What Shall We Choose? Weight or Lightness?

How I Ran a Half Marathon (and you can, too!). (Part 2 of 2)

2012-02-07T13:38:00.001-08:00

(continued from previous post...)

9. Eat food.

On your long runs make sure that you eat within 30 minutes of finishing the run. It can just be a little snack but it should have protein to help your muscles repair. Nonfat chocolate milk is awesome for that – it’s become one of those most recommended post-workout staples because it’s tasty, it has lactose to help your muscles and the chocolate powder has some sugar and carbs to help refuel. You can also have turkey, nuts, peanut butter sandwich, etc… Keep it healthy and high in protein and only a couple hundred calories. This isn’t supposed to be a meal. Your body really needs it, though, because you’ve broken down muscle with all that running and it’s looking for help rebuilding. It’ll help reduce potential soreness the next day. When you get to the point that you’re running 8+ miles you should consider getting something to eat around your halfway point or every few miles. The Clif blocks are pretty tasty and bonus: they don’t get all melty when it’s hot / you’re hot and sweaty. It can actually be something like a snack-size Snickers (I know a hard core runner who swears by the mini candies). Personally, I like to avoid that much sugar (it makes my mouth all sticky and I end up doing the super cool run-hack-spit-run-repeat moves) but it’s your call - you want sugar, carbs and protein to keep you moving.

10. Drink lots of water.

I know this seems like a given. It’s not. Make sure you drink extra the day before a long run, too. Personal whoops: I didn’t drink enough the day before I ran the half-marathon. Even though I was grabbing water/Gatorade at the stations along the route so I thought I was hydrating well, I wasn’t. I ended up in the ER that night because I was dehydrated. Trust me, it’s a lot less fun than you think it is, especially when it gets to the point that you can’t even hold down water and spend hours dry heaving. DRINK THE WATER. Americans are perpetually dehydrated. If you only drink when you’re actually thirsty you’ve waited too long. I have 32-ounce Nalgene bottles and I aim to drink at least four of them a day.

11. Sodium &Sweat.

As for the Gatorade/Powerade/etc? Sports drinks are good after long runs and lots of people recommend them or “recovery” drinks. Your body will know w hat you need and what makes you feel better. There’s been a lot of back-and-forth on the importance of sodium because there was a marathoner who died from too little sodium and too much water. Dehydration generally seems to be a bigger issue for most people but that doesn’t mean concern for sodium isn’t important. I don’t generally drink them unless I go for a long run and usually then only when it’s hotter out. Again, you know what you need. They can be expensive and packed with a lot of sugar but there are options other than just Gatorated or Powerade. Luna makes a sports recovery drink that includes sodium, carbs and protein that may be worth checking out: http://www.clifbarstore.com/detail/CLF+230+DC. Not everyone loses sodium at the same rate. Some folks are “salty sweaters.” (It’s the term. Seriously. Don’t look at me like that – I didn’t make it up.) A good way to determine whether you really need a boost in the sodium area is by checking your sweat. Seriously, give your arm a lick post-run. How sweaty is it? Is your sweat burning your eyes? Are you ending up feeling gritty post-run (I do, especially around the face because I sweat a lot there). If so, you really need to consider getting some kind of electrolyte replacement. The benefit to “recovery drinks” is that they include other electrolytes you need to replace (calcium, potassium, etc). More on that here: http://www.active.com/nutrition/Articles/Electrolytes_101.htm

12. Sign up with Active.com and “like” them on Facebook.

It may be different in different regions of the country, but I have yet to sign up for a race WITHOUT going through Active.com. It’s easy if you just go ahead and get an account (there’s a free version). Here’s what’s cool about Active: they pretty well list every single race or sports event / competition on their website for runners, triathletes, etc. You can do searches for local events if you’re inclined to sign up for a race. Also, check out Schwaggle.com. This is the “Active.com” equivalent of “Groupon” or “Living Social” emails. Most of them I delete BUT it’s worth it to have in case they send out discounted race registrations. (My 5K I ran for $12 instead of $25 because I got a deal through the website.)

The other reason to sign up with Active.com and – maybe more importantly – “Like” them on Facebook: they constantly update with articles about running, nutrition, recipes, motivation, training, hydration, fitness, etc. The articles are pretty concise and informative and totally accessible (Runner’s World isn’t always). Also, they’re no-nonsense. None of the “SEVENTEEN PRODUCTS YOU MUST BUY NOW!” or “HOW TO LOOK SEXY WHILE YOU’RE SWEATING” nonsense. Beginners use it, advanced runners use it. Costs nothing to “Like” it.

