I love having artsy friends... and, when those artsy friends are bridesmaids...holler!
Me: "I need a veil. Shit! The one I bought looks like shit!"
Mac: "I can make you one."
Me: "Just go buy that one we saw. I liked it. I guess. I'll give you money."
Mac: "Dude. I can make you one."
Pretty much everything I say is met with, "I can make you one."
Me: "We need to put a backsplash in our kitchen."
Webb: "I can do it."
Me: "I need throw pillows!"
Webb: "I am making you some for your wedding shower gift. How many do you need?"
Fabulous.
Webb is getting married in about three weeks, and I'm getting married in eight. I'm glad Mac is a good sport. I'm glad, for her sake, that we aren't normal brides.
My bus got rerouted on the way into town this morning and I got to drive past the Lincoln Park Zoo. Sweet. I should go there more. I should do a lot of things more. One day I might leave Chicago and actually might miss it, too.
Might.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
I went to Indy for about 48 hours to pick up my wedding dress.
When David and I first decided to get married, I didn't want a wedding dress. I wanted to not even have a "wedding." But I'm an only child, and David's the only boy, so we figured we'd do it for the fam. I still didn't want to spend money on a dress. My mom wanted to go look, and I kept tossing dresses aside because of price. My mom told me that since she wasn't paying for the wedding, she wanted to buy my dress.
I thought, what the hell? How often will I get to wear a gown? So I found one. I picked it up Friday and this feminist has to say,
Holler!
I LOVE it. It is magnificent. It's very vintage, which is what I wanted. Seeing it on me, made for me, not being held up with clothespins this time...I was way excited.
I think that's okay. I'm making peace with our decision to play into the heteronormative institution. Sort of. I still don't think we should have to get married in order to claim one another as family, to make owning our home easier, etc etc. But until we change that system, here we are.
When David and I first decided to get married, I didn't want a wedding dress. I wanted to not even have a "wedding." But I'm an only child, and David's the only boy, so we figured we'd do it for the fam. I still didn't want to spend money on a dress. My mom wanted to go look, and I kept tossing dresses aside because of price. My mom told me that since she wasn't paying for the wedding, she wanted to buy my dress.
I thought, what the hell? How often will I get to wear a gown? So I found one. I picked it up Friday and this feminist has to say,
Holler!
I LOVE it. It is magnificent. It's very vintage, which is what I wanted. Seeing it on me, made for me, not being held up with clothespins this time...I was way excited.
I think that's okay. I'm making peace with our decision to play into the heteronormative institution. Sort of. I still don't think we should have to get married in order to claim one another as family, to make owning our home easier, etc etc. But until we change that system, here we are.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Women! Read, react, and let's fuckin' change the world!
Not only did the creep who did this remind me of why I am a feminist, but the ensuing drama to report him bolstered my convictions.
I was on the 147 northbound bus today coming home from class. It runs express, making no stops from Michigan and Delaware to Foster and Marine Dr. all the way up Lake Shore. At Delaware, this guy got on and sat next to me, even though there were a lot of empty seats where he could have sat by himself. After he sat, he started moving around, and I was reading, just thinking he was trying to get settled. Then I notice his hand on the seat near my thigh, and that he has started rubbing the side of my leg. He was so slick and obviously so experienced at this,at first I really thought he might be adjusting, trying to get comfortable, etc. But then I realized it and I just had these flashes in my brain of things I've read on feminist blogs, namely HollaBack, and in my books and articles, in my classes, which deals directly with this. But I was frozen. I'm sure if someone else told me this happened to them, I would say, Why didn't you slap him? Why didn't you scream really loud to the bus driver? But when it actually happened, I didn't know what to do. I was frozen and silenced just like he wanted. I told him to stop, which he did for a second, and then started again. I leaned further into the bus wall, but he did too. A few moments before the bus was coming to the next stop, he quit and got up to walk to the back of the bus to exit. I got my phone out, ready to take a picture to show the bus driver, police, and to post at HollaBack. But I couldn't see him and when he got off he wasn't in a position for me to get a shot. I exited the bus, not knowing what to do. Walking to my building, I called 311. I was on hold for 10 minutes, then finally transferred to another answering service, where I had to know and enter my police district number. I had no idea, so had to waste another 5 minutes listening to the options. When mine finally came up, and I was transferred, it said the number had been disconnected and the line went dead. I got online and googled the Chicago Police, found my precinct, and called them directly. I told the man, "I was sexually harassed on a CTA bus today. I don't know how to report it." He took my info, not the info of the fucking guy, and said he would send a car over to me right away. I waited for 20 minutes and when no one came, I called 311 again, only to be put on hold. After 10 minutes or so, I asked them to transfer me directly to an officer. I got a woman, which made me so happy, and she had me tell her all of the details. I couldn't remember what shoes he was wearing, I'm a bad judge of weight and age, and I felt like shit saying he was "Hispanic" because I felt like a scared little white girl, telling on the man of color. I felt like I was betraying my anti-race bias that I always yell at other people about. I was enraged that now I need to start noticing the color of peoples shoes, estimating their weight, and be suspect of anyone who sits next to me on the bus or train.
