their finances than with the state of humanity?
Just wondering.
What is it with you and the smiting Gods of the multiverse? Half of these problems are not god-made by woman-made. We create our own problems, frequently with the help of other kindly people and of twisted bureacratic institutions. Maybe if we just got down to it, we could smite one another with those great "American Gladiator" q-tip thingys and then move on with our lives, more knowing and for the better. There is not enough constructive criticism in our society -- especially with children. They are not as fragile as we seem to make them out to be, and coddling them is only detrimental to their development. It is detrimental to our development as adults, as well. We screw up and do things that are patently wrong and/or stupid and annoying, and if we are to learn from our mistakes, someone must correct us, preferrably with a kind and helpful heart. We will become a better people for it.
I had something else to say, but I've forgotten it. I cannot tell if this is the result of too much coffee, or of not enough coffee. Hmmm. The dilemma.
I had something else to say, but I've forgotten it. I cannot tell if this is the result of too much coffee, or of not enough coffee. Hmmm. The dilemma.
28 June 2002
Okay. I have a random (and very girly) moment to share with you. I don't think that guys have any sense of it, but what is it about getting your haircut that just sort of changes your outlook on the day? I know it isn't just me who feels this way. I've lately been too cheap to get my haircut -- and it helped that for a year and a half, I lived with a beauty school graduate and got haircuts in exchange for other services (do not bother reading into that -- I helped her weave highlights into her hair. It was a pretty cool process.) So, before today, the last time I got my hair cut at a salon was in October of 1998. I let it grow out for two years after that, with only me hacking at it out of frustration.
It is interesting that I usually think about what I'm going to wear to the salon. Part of that is that I haven't been to the same salon twice in a long time, so I want to convey some sense of how I usually dress, which says something about who I am and how I live, all of which should be reflected in the style of the dead cells that grow out of my head. It's a lot of power to place in the hands of trained wielder of scissors -- the outward expression of your identity, at least to strangers and passers-by. But regardless of what I wear, I think those places always have the same lights that department store dressing rooms have -- the ones that point out all imperfections in your skin, even under the makeup, and the ones that make me regret my choice of clothing, since it always seems to emphasize the fact that I will be carded at 18-and-up clubs until I'm 40. Can I help it that graduate school and the West Coast have combined to give me a wardrobe completely dominated by Levis (and yes, the brand of jeans is important when it's 50% of your wardrobe) and variations on the t-shirt?
[Morrissey moment: "I sense the power/ in the fingers/ within an hour the power/ can totally destroy me/ (or, it could save my life)/ ouoooooooooo" -Hairdresser on Fire ]
So, I got a haircut. Big fucking deal, right? Not really. I keep feeling my hair, as it's shorter and there's less of it. It smells different because they use different shampoo, conditioner and products (I wish I'd asked what, 'cause it smells pretty good.) And I also know that it will never again look exactly like this, because I think they teach stylists tricks to make the look unreproducible at all costs. It's like big tobacco -- they get you hooked! And honestly, since I lost maybe 1.5 inches of hair, I'm betting that my boyfriend won't even notice (actually, he should be looking for it, as I mentioned that I was going to get my hair cut.)
Regardless, to end the girly monologue, I find it strange that I can walk into a salon I've never been to before, tell a complete stranger that I need some dead cells removed from the top of my head, and walk out with a new "personality" to face to the world.
I'd like to hear someone explain all of this to a straight man. In a way that he understood by the end of the discussion. A challenge!!
It is interesting that I usually think about what I'm going to wear to the salon. Part of that is that I haven't been to the same salon twice in a long time, so I want to convey some sense of how I usually dress, which says something about who I am and how I live, all of which should be reflected in the style of the dead cells that grow out of my head. It's a lot of power to place in the hands of trained wielder of scissors -- the outward expression of your identity, at least to strangers and passers-by. But regardless of what I wear, I think those places always have the same lights that department store dressing rooms have -- the ones that point out all imperfections in your skin, even under the makeup, and the ones that make me regret my choice of clothing, since it always seems to emphasize the fact that I will be carded at 18-and-up clubs until I'm 40. Can I help it that graduate school and the West Coast have combined to give me a wardrobe completely dominated by Levis (and yes, the brand of jeans is important when it's 50% of your wardrobe) and variations on the t-shirt?