13. Consider your supplements.

Daily vitamin, calcium supplement, check check. I just recently added Glucosamine and Chondroitin into my vitamin stash. Running is hard on the joints and especially your knees. Research has been pretty positive for the G-C supplements especially for runners. If you take it and it’s unnecessary, it’s not like it’s going to hurt you. You may want to consider it. http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-241-286-289-8138-0,00.html It’s one of those supplements I considered to be for people who already had joint problems, arthritis, etc… but it can apparently help prevent these things as well as easy joint pain when running.

14. Knee pain. It happens.

In fact, it probably never *doesn’t* happen if you run a lot. Most women have sustained some kind of knee injury at one point or another, and if you have you will feel it when you run. If you haven’t, you will start to feel one when you run. Hence, “Runner’s Knee” – that sort of mysterious, all-encompassing explanation for knee pain. If it’s a dull ache you’re probably okay to run. (Probably. I’m not a doctor.) You should evaluate if you’re sitting around whining about it whether you’re *actually* in enough pain not to run or whether you’re looking for excuses. I fully anticipate that I will have some pain when I run, especially at the start before all my muscles have warmed up. If it’s an acute pain it’s probably time to take off a week from running and/or go to the doctor. Again, you have to make the judgment call on this. There are ways to help, though. During running you can wear some kind of brace to try and help the impact. My go-to when I run is a knee strap. They cost about tend dollars and you can get them at any pharmacy, box store, etc. It’s a lot less bulky and easier to run with than a brace (and braces have a tendency to move/chafe when you run anyway). Post-running and stretching, lie down, elevate your knee above your heart and ice it. You’re aiming for the old RICE treatment: Rest-Ice-Compression-Elevation. (Google it.) Pop some ibuprofen to reduce swelling. If possible, switch up your running routines so that you’re not running on concrete all the time. Concrete has no give. Treadmill running is boring (I constantly have to find ways to stay entertained when I do it) but the bounce of the treadmill is a little kinder on the knees.

15. Stomach pain. It also happens.

NO ONE TALKS ABOUT THIS OR WARNS NEWBIE RUNNERS ABOUT THIS but some folks (self included) experience serious stomach cramps after longer runs. It’s miserable. It can send you running to the bathroom when you get back from said run before you even start stretching. There are lots of possible reasons, including the simple up-and-down movement of running causing stomach upset and blood being diverted from the intestines to the lungs during serious exercise. No matter what, it’s miserable. I recommend keeping a bottle of Pepto stocked and ready for immediately post-run. Here are two articles on the subject and possible ways to help prevent this/ease this. (I’m still working on finding the right balance of techniques.)

Runners World: http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-242-301--13482-0,00.html.

On Runner’s Trots (Oh, yeah. It also has a name): http://www.time-to-run.com/doctor/runnerstrots.htm

16. Get a buddy.

You don’t have to RUN with said buddy (although many people are much more motivated when they do have running partners) and I almost discourage you from running with your romantic partner. I don’t know that many people who have done it and haven’t been pissy and annoyed by the end. (Guys get competitive, don’t understand why you aren’t faster, don’t want to slow down, etc etc etc) I like running alone. I’m introverted and running with other people is kind of stressful for me. Besides – it’s my this-is-all-about-me-and-the-world-can-suck-it time. Get a buddy to keep you motivated. It could be a girlfriend who is also a runner and you guys can swap personal record time. It could be a facebook buddy to share info / news with. If you have someone you can talk to you have support for when the running sucks, a cheerleader for when it’s good and another source of information to keep you up-to-date. My “buddies” were people at work who also started running races in 2011. We swapped run times and race stories and “oh, hey, did you hear about—?“s.

17. “Like” Facebook pages that’ll keep you motivated and/or created a “motivation” board on Pinterest.

I hate hokey. I’m not sentimental and as a rule all the over-the-top “Be Positive!” stuff makes me want to punt babies. (Not literally). If something has more than three exclamation points and isn’t preceded by sarcasm I’m probably ignoring it. This does not apply to my running world. I don’t care what it is or how hokey. Any kind of picture on Facebook with dorky motivational quotes, slogans or pictures will help me get off my butt and out the door. Favorite pages of mine so far: Gibson’s Daily Running Quotes; Strong is the New Skinny, Fit Chicks, I <3 to Run. Seriously. I have no shame when it comes to these things.