The officer took all of the info, was very professional, and she was making me feel a lot better.But, then she took my address and told me my police report number. Then she said, "You'll receive a victim's report in a couple of days."
I fucking hate that word.
I started crying and she said that if I see him again to call 911 right away with my report number, or if I'm on the bus, to tell the driver immediately.
So now I'm a victim who has to carry around my police report number.
It's been over an hour and still no officer has shown up, as was promised to me. And I know that I wasn't raped. I GET THAT. But I don't think men, or women who have somehow escaped the experience, understand how infantilizing, demoralizing, depressing, and scary this is.
I've had men make comments on the street, yelled from an open window or whatever, or male coworkers who have said that one thing that went just a little too far. But those situations have a certain degree of distance. They are words and they were never serious words. Those men never looked me in the face and they were yelling at every person they thought might be female, drunk after a Cubs game. I'm not saying that's right, and I know that might be completely violating to some women, but that has not been my experience.
This man was in my personal space, touching my body, trapping me in a bus seat so I could not move or get up. That is violating.
It is also violating that it took over an hour to report, when this asshole is long gone, maybe on another bus with another woman.
It's violating because it made me realize that for all of my strong talk and the blogs and article and books I read, the classes I have taken, the papers I have written, and the activism work I have done concerning this, I still fell "victim." And I guess I"m just wondering what the hell I'm gonna do about it, what all women are going to do about it, what we're all gonna do about it, and what the police are going to do about it. Because none of what happened today was okay. It wasn't okay for this guy to do what he did, and it also wasn't okay for me to devote my entire afternoon to reporting it.
I'm at a loss for words now, shaking, and just want to fall onto the couch with the dog and cry a little. But I first wanted to put this out there, articulate it, because even though I feel sick, violated, and livid, I will not feel ashamed. I didn't do anything wrong and if my feminist activism hasn't made me brave enough yet to slap a jerk at the beginning, it HAS taught me to be brave enough to not feel shame in, essentially, being a female.
I was on the 147 northbound bus today coming home from class. It runs express, making no stops from Michigan and Delaware to Foster and Marine Dr. all the way up Lake Shore. At Delaware, this guy got on and sat next to me, even though there were a lot of empty seats where he could have sat by himself. After he sat, he started moving around, and I was reading, just thinking he was trying to get settled. Then I notice his hand on the seat near my thigh, and that he has started rubbing the side of my leg. He was so slick and obviously so experienced at this,at first I really thought he might be adjusting, trying to get comfortable, etc. But then I realized it and I just had these flashes in my brain of things I've read on feminist blogs, namely HollaBack, and in my books and articles, in my classes, which deals directly with this. But I was frozen. I'm sure if someone else told me this happened to them, I would say, Why didn't you slap him? Why didn't you scream really loud to the bus driver? But when it actually happened, I didn't know what to do. I was frozen and silenced just like he wanted. I told him to stop, which he did for a second, and then started again. I leaned further into the bus wall, but he did too. A few moments before the bus was coming to the next stop, he quit and got up to walk to the back of the bus to exit. I got my phone out, ready to take a picture to show the bus driver, police, and to post at HollaBack. But I couldn't see him and when he got off he wasn't in a position for me to get a shot. I exited the bus, not knowing what to do. Walking to my building, I called 311. I was on hold for 10 minutes, then finally transferred to another answering service, where I had to know and enter my police district number. I had no idea, so had to waste another 5 minutes listening to the options. When mine finally came up, and I was transferred, it said the number had been disconnected and the line went dead. I got online and googled the Chicago Police, found my precinct, and called them directly. I told the man, "I was sexually harassed on a CTA bus today. I don't know how to report it." He took my info, not the info of the fucking guy, and said he would send a car over to me right away. I waited for 20 minutes and when no one came, I called 311 again, only to be put on hold. After 10 minutes or so, I asked them to transfer me directly to an officer. I got a woman, which made me so happy, and she had me tell her all of the details. I couldn't remember what shoes he was wearing, I'm a bad judge of weight and age, and I felt like shit saying he was "Hispanic" because I felt like a scared little white girl, telling on the man of color. I felt like I was betraying my anti-race bias that I always yell at other people about. I was enraged that now I need to start noticing the color of peoples shoes, estimating their weight, and be suspect of anyone who sits next to me on the bus or train.
The officer took all of the info, was very professional, and she was making me feel a lot better.But, then she took my address and told me my police report number. Then she said, "You'll receive a victim's report in a couple of days."
I fucking hate that word.
I started crying and she said that if I see him again to call 911 right away with my report number, or if I'm on the bus, to tell the driver immediately.