[Morrissey moment: "I sense the power/ in the fingers/ within an hour the power/ can totally destroy me/ (or, it could save my life)/ ouoooooooooo" -Hairdresser on Fire ]
So, I got a haircut. Big fucking deal, right? Not really. I keep feeling my hair, as it's shorter and there's less of it. It smells different because they use different shampoo, conditioner and products (I wish I'd asked what, 'cause it smells pretty good.) And I also know that it will never again look exactly like this, because I think they teach stylists tricks to make the look unreproducible at all costs. It's like big tobacco -- they get you hooked! And honestly, since I lost maybe 1.5 inches of hair, I'm betting that my boyfriend won't even notice (actually, he should be looking for it, as I mentioned that I was going to get my hair cut.)
Regardless, to end the girly monologue, I find it strange that I can walk into a salon I've never been to before, tell a complete stranger that I need some dead cells removed from the top of my head, and walk out with a new "personality" to face to the world.
I'd like to hear someone explain all of this to a straight man. In a way that he understood by the end of the discussion. A challenge!!
You need professional help. AND you have way too much time on your hands (and overactive imagination).
As for teens of the US -- go you! At least you're getting part of it right. But I do have to ask, why the cigarettes? I understand the drugs, legal and not, but the tobacco? Why does that still have cache?
As for teens of the US -- go you! At least you're getting part of it right. But I do have to ask, why the cigarettes? I understand the drugs, legal and not, but the tobacco? Why does that still have cache?
27 June 2002
There's a place in hell for you and your friends. I'm starting to think we've reserved a Southern-wedding sized block at the H-E-double hockey sticks Hilton.
See, about credit cards, they are designed to keep you in debt. When the Depression started forcing people out of their houses because the banks forclosed on their mortgages, the US government stepped in. They basically determined that homeownership, despite being, well, a pain in the ass for many people, was a symbol of American democracy and our way of life. The FHA created a new mortgage system that made it safer for banks to loan money to home buyers (though not any safer for the home owner. They could still lose their shirts.) After WWII, people bought the house, since they couldn't rent even if they wanted to, and the lifestyle that went with it. Since they had a 30-year mortgage already, a few thousand more for a car, a couple hundred here and there for the washer and dryer, etc, didn't seem like that much. I mean, when you're in debt, does it really matter how much anymore? So in creating a nation of homeowners, we created a nation of people who live on credit. Your credit rating is actually better when you carry small amounts of debt and pay them off responsibly! Someone who pays for everything in cash has no credit rating and cannot therefore get financing for a car or house! So being responsible and only living very strictly within your means will get you screwed! How messed up is that? As for selling body pieces, sell eggs. You get more for them, I think, it's not black market usually, and you have enough of them that you won't miss them. Since there are horomone shots involved, just get them harvested en masse. Then someone else can deal with your gene flaws.
As for your "discussion," aren't there more significant things going on in the world than a bunch of pundits and judges and media whore debating the significance of GOD? I am definitely a proponent of words, their meanings, and their significance. But if I remember correctly, the Pledge of Allegiance was much like the grace that we said before eating dinner -- a meaningless group of words, learned by rote, and repeated daily because someone told you to as a child. Maybe we could spend some time discussing how many of these kids that we've forced to say "god" every morning came to school without breakfast because their families couldn't afford food. Maybe we could discuss how many of these children live in substandard housing with rats and/or roaches for "pets." Maybe we could discuss the ones that have frequent "accidents" falling down stairs, or the ones that cannot read because no one bothered to take the time out to teach them or didn't have the time. We could discuss the role of standardized testing in schools, or the schools that have been closed because of budget cuts this year (two elementary schools right here, after two last year), or the fact that many teachers live below the poverty line and work their butts off. But for Christ's, Buddha's, Vishnu's, Moses', Mohammed's, Zeus', Jupiter's, and Cali's sake, WHY IS THIS THE BEST ISSUE TO WASTE TIME, MONEY, BREATH, AND MEDIA SPACE ON????? People have totally got their priorities screwed up! There will be more outrage over this than so many other much more important issues. And for argument's sake, the majority of people believe, in some vague way or another, that some "god" or higher power exists. The majority, not all.