18. Learn to love it or learn to love hating it.

I don’t like running. That magical moment when people suddenly say, “I love running! It makes me so happy! It’s great!” Yeah. I haven’t hit that. I don’t anticipate hitting it. In fact, most people I know who do run – and run A LOT – don’t love it. We all kind of hate it. We grumble and moan about it. We whine, even. We talk blisters, GI issues, aches, pains, sun burns, dehydration, crappy weather, poorly fitted running clothing, the replacement cost of running shoes. We do it because it’s healthy for us. We do it because it’s a sport that creates a shared camaraderie when you’re all one mile from the finish line and feeling like shit. (You will get to share looks with people crossing with you. It’s a “WTF were we thinking?” look the lasts five feet until right after you cross and then it’s, “HOLY CRAP, WE DID IT!”) We do it to defeat our own negative inner voices (I can’t? Like hell I can’t.) and set our own records. When you run, you don’t run against anyone else. You run against yourself. It’s sometimes good. It’s frequently miserable. We don’t love it. We have, however, learned to love hating it. Either way, we’ve got passion on the subject. So learn to love it or learn to love hating it. Just get off your ass and go.

Good luck! I know this seems like a given. It’s not. Make sure you drink extra the day before a long run, too. Personal foible: I didn’t drink enough the day before I ran the half-marathon. Even though I was grabbing water/Gatorade at the stations along the route so I thought I was hydrating well, I wasn’t. I ended up in the ER that night because I was dehydrated. Trust me, it’s a lot less fun than you think it is, especially when it gets to the point that you can’t even hold down water and spend hours dry heaving. DRINK THE WATER. Americans are perpetually dehydrated. If you only drink when you’re actually thirsty you’ve waited too long. I have 32-ounce Nalgene bottles and I aim to drink at least four of them a day.

How I Ran a Half Marathon (and you can, too!). (Part 1 of 2)

2012-02-07T13:35:00.000-08:00

I started running(ish) about November 2010. It was a for fitness/to lose weight thing. It wasn’t super consistent and I had no real info/training/help/etc. I’d go to the gym a couple of times a week, get on the treadmill until I felt like I was going to die (uh… twenty minutes, usually, at about a 15ish-minute-mile pace) or hop on the elliptical until my toes felt all crampy (also twenty minutes, usually).

CUE THE CHANGE! In August 2011 I broke up with a guy. We’d had this dramatic, convoluted obnoxious thing going on for almost a year and finally I had a, “What the fuck am I doing?!” moment. I ended it. It was much needed (not a regret since - he was and still is a giant douche) but at the time it was kind of devastating. So at the end of Break-Up Week One I was all sad and mopey and WAHHHH and it didn’t help that we worked together (not, you know, in the same department but still) and I wasn’t sleeping or eating well and my brain was all foggy, etc. etc, etc.. It was literally the Friday of Break-Up Week One and totally on a whim, I was like, “I’m sad. I should do something so that I won’t feel sad any more. I’ll sign up for a half marathon.”

And THAT is why I shouldn’t be allowed to do things before I’ve had coffee in the morning.

I knew nothing about running except that you put on some shoes and move in a way that’s kind of like walking but kind of faster. Also, I have always hated running. The fat kid that came in last when you had to do the timed one-mile run in PE classes? Yeah, that was me. Usually I made it wheezing in at about a sixteen-minute mile. (Later I found out I had asthma. Whaddya gonna do?)

Sooo… I committed. I got into the best physical fitness of my life (*flexes*… okay, well, I was in November… I’m working on shedding holiday pounds, mmmkay?) and got all focused and it was great.

To save you some of the growing pains as you do this, here is the advice, anecdotes and tools I have to offer as you work towards your running goals.

1. Sign up for a race.

Seriously. It’ll give you a fixed point to stare at. You’ll have a deadline and goal. It’ll be specific. It’s WAY better to actually sign up first then say, “I’m gonna sign up when I feel like I can run x-miles.” You won’t ever feel that way. Before each race I was freaking out thinking that I couldn’t run x-number of miles. Unless you LOVE running, you won’t get that much motivation, either. So sign up for your BIG RACE and THEN sign up for at least one race before it. If you do a half-marathon, most schedules have you sign up for a 5K and 10K. It’s kind of disorienting and nerve-wracking the first time you race so it’s a good “practice run.” You’ll get a feel for what it’s like to get there, get your gear, warm up, be overwhelmed by the numbers of people, etc. You’ll also get to race and see what your time is looking like. (I was motivated at THE END of the race when I ran my first race ever – a 5K – in 27:21. Of my coworkers who also ran, I was the first to cross the finish line. Suck it, folks.) This will get you more motivated than you realize. It’ll also possibly be the first time you’ll think, “I can do this!” Because you can.