So now I'm a victim who has to carry around my police report number.
It's been over an hour and still no officer has shown up, as was promised to me. And I know that I wasn't raped. I GET THAT. But I don't think men, or women who have somehow escaped the experience, understand how infantilizing, demoralizing, depressing, and scary this is.
I've had men make comments on the street, yelled from an open window or whatever, or male coworkers who have said that one thing that went just a little too far. But those situations have a certain degree of distance. They are words and they were never serious words. Those men never looked me in the face and they were yelling at every person they thought might be female, drunk after a Cubs game. I'm not saying that's right, and I know that might be completely violating to some women, but that has not been my experience.
This man was in my personal space, touching my body, trapping me in a bus seat so I could not move or get up. That is violating.
It is also violating that it took over an hour to report, when this asshole is long gone, maybe on another bus with another woman.
It's violating because it made me realize that for all of my strong talk and the blogs and article and books I read, the classes I have taken, the papers I have written, and the activism work I have done concerning this, I still fell "victim." And I guess I"m just wondering what the hell I'm gonna do about it, what all women are going to do about it, what we're all gonna do about it, and what the police are going to do about it. Because none of what happened today was okay. It wasn't okay for this guy to do what he did, and it also wasn't okay for me to devote my entire afternoon to reporting it.
I'm at a loss for words now, shaking, and just want to fall onto the couch with the dog and cry a little. But I first wanted to put this out there, articulate it, because even though I feel sick, violated, and livid, I will not feel ashamed. I didn't do anything wrong and if my feminist activism hasn't made me brave enough yet to slap a jerk at the beginning, it HAS taught me to be brave enough to not feel shame in, essentially, being a female.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
For all of the plans and big ideas I have, I am always amazed at the unplanned business of life that makes me smile. I tell myself things like, Once you get through this semester, Once you graduate, Once you can make more money, Once you go on vacation.... once these things happen, then you'll be happy.
But then last night David and I went out to dinner and talked about the wedding, which we haven't done a whole lot of. We mention things in passing, but we devoted an actual conversation to it over dinner. I realized in that moment that what makes me happy is laughing so hard with the man I love, planning more of our wacky wedding. That makes me happy.
After dinner we walked back home to pick up our Jake. Leash and poo bags in hand, me ventured out into the perfect 70 degree night for ice cream and a long walk. That makes me happy.
As we were rounding the last corner, almost home from this perfect night, we walked into what was most probably a drug deal. It happens. We just kept to ourselves, continuing our conversation, walking around the group of guys. One guy, high or drunk or somehow impaired, yelled, "Hey, gimme that dog! Gimme that mother fuckin' dog!" He keeps yelling this at us, following us. The yummy fries, chicken wrap, and cherry ice cream fell out of harmony in my stomach, rising into my chest, my heart racing. Fortunately, he didn't follow us around the corner.
There are some pros to having gang activity in your neighborhood. It keeps a certain level of safety, honestly. Gangs are protecting their turf and generally don't want the police around. They try to keep a lid on things. There are guys walking down my street at night, loitering on corners, and usually they either pretend not to see me, or they tilt their hat in an oddly mannered, old-fashioned way. I'm not a threat to them. I'm not disrupting the street. I don't walk a 2 pound dog in my Jimmy Choo stilettos like the people they see turning their affordable apartments into condos. I have a certain credibility in my over-sized Irish sweater, a pit bull at the end of my leash. They know I have some street smarts the way I carry my keys with one poking out between each knuckle and pepper spray dangling at my wrist. They leave me alone.
But sometimes there are problems and I have to admit to myself that a part of me yearns for the homogeneous suburbs. Then, I feel guilty the rest of the night, and try to think of ways I can help. If we just improve our schools, these young men would have options. If we just stop expecting young black men to commit crimes, maybe they'll stop living up to our expectation. I wonder how the hell I can change it all.
Last night really shook me up. The thought of someone trying to take Jake away from us, although under no circumstances would David and I have let him win that battle, shook me. It made me realize my strong love for this little creature in my life, and how much I treasure a lazy day, strolling around the city with the two men in my life.
But then last night David and I went out to dinner and talked about the wedding, which we haven't done a whole lot of. We mention things in passing, but we devoted an actual conversation to it over dinner. I realized in that moment that what makes me happy is laughing so hard with the man I love, planning more of our wacky wedding. That makes me happy.
After dinner we walked back home to pick up our Jake. Leash and poo bags in hand, me ventured out into the perfect 70 degree night for ice cream and a long walk. That makes me happy.
As we were rounding the last corner, almost home from this perfect night, we walked into what was most probably a drug deal. It happens. We just kept to ourselves, continuing our conversation, walking around the group of guys. One guy, high or drunk or somehow impaired, yelled, "Hey, gimme that dog! Gimme that mother fuckin' dog!" He keeps yelling this at us, following us. The yummy fries, chicken wrap, and cherry ice cream fell out of harmony in my stomach, rising into my chest, my heart racing. Fortunately, he didn't follow us around the corner.