Hmmm. That was way more fun than writing on my thesis -- to which I should return!!
See, about credit cards, they are designed to keep you in debt. When the Depression started forcing people out of their houses because the banks forclosed on their mortgages, the US government stepped in. They basically determined that homeownership, despite being, well, a pain in the ass for many people, was a symbol of American democracy and our way of life. The FHA created a new mortgage system that made it safer for banks to loan money to home buyers (though not any safer for the home owner. They could still lose their shirts.) After WWII, people bought the house, since they couldn't rent even if they wanted to, and the lifestyle that went with it. Since they had a 30-year mortgage already, a few thousand more for a car, a couple hundred here and there for the washer and dryer, etc, didn't seem like that much. I mean, when you're in debt, does it really matter how much anymore? So in creating a nation of homeowners, we created a nation of people who live on credit. Your credit rating is actually better when you carry small amounts of debt and pay them off responsibly! Someone who pays for everything in cash has no credit rating and cannot therefore get financing for a car or house! So being responsible and only living very strictly within your means will get you screwed! How messed up is that? As for selling body pieces, sell eggs. You get more for them, I think, it's not black market usually, and you have enough of them that you won't miss them. Since there are horomone shots involved, just get them harvested en masse. Then someone else can deal with your gene flaws.
As for your "discussion," aren't there more significant things going on in the world than a bunch of pundits and judges and media whore debating the significance of GOD? I am definitely a proponent of words, their meanings, and their significance. But if I remember correctly, the Pledge of Allegiance was much like the grace that we said before eating dinner -- a meaningless group of words, learned by rote, and repeated daily because someone told you to as a child. Maybe we could spend some time discussing how many of these kids that we've forced to say "god" every morning came to school without breakfast because their families couldn't afford food. Maybe we could discuss how many of these children live in substandard housing with rats and/or roaches for "pets." Maybe we could discuss the ones that have frequent "accidents" falling down stairs, or the ones that cannot read because no one bothered to take the time out to teach them or didn't have the time. We could discuss the role of standardized testing in schools, or the schools that have been closed because of budget cuts this year (two elementary schools right here, after two last year), or the fact that many teachers live below the poverty line and work their butts off. But for Christ's, Buddha's, Vishnu's, Moses', Mohammed's, Zeus', Jupiter's, and Cali's sake, WHY IS THIS THE BEST ISSUE TO WASTE TIME, MONEY, BREATH, AND MEDIA SPACE ON????? People have totally got their priorities screwed up! There will be more outrage over this than so many other much more important issues. And for argument's sake, the majority of people believe, in some vague way or another, that some "god" or higher power exists. The majority, not all.
Hmmm. That was way more fun than writing on my thesis -- to which I should return!!
26 June 2002
Just a reminder, but I am a graduate student, which may mean that I can write, but it also means that I have to find someone to hold my hand in order to cross the street safely. Was there a proposed topice here and I missed it? The only reference that I can glean from the title of the blog is the Civil War, which I refuse to discuss. Why?? Well, mostly because it is over, but also because, like many wars, it was fought for ideals that had no relation to the real world or the deaths that were caused by it. I also cannot see you being interested in that.
So, in lieu of topics, how about a discussion of the lack of personal responsibility in the United States today? Include the lack of consideration of others, lack of personal pride and sense of accomplishment, and rude sense of entitlement that overcomes all other senses. Keep in mind that the majority of people do not _want_ to be jerks, even if that is how they tend to come off. Why? What are the root causes? Can we date this phenomena back to the settlement of the continent? Westward expansion and manifest destiny? Actually, if we're going back that far, let's discuss the Crusades, or Eden, for that matter.
I'm procrastinating, avoiding the stack of books that mock me from across the room. I must go.
So, in lieu of topics, how about a discussion of the lack of personal responsibility in the United States today? Include the lack of consideration of others, lack of personal pride and sense of accomplishment, and rude sense of entitlement that overcomes all other senses. Keep in mind that the majority of people do not _want_ to be jerks, even if that is how they tend to come off. Why? What are the root causes? Can we date this phenomena back to the settlement of the continent? Westward expansion and manifest destiny? Actually, if we're going back that far, let's discuss the Crusades, or Eden, for that matter.
I'm procrastinating, avoiding the stack of books that mock me from across the room. I must go.