2. Follow a schedule.

The schedule I follow (roughly) is Hal Higdon’s. It’s online and free and completely easy. Here’s the link: http://www.halhigdon.com/training/

Pick the schedule you think you can follow and go for it. Almost any running schedule will tell you that there’s no benefit to training more than 4 days a week (your body needs recovery and it can be hard on the knees/back/joints). Do your best to keep to the schedule, especially your long run days. (Mine are always Sunday, but that’s just the easiest time for me). The schedules always run: short run – medium run – short run – long run. Don’t run more than four days unless you REALLY need it (you’re going to risk hurting yourself) and be fully prepared for your legs to hate you for at least a week, but probably two. I just started back into my schedule last week and by Friday (my second short day) my legs were lead. It’s normal. You’ll be amazed how quickly you stop feeling that way, though, once you get a couple weeks in. Just don’t get discouraged.

3. Don’t skip days until you’re really in the loop.

It takes twenty-something days to make something a habit so do whatever you can not to take days off. I’ve skipped hanging out with friends, etc. to get my runs in. Last week I started running again (it was miserable after a week off but this week will be better and next week will be great) and I stuck to the schedule even though I was sore, tired and battling a gnarly cold. I hated it. I also know that unless I force myself to stick to the program, I will totally fall off. Most people don’t have the hop-on-hop-off discipline and honestly, unless you’re running a fever/having pneumonia/etc you can get your workout in anyway. Yes, it’s uncomfortable but most athletes do it and you won’t die from it. Truly.

4. Consider buying the Non-Runners Marathon Trainer (book).

Here’s a link: http://www.amazon.com/Non-Runners-Marathon-Trainer-David-Whitsett/dp/1570281823 I bought mine used. It has a very similar schedule included in it to what Hal Higdon does but it also addresses all kinds of things. Mental blocks, hitting “the Wall,” nutrition, preventing injuries, etc. It’s excellent and easy to read and perfect for those of us who have no idea what we’re really doing and are blindly feeling our way through it. I’m sure there are lots of variations of this same book out there written by different people. This is the only one I can vouch for because this is the one I’m familiar with and I liked it well enough.

5. Get fitted for your shoes.

Go to Fleet Feet and pay your hundred bucks and get shoes that are actually properly fitted. I can tell you that they probably won’t be cute or brightly colored but they will make you feel so much better. You cannot run the way you will be running in improperly fitting shoes. It WILL take a toll on your feet, your back and your knees. When you run in shoes that you’ve been fitted for you will be stunned at how different it feels. Be prepared to replace them after at least 6 months. I’ve gone through 3 pairs of shoes in the past year.

6. Get running socks and prep for blisters.

Thorlos are the go-to brand for running socks and they are usually about $14 a pair. Trust me, I didn’t think it would make a difference but it does. It really cuts down on blisters and discomfort because of the way they aerate and hold your foot. I still get blisters on longer runs on my arches but there are a couple of ways to help this is you’re having a hard time. Moleskin is effective and my new favorite go-to. Don’t put it over existing blisters, though. Some people love the anti-chafing sticks like Bodyglide or Band-Aid’s Blister Block. I tried the Band-Aid version and it didn’t do much for me but you may have better luck. If you DO get a blister I swear by Band-Aid “Advanced Healing Blister Cushions.” You can run with minimal comfort and walk the next day in regular shoes if you pop one of these suckers on. They are AMAZING. They’re also expensive, which is why I switched away from using these as a blister blocker on my arches and started using the moleskin. Better: they’re this crazy, flexible waxy material and can stay on your feet for a couple of days. Since they’re not fabric they don’t get all yicky feeling if/when you shower with them. Extends the life and helps stretch a penny.

7. DO NOT DO STATIC STRETCHING BEFORE RUNNING.
Everyone does this because they did it in gym class ten years ago. It is NOT good to do any static stretching (holding muscles stretched out like touching your toes, etc) BEFORE you work out / get your run on. Your muscles aren’t warmed up and you can hurt yourself. If you want to warm up, there are lots of dynamic stretches that you can do. (Google “dynamic stretches.”)