There are some pros to having gang activity in your neighborhood. It keeps a certain level of safety, honestly. Gangs are protecting their turf and generally don't want the police around. They try to keep a lid on things. There are guys walking down my street at night, loitering on corners, and usually they either pretend not to see me, or they tilt their hat in an oddly mannered, old-fashioned way. I'm not a threat to them. I'm not disrupting the street. I don't walk a 2 pound dog in my Jimmy Choo stilettos like the people they see turning their affordable apartments into condos. I have a certain credibility in my over-sized Irish sweater, a pit bull at the end of my leash. They know I have some street smarts the way I carry my keys with one poking out between each knuckle and pepper spray dangling at my wrist. They leave me alone.
But sometimes there are problems and I have to admit to myself that a part of me yearns for the homogeneous suburbs. Then, I feel guilty the rest of the night, and try to think of ways I can help. If we just improve our schools, these young men would have options. If we just stop expecting young black men to commit crimes, maybe they'll stop living up to our expectation. I wonder how the hell I can change it all.
Last night really shook me up. The thought of someone trying to take Jake away from us, although under no circumstances would David and I have let him win that battle, shook me. It made me realize my strong love for this little creature in my life, and how much I treasure a lazy day, strolling around the city with the two men in my life.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Guilty pleasure? The Housewives of New York City. LuAnn is my favorite because she's sort of a real person. Alex is my favorite because she's the most ridiculous.
Don't judge me!
I have so so much work to do for school. I need to run to renew my public library card during my first break of the day and then check out a couple books for my research paper that I really haven't started. What I need to do is take the train two stops north and get my ass into Gerber Hart Library. How excited am I that I finally have a reason to make an appointment to visit the special collections?
I want it to be summer. I want it to be my wedding weekend just because so many people are going to be in town for three days and I miss them all so much.
My dress is in. That's a relief. I won't be naked on the day I get married. I need to make a special trip to Indy though to try it on and bring it home.
After three years and owning a home, I still feel like I live my life in two places.
I'm worried about money, but realize how lucky I am. I'll be fine. We'll make it. A few more weeks of mac and cheese and refried beans and we'll be back on track. It's strange; I'm either freaking out about money, or David's working 80 hours a week and money's great, but I don't see him. After him working at this job for a year now, I've done both scenarios. Obviously, there is nothing better than having him home. Last Sunday was so perfect. We walked to the lake front, spent some time at the dog beach, and later in the evening took Jake out again but walked to get ice cream. I won't get many of those days as work picks up for him. And instead of spending those days worrying about how we're going to pay the bills next month, I think I'll start spending it laughing and smiling and appreciating my life, and his life, and how they merge and intertwine, but also how they separate.
Don't judge me!
I have so so much work to do for school. I need to run to renew my public library card during my first break of the day and then check out a couple books for my research paper that I really haven't started. What I need to do is take the train two stops north and get my ass into Gerber Hart Library. How excited am I that I finally have a reason to make an appointment to visit the special collections?
I want it to be summer. I want it to be my wedding weekend just because so many people are going to be in town for three days and I miss them all so much.
My dress is in. That's a relief. I won't be naked on the day I get married. I need to make a special trip to Indy though to try it on and bring it home.
After three years and owning a home, I still feel like I live my life in two places.
I'm worried about money, but realize how lucky I am. I'll be fine. We'll make it. A few more weeks of mac and cheese and refried beans and we'll be back on track. It's strange; I'm either freaking out about money, or David's working 80 hours a week and money's great, but I don't see him. After him working at this job for a year now, I've done both scenarios. Obviously, there is nothing better than having him home. Last Sunday was so perfect. We walked to the lake front, spent some time at the dog beach, and later in the evening took Jake out again but walked to get ice cream. I won't get many of those days as work picks up for him. And instead of spending those days worrying about how we're going to pay the bills next month, I think I'll start spending it laughing and smiling and appreciating my life, and his life, and how they merge and intertwine, but also how they separate.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Within the same four hours, during the same phone conversation, with the same person, I laughed, cried, discussed Rocky Horror Picture Show, the best bowl of chicken noodle soup in New York City, feminism, heteronormativity, and my "big gay wedding." I could only have a conversation like this with my Marty.
Marty, or Martin as others call him, is my best friend. We've been friends for ten years. We grew up together in those critical adolescent years. We did everything together. All of my pictures of him are old school, not digital, and I don't have a scanner. If I did, you'd see pictures of us in costumes from numerous shows, in formal wear from our annual symphony outing, with pink and blue hair sitting on the rainbow bridge in Broad Ripple, asleep on a huge rock in Central Park, and this June, we will vogue it up at my wedding.
There is a gap, though, in the photos. We had a rough patch that lasted from about my sophomore year of high school until last summer. Four years. I guess that's more than a "patch." It was almost half of our friendship. We spoke, but not about anything important. We went months with no contact. We both hurt one another, and it made me so sad to be losing him that I couldn't talk to him anymore. I wanted to lose him once and for all, so I didn't have to do it again every six months.
Last summer, I told him that. I said it was everything or nothing. That led to a conversation that lasted for hours, pulled over on the side of I-69, when the conversation got too heavy for the dashboard we were talking at. Basically, we realized that we had both gone through some personal shit---to make a drastic understatement--- and in an effort to ignore the problem, to make it less real, we didn't tell anyone; even each other. Had one of us been brave enough to talk about our trauma, we would have realized that we were both going through the same thing. We could have helped one another. But we didn't.
After last summer, things have changed. We are us again. We've dealt with out pasts...together, this time. We've made one another a priority. I asked him to be the man of honor in my wedding. I can't imagine having anyone else there with me. He constantly reminds me of...myself. He knew me before I grew into this person, when I was struggling with my identity. We helped one another define our morals, our beliefs. He knows me. And after years of struggling to define ourselves apart from one another, here we are again.
Marty, or Martin as others call him, is my best friend. We've been friends for ten years. We grew up together in those critical adolescent years. We did everything together. All of my pictures of him are old school, not digital, and I don't have a scanner. If I did, you'd see pictures of us in costumes from numerous shows, in formal wear from our annual symphony outing, with pink and blue hair sitting on the rainbow bridge in Broad Ripple, asleep on a huge rock in Central Park, and this June, we will vogue it up at my wedding.
There is a gap, though, in the photos. We had a rough patch that lasted from about my sophomore year of high school until last summer. Four years. I guess that's more than a "patch." It was almost half of our friendship. We spoke, but not about anything important. We went months with no contact. We both hurt one another, and it made me so sad to be losing him that I couldn't talk to him anymore. I wanted to lose him once and for all, so I didn't have to do it again every six months.
Last summer, I told him that. I said it was everything or nothing. That led to a conversation that lasted for hours, pulled over on the side of I-69, when the conversation got too heavy for the dashboard we were talking at. Basically, we realized that we had both gone through some personal shit---to make a drastic understatement--- and in an effort to ignore the problem, to make it less real, we didn't tell anyone; even each other. Had one of us been brave enough to talk about our trauma, we would have realized that we were both going through the same thing. We could have helped one another. But we didn't.
After last summer, things have changed. We are us again. We've dealt with out pasts...together, this time. We've made one another a priority. I asked him to be the man of honor in my wedding. I can't imagine having anyone else there with me. He constantly reminds me of...myself. He knew me before I grew into this person, when I was struggling with my identity. We helped one another define our morals, our beliefs. He knows me. And after years of struggling to define ourselves apart from one another, here we are again.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I always hear about these helpless bachelors, eating processed junk, ordering pizza eight nights a week, living in squalor.
I am that bachelor.
I live with a chef. He takes care of all that. He's in Nevada for work this week and I have to say that I am, indeed, a gross, helpless bachelor.
I can make food. I am getting better. But I'm just not motivated. It's so much easier to order in. I'm thinking about challenging myself to stay away from the grocery store until he comes home, eating the rest of the cereal, oatmeal, and other random things lurking in the cabinets before they go bad. I'll save money and food won't go to waste.
The idea, though, of just eating cereal for the next 4 1/2 days just isn't appealing.
I have also eaten an abundance of frozen egg rolls.
However, I did clean a lot the last two days. I got a lot of reading done for school Monday. Jake and I went on a long walk today and explored more of Lakewood-Balmoral historic home district. I have a love affair with all things vintage and those homes, bungalow, cottage, or soaring mansion, make me swoon. SWOON!
I sort of realized while looking at my class schedule for next semester that I am basically minoring in Dr. Jeff Edwards. He is my FAVORITE professor, my adviser, and I have taken 4 classes with him. Most of the minors at RU consist of 6 classes... so, two more classes with him and I think I'm gonna try to make them give me a certificate. :o)
Okay. I think I really really need to use the oven for more than heating up frozen egg rolls. I am going to the grocery. Sigh.
Oh, and Jakester says hello. He wants you to know that this is his impersonation of Yoda. He's very proud of it.
I am that bachelor.
I live with a chef. He takes care of all that. He's in Nevada for work this week and I have to say that I am, indeed, a gross, helpless bachelor.
I can make food. I am getting better. But I'm just not motivated. It's so much easier to order in. I'm thinking about challenging myself to stay away from the grocery store until he comes home, eating the rest of the cereal, oatmeal, and other random things lurking in the cabinets before they go bad. I'll save money and food won't go to waste.
The idea, though, of just eating cereal for the next 4 1/2 days just isn't appealing.
I have also eaten an abundance of frozen egg rolls.