8. Watch your pace.

On your runs – but especially your long runs – make sure you start off with a slow, easy pace. Everyone wants to go SUPERFAST and then either ends up hurting themselves or burning out really quickly. I tend to keep beat to my music, so I had to create an iPod playlist specifically titled “Long Runs” just to avoid this. As you run more you may naturally get faster (or not). If you start at a dead sprint you will burn yourself out. At some point you’ll get into an easy groove with a comfortable pace and it’ll be awesome.

Fat America, Dumb Health Insurance

2012-02-03T15:31:00.000-08:00

Riddle me this: Why do neither of the two health insurances I’m under cover any sort of nutritionist/dietitian…UNLESS I’ve been diagnosed with some sort of holy-shit-you-fucking-fatass-you-need-help disease? We have an obesity epidemic in this country, right? One that’s HIGHLY costly, even for the insurance companies? Seems like, you know, preventative shit would save everyone money. THIS IS WHY YOU CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS, AMERICA. YOU EAT THEM. YOU EAT THEM UNTIL YOUR INSURANCE COMPANY HAS TO PAY TO COVER THE DAMAGE OF YOU EATING THEM.

Staceyann Chin is my favorite person of the day....

2010-12-25T12:22:00.000-08:00

You can check her out here: http://www.staceyannchin.com

Catalogue the Insanity

Catalogue your insanity
type the small words
push them from you
fingers and feet
and fury first
find the flippant denial
affirm it
bend
forget what you used to call her
learn the name of her new lover
write it on wax paper
burn it
forget the smell of her cunt
carry one poem to orgasm

erase the lines
catalogue the blood
drink the solution with intent
it was meant to be so
accept it
chant the inevitable and fold her picture in three
tear into the center of her face
copy the broken image
and send it to her
imagine her happy
smile slitting the frame
imagine her in Iowa
cornfields bending beneath another's hand
the soft land warming her back
catalogue her leaving
admit that she was never there
imagine her driving
haikus scattered from Denver
to Kentucky to Khartoum
construct a betrayal
make it a thing of unspeakable beauty
forgive her
slit your wrists
survive
count the number of times you have kissed her
multiply by three
imagine she kisses Iowa
five times more than that

pack
unpack
pull your shoe-strings tighter than you need to
shave your head
move to Indianapolis
buy a dog
call her impossible
call her cell phone
hang up
call again
obsess
fuck other women who remind you of her
study their scent
shower less
stare at strangers
slip in and out of reality
do not explain yourself
survive

sleep with a man
swallow your fist
feel
survive
scrape the flesh from your unstable legs
abort the skeleton that stands there
ingest one gallon of paraffin
light a match from the box she left by your bedside
imagine her happy
then inhale

when e.e. speaks to me

2010-11-28T13:46:00.000-08:00

i like my body

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

---------------------------------------------

Though your sorrows not

Though your sorrows not

any tongue may name,
three i'll give you sweet
joys for each of them
But it must be your'
whispers that flower

murmurs eager this
'i will give you five
hopes for any fear,
but it Must be your'
perfectly alive
blossom of a bliss

'seven heavens for
just one dying,i'll
give you' silently
cries the(whom we call
rose a)mystery
'but it must be Your

-----------------------------------------------------
Somewhere i have never travelled

Somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
Any experience,your eyes have their silence:
In your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
Or which i cannot touch because they are too near

Your slightest look easily will unclose me
Though i have closed myself as fingers,
You open always petal by petal myself as spring opens
(Touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

Or if your wish be to close me,i and
My life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
As when the heart of this flower imagines
The snow carefully everywhere descending;

Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
The power of your intense fragility:whose texture
Compels me with the colour of its countries,
Rendering death and forever with each breathing

(I do not know what it is about you that closes
And opens;only something in me understands
The voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
Nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

----------------------------------------------------------------

xvii.

Lady,i will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene

(lady i will
touch you with my mind.)Touch
you,that is all,

lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite ease

the poem which i do not write.

...

2010-11-22T20:51:00.000-08:00

"But I tried, didn't I? Goddamnit, at least I did that." -- R. P. McMurphy, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.