However, I did clean a lot the last two days. I got a lot of reading done for school Monday. Jake and I went on a long walk today and explored more of Lakewood-Balmoral historic home district. I have a love affair with all things vintage and those homes, bungalow, cottage, or soaring mansion, make me swoon. SWOON!
I sort of realized while looking at my class schedule for next semester that I am basically minoring in Dr. Jeff Edwards. He is my FAVORITE professor, my adviser, and I have taken 4 classes with him. Most of the minors at RU consist of 6 classes... so, two more classes with him and I think I'm gonna try to make them give me a certificate. :o)
Okay. I think I really really need to use the oven for more than heating up frozen egg rolls. I am going to the grocery. Sigh.
Oh, and Jakester says hello. He wants you to know that this is his impersonation of Yoda. He's very proud of it.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I just read in today's Chicago Tribune that Indiana just passed legislation that forces businesses selling any "sexually explicit" material to register their business... and pay $250 to do so.
Is this a symptom of a largely Christian, largely Republican state? Or is it just another testament to our sex negative culture, no matter where in the country you are?
I think it's a little bit of both. I just want to know who decides what is sexually explicit. For instance, one of my best friends Katie McAtee and I... both reasonable, intelligent women. But, we have VASTLY different definitions of "sexually explicit." Because of her beliefs and personality, she would probably draw the line a lot sooner than I would. And that's okay. It's not that either of us is wrong. It's opinion. And I don't really understand how that is going to be enforced.
You know when you read about really bizarre moments in history and it just makes you wonder if everyone in that time period was high? For instance, when I learned during my African American History class that the FBI raided the Black Panther Party's offices and called its breakfast program for low income kids who otherwise went hungry, "insidious activity." Or how we remember HUAC and McCarthy. Generally, we agree that these things are ridiculous, or at least the extent to which they went. Someday, when we finally reach that sex positive culture I'm gonna work my ass off to find, we'll laugh at Indiana and this ridiculous law too.
Granted, this $250 isn't a lot, considering it's a one time fee (I believe so, anyway). But it's the idea of the thing. A business owner is being penalized for selling products relating to sexuality. Where will the line be drawn? Can we buy general education books, since Indiana doesn't allow comprehensive and honest sex education in its schools? What about college book stores that sell anatomy books to med students, such as gynecology texts? What about feminist literature? We feminists deal with sex. What about GLBTQ material? This is yet another systematic way to oppress GLBTQ people. I see this spiraling until it starts to include anything remotely related to sexuality, in its most general terms.
During the Comintern, people freaked the fuck out. Librarians were to report to the government anyone who asked for books by Hegel, Marx, and other "red" writers. Is this not reminiscent of that? Do we not see the connections?! I know, it's not the same. But doesn't it have the potential to be?
History repeats itself because no one is ever fucking paying attention. A month ago, John McCain went to a Holocaust museum and signed the guest book, "Never again." While he was signing that book, men, women, and children in Darfur ran for their lives. Never again? Looks like it's already happened, as has been happening, for a very long time. But we can't imagine the past horrors being repeated. We can't imagine them taking another shape. We're looking for another Hitler to oppress another generation of Jews. We're ignoring groups like the LRA and the tiny soldiers and rape victims because we're missing the connection. Or worse, we just don't care.
But I care. And I care that an interest in sexuality is being criminalized. And why? Don't we all have sex, or at least wired for sex? Isn't it natural, sort of like eating or sleeping or other things we have a natural urge to do?
You too can have this natural urge! But you must know that we won't tell you how to protect yourself, we have the right to tell you what sexual acts to perform (sodomy laws were being enforced up until the 1980s!), we have the right to deny you access to birth control, a medication, if it makes the pharmacist squeamish. Then, we'll blame the liberal comprehensive sex education, that we don't even allow to be taught, for the teen pregnancy and STI rates.
Make sense of out it. You can't.
Is this a symptom of a largely Christian, largely Republican state? Or is it just another testament to our sex negative culture, no matter where in the country you are?
I think it's a little bit of both. I just want to know who decides what is sexually explicit. For instance, one of my best friends Katie McAtee and I... both reasonable, intelligent women. But, we have VASTLY different definitions of "sexually explicit." Because of her beliefs and personality, she would probably draw the line a lot sooner than I would. And that's okay. It's not that either of us is wrong. It's opinion. And I don't really understand how that is going to be enforced.
You know when you read about really bizarre moments in history and it just makes you wonder if everyone in that time period was high? For instance, when I learned during my African American History class that the FBI raided the Black Panther Party's offices and called its breakfast program for low income kids who otherwise went hungry, "insidious activity." Or how we remember HUAC and McCarthy. Generally, we agree that these things are ridiculous, or at least the extent to which they went. Someday, when we finally reach that sex positive culture I'm gonna work my ass off to find, we'll laugh at Indiana and this ridiculous law too.
Granted, this $250 isn't a lot, considering it's a one time fee (I believe so, anyway). But it's the idea of the thing. A business owner is being penalized for selling products relating to sexuality. Where will the line be drawn? Can we buy general education books, since Indiana doesn't allow comprehensive and honest sex education in its schools? What about college book stores that sell anatomy books to med students, such as gynecology texts? What about feminist literature? We feminists deal with sex. What about GLBTQ material? This is yet another systematic way to oppress GLBTQ people. I see this spiraling until it starts to include anything remotely related to sexuality, in its most general terms.
During the Comintern, people freaked the fuck out. Librarians were to report to the government anyone who asked for books by Hegel, Marx, and other "red" writers. Is this not reminiscent of that? Do we not see the connections?! I know, it's not the same. But doesn't it have the potential to be?
History repeats itself because no one is ever fucking paying attention. A month ago, John McCain went to a Holocaust museum and signed the guest book, "Never again." While he was signing that book, men, women, and children in Darfur ran for their lives. Never again? Looks like it's already happened, as has been happening, for a very long time. But we can't imagine the past horrors being repeated. We can't imagine them taking another shape. We're looking for another Hitler to oppress another generation of Jews. We're ignoring groups like the LRA and the tiny soldiers and rape victims because we're missing the connection. Or worse, we just don't care.
But I care. And I care that an interest in sexuality is being criminalized. And why? Don't we all have sex, or at least wired for sex? Isn't it natural, sort of like eating or sleeping or other things we have a natural urge to do?
You too can have this natural urge! But you must know that we won't tell you how to protect yourself, we have the right to tell you what sexual acts to perform (sodomy laws were being enforced up until the 1980s!), we have the right to deny you access to birth control, a medication, if it makes the pharmacist squeamish. Then, we'll blame the liberal comprehensive sex education, that we don't even allow to be taught, for the teen pregnancy and STI rates.
Make sense of out it. You can't.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
I have one hour to pull together some sort of short essay on a book debating the Civil Rights Movement.
I am, of course, doing other things.
I love the Vito and Jimmy John's but my mouth now tastes like said sandwich and probably will the rest of the night. Gross.
In order to graduate on time, I will have to do an internship this summer, take 16 hours this fall, and 18 next spring. These are all really writing and reading intensive classes too. I also have to take two science classes because Columbia College sucks ass.
I just found Julia Sweeney's blog... I love her. Not just because her last name is Sweeney, like me, but because she's one of the only women writing about atheism out there. I love Dawkins and Hitchens, for sure. Hitchen's God is not Great makes me tingle. But if one of the critiques of religion is its patriarchy and, above that, outright misogyny, shouldn't women feel they have a place as an atheist/agnostic commentator? There just aren't that many. Or, maybe there are, and we are willing to hear them and are more apt to listen to a man tell us about science and evolution and those very male denominated fields. Whatever the reason is, more women need to be represented and Julia rocks. Maybe I'll be the next Sweeney to take up the cause.
Okay. For real. I need to go write this damn essay.
I am, of course, doing other things.
I love the Vito and Jimmy John's but my mouth now tastes like said sandwich and probably will the rest of the night. Gross.
In order to graduate on time, I will have to do an internship this summer, take 16 hours this fall, and 18 next spring. These are all really writing and reading intensive classes too. I also have to take two science classes because Columbia College sucks ass.
I just found Julia Sweeney's blog... I love her. Not just because her last name is Sweeney, like me, but because she's one of the only women writing about atheism out there. I love Dawkins and Hitchens, for sure. Hitchen's God is not Great makes me tingle. But if one of the critiques of religion is its patriarchy and, above that, outright misogyny, shouldn't women feel they have a place as an atheist/agnostic commentator? There just aren't that many. Or, maybe there are, and we are willing to hear them and are more apt to listen to a man tell us about science and evolution and those very male denominated fields. Whatever the reason is, more women need to be represented and Julia rocks. Maybe I'll be the next Sweeney to take up the cause.
Okay. For real. I need to go write this damn essay.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
I've never been too much of high maintenance girl. I don't think there's anything wrong with it, mind you, and a lot of the reason I'm not may be financial... but this Saturday I am getting a pedicure and manicure for the first time. I'm actually sort of excited, and sort of nervous.
Aside from reading news coverage of the flesh-eating disease that proliferated in pedicure foot tubs a few years back, I am nervous about the lady seeing my nasty wintery feet. I feel weird having someone tend to my feet... I mean, it's sort of a nasty job and makes me feel weird asking someone else to clean my feet up.
As far as the manicure, I have really weird hands due to my genetic disorder. People never notice it until I point it out, but I'm sure someone with the sole purpose of tending to my hands will notice and I will have to explain to her that since I don't really have thumb nails, she only needs to do eight digits. Will she feel like she has to prorate my session? Weird.