How to Know When You're Being Racist

2010-11-15T20:15:00.000-08:00

This comes up over and over and over again....usually on teh innernetz. People like to try and weasel out of it in all sorts of ways ("I'm not being racist! Besides, when you say that I'm being racist it cheapens when people are really being racist!") because people are douchebags.

Here is a sure-fire way to tell if you're being racist:

Replace whatever ethnicity you're talking about with "black."

Still comfortable saying it out loud? How about in public? How about when you're around a lot of black people? No?

You're being racist.

Done.

Don't ask me why this works...it was probably that little ol' slavery problem....and the KKK.....and the Civil Rights movement....and everything below the Mason-Dixon line in general.....but Americans are way more conscious of being racist towards African-American than any other ethnicity.

Also, big black men are scary!!!! /sarcam

*** I came up with this in response to this Jezebel piece: http://jezebel.com/5687559/yes-calling-a-school-too-asian-is-racist

I'm in love with George Takei

2010-11-04T21:51:00.001-07:00

His awesomeness blows my mind.

Oh, Oral Roberts.

2010-10-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder if all the televangelists are actually sadistic atheists who are busy laughing their way all the way to the bank. At least, sometimes I hope so. Because I'd really hate to think that they could actually publish something like this in all seriousness.

Yeah, next to the...um....happy?....woman it really says "Get under the 'spout' where the glory comes out." Really.

Greatest Thing I've Seen This Week: Trailer for Ever Oscar-Winning Movie Ever

2010-07-30T21:08:00.000-07:00

I've watched this thing 3 times and find more things to be impressed with each time.

That Alan Watts...

2010-07-28T22:24:00.000-07:00

He had some pretty good things to say now and then.

Monday Morning Irreverence

2010-07-19T09:25:00.000-07:00

This morning's irreverence isn't going to be about religion. Today it's about woo. Words fail me on this subject so I've decided to let the glory and joy of South Park take over.... and take on John Edwards, "psychic."

Chalk this one up to why atheists care what other people believe:

John Edward: Everything I tell people is positive and gives them hope. How does that make me a douche?
Stan: Because the big questions in life are tough - Why are we here, where are we from, where are we going. But if people believe in asshole douchey liars like you, we're never going to find the real answers to those questions. You aren't just lying, you are slowing down the progress of all mankind. You douche.

Olivia Munn: Hot. Un/anti-feminist. Total Asshole

2010-07-08T18:41:00.000-07:00

Man, oh, man do I ever wish it was a month ago when I’d never heard the name “Olivia Munn.” Back then, I was in blissful ignorance of The Daily Show’s alleged sexism. Back then, I didn’t know that they’d hired a new female correspondent – and that she’s a self-righteous douchebag.

To summarize: Olivia Munn is a supposed “geek” who is also apparently very attractive, is a host on some kind of geekish, hah-hah-funny TV show, doesn’t mind exploiting her own sexuality and sexiness, was recently hired (as the first female correspondent in 7 years) on The Daily Show, and thinks that all the people who are critical about her or who question her hire to TDS are just fat and jealous bitches who need to turn off our computers (we can’t be geeks, too?), put down the sandwich and walk it off. Apparently if we do those things we’ll suddenly become avid fans? Quite frankly I didn’t realize that sandwiches made me so hateful.

Unfortunately it seems I’ve accidentally consumed one today because at the moment, I’m totally feeling like a hateful, snarky bitch…then again, when aren’t I?

As a feminist, I completely support Olivia’s decisions to pose for Playboy or Maxim, even if she’s only wearing a bikini. It’s her body and that makes it her choice. She can wear skimpy outfits and capitalize on her “hotness” all day long with implied eroticism by shoving hot dogs, pie, and whatever she can dream of into her mouth. I’m cool with that. Again, it’s her body and her decision. She can act like a ditz and a trope-y “dumb girl” every day for the rest of her life (she seems to do a lot of that on her “Attack of the Show” show) and I will again say, it’s her goddamn decision. I support her right to do that.

What I don’t support, however, is being a hateful asshole because OMGSUM1ONTEHINTERNETZDUZNTLIEKME!!!!!

Jezebel mused over her hire onto The Daily Show by questioning whether she’d have the ability to win over the lady viewers. After all, Olivia Munn’s fame seems to be largely based around a geeky male fandom. Why wouldn’t it be, given that she uses her sexiness to her own advantage (and from what I can tell, unfortunately very little else) on some sort of technologically-focused TV show? I will say in defense of Jezebel (those lesbian shitasses!) the article was actually quite fair to Olivia. Yes, it questions whether TDS hired her because of her “hotness” but it turned around and quoted people who defended her on a professional basis (not a “she’s so hot” one). It was also quite fair to Olivia, pointing to her commitment to her fans and her ability to make jokes about more than her hotness, like jokes about the Holocaust.

Unfortunately, Olivia Munn apparently doesn’t have either the clarity or maturity to say, “You know what? It’s cool. Some people just aren’t going to get me.”
Instead she thought the better course of action was to prove that she is, in fact, a cunty, defensive asshole. (You figure out the logistics of how someone can be both a cunt and an asshole at the same time. I got nothing—I just liked the way it sounded.) At Kristen Stewart's age, it's forgivable. Ten years later...not so much.

In response to the article (and other people questioning her hire for TDS) she said “I think that any woman who’s out there trying to break down why any other woman would get anywhere, or why we’re different, just needs to fucking turn her computer off, take the sandwich out of her mouth and go for a goddamn walk. You know what? Just walk it off, bitch.”

Huh. Gosh. Golly. It does, after all, seem really crazy that any of us could wonder why she would get hired when there are a great many other hilarious and more qualified women out there who are actual comedians. But I’m just a bitch eating a sandwich.

Later she says, “I don’t think, ‘Oh, great. I’m a woman. This is awesome.’ I think, ‘Fuck yeah, I worked my ass off and somebody recognized it. This is great! We’re all human beings in this world. We’re all trying to make it from point A to point B, and just trying to fucking make it. So I think it’s really a disservice to all women when there are women out there who try to compartmentalize us as human beings, saying ‘women’ and ‘men,’ because I’m just out there.”

You know what? I get not thinking about the fact that “she’s a woman.” I do. I really do. And, frankly, most of what she does isn’t groundbreaking for women, so I don’t know if she really has a reason to be happy because she did something and she’s a woman. But not “compartmentalizing” us into genders? That’s a steaming pile of post-feminist agologetics bullshit. When women have full control of their bodies; make the same amount of money for the same amount of work as men; don’t have the shit airbrushed out of us in every single goddamn magazine to the point that we barely look human; aren’t subjected to sex-based stereotyping; have true gender equality; don’t have countries where not hiding most of our body is a crime; can be strong and independent and career focused without people calling us all lesbians (e.g. Elena Kagan & Julia Jillard); etc etc etc…Hell, even when TV / movie award shows are only half as long because there doesn’t have to be a male and female version of the award…We can talk about a postfeminist world. Of course, at that point we’ll be also talking about a post-sexist, post gender inequality world, too. Until then, you might wanna really think about whether you can talk “postfeminist” when the same rights you’re enjoying have been brought about by feminists.

“I never tried to use anything besides my own sweat and blood and talent to get somewhere.”

And her boobs. And her attractiveness. Neither of which is about sweat or blood. I’m not judging her here. She’s in an industry where appearances are extremely important. As I’ve said, it’s her right to capitalize on that. All I’m asking is that she please doesn’t pretend like she didn’t. Be honest. Say that you had to use your appearances but that you look forward to a day when you don’t have to. Say that you used your appearances because unfortunately, it’s necessary in the industry. Just be open about it. People will respect her more. Lesbian shitasses might even say, “Hey, this is what she had to do and ain’t that a shame.” Shit, she’d even give them something entirely else to get riled up about. The fact that she has used them, she’s repeatedly talked about being pretty, she rose to fame in a show because she was pretty and willing to flaunt it, and then to call it “sweat and blood?” I call bullshit. Heaping, steaming piles of it. We all understand this: if she did not look the way she does now she would not be as famous, if at all.

In another equally “classy” interview she says: “It is possible in this world to be pretty and funny and successful all at the same time. People need to understand that criticizing somebody for being pretty, or for getting an opportunity because of their looks, is just ridiculous. I think it’s really sad when female bloggers bash other women and say, “Oh she’s just getting breaks because she’s pretty and she posed in Playboy, but she clearly can’t be smart too.” I hope they don’t have daughters who grow up to be smart and pretty. Because god forbid there be more women like that in the world, perpetuating that horrible stereotype.”

Um… I think she kinda missed the point. Kinda like a lot. And that maybe, just maybe, you have shitty reading comprehension skills. No one is criticizing you for being “pretty.” No one is questioning whether a woman can be smart and pretty