I am on campus and don't have a camera readily available as to show you my hands, but let me find a photo on an NPS site. All us NPS-ers have the same hands.
Okay. Here I am!
So, I don't really have thumb nails, like this person. I do have index finger nails, unlike this model. But, I don't have distal joints on those fingers, like the model, meaning I can't bend the tops of my index fingers. There isn't a joint there. My nails on those fingers are really flat, so I could never affix fake nails to them. These fingers also have a weird crook in them, because of the deformed skeletal features I have. Of course, my left index finger is exacerbated by the time I broke it by accidently ramming into my friend John's bony ass while on stage... anyway...
So I'm going to get a manicure and I think that it's funny, considering at some moments in my childhood I would tuck my thumbs inside my fists to hide them, wouldn't wear shorts or skirts because the skeletal structure of my legs are sort of...funny... and I have a huge scar on my right knee from trying to correct said structural problems. And now I am willingly giving my hands to the scrutiny of a manicurist.
I always think it's sort of rude when people inquire about WHEN David and I will have children. When I tell them we don't ever want to, I am amazed by the even more ignorant question, WHY? Now, these people aren't family or friends asking. I don't mind discussing my life with people already in my life. But I think it's rude to assume you have the right to ask about anyone's personal life if you aren't a part of it. But, I don't ignore the question. I tell them that I don't really want to risk passing NPS to my child... and while that is one of many reasons that we have decided to remain childless by choice, it's a good one to throw out there because it makes the person feel really bad for asking. I don't tell them that NPS is a pretty livable condition and that my kids, even if they inherited it, would have even less NPS-related afflictions than I do. I just let them think what they want, feel badly for prying, and think of me as a martyr.
It usually ends my conversation with said eegit (forgive my Irish heritage) more quickly than, "David and I just prefer pit bulls..."
One day maybe we'll adopt one of the 130,000 kids up for adoption in the U.S. before creating a new life...or maybe I'll get knocked up and all of a sudden be really excited about it. But right now that's not the plan.
And I don't see how that is anyone's issue but mine. Well, David, too, I GUESS! :o)
But, alas, here it is, on my blog, for all to see. Now you don't have to ask.
Aside from reading news coverage of the flesh-eating disease that proliferated in pedicure foot tubs a few years back, I am nervous about the lady seeing my nasty wintery feet. I feel weird having someone tend to my feet... I mean, it's sort of a nasty job and makes me feel weird asking someone else to clean my feet up.
As far as the manicure, I have really weird hands due to my genetic disorder. People never notice it until I point it out, but I'm sure someone with the sole purpose of tending to my hands will notice and I will have to explain to her that since I don't really have thumb nails, she only needs to do eight digits. Will she feel like she has to prorate my session? Weird.
I am on campus and don't have a camera readily available as to show you my hands, but let me find a photo on an NPS site. All us NPS-ers have the same hands.
Okay. Here I am!
So, I don't really have thumb nails, like this person. I do have index finger nails, unlike this model. But, I don't have distal joints on those fingers, like the model, meaning I can't bend the tops of my index fingers. There isn't a joint there. My nails on those fingers are really flat, so I could never affix fake nails to them. These fingers also have a weird crook in them, because of the deformed skeletal features I have. Of course, my left index finger is exacerbated by the time I broke it by accidently ramming into my friend John's bony ass while on stage... anyway...
So I'm going to get a manicure and I think that it's funny, considering at some moments in my childhood I would tuck my thumbs inside my fists to hide them, wouldn't wear shorts or skirts because the skeletal structure of my legs are sort of...funny... and I have a huge scar on my right knee from trying to correct said structural problems. And now I am willingly giving my hands to the scrutiny of a manicurist.
I always think it's sort of rude when people inquire about WHEN David and I will have children. When I tell them we don't ever want to, I am amazed by the even more ignorant question, WHY? Now, these people aren't family or friends asking. I don't mind discussing my life with people already in my life. But I think it's rude to assume you have the right to ask about anyone's personal life if you aren't a part of it. But, I don't ignore the question. I tell them that I don't really want to risk passing NPS to my child... and while that is one of many reasons that we have decided to remain childless by choice, it's a good one to throw out there because it makes the person feel really bad for asking. I don't tell them that NPS is a pretty livable condition and that my kids, even if they inherited it, would have even less NPS-related afflictions than I do. I just let them think what they want, feel badly for prying, and think of me as a martyr.
It usually ends my conversation with said eegit (forgive my Irish heritage) more quickly than, "David and I just prefer pit bulls..."
One day maybe we'll adopt one of the 130,000 kids up for adoption in the U.S. before creating a new life...or maybe I'll get knocked up and all of a sudden be really excited about it. But right now that's not the plan.
And I don't see how that is anyone's issue but mine. Well, David, too, I GUESS! :o)
But, alas, here it is, on my blog, for all to see. Now you don't have to ask.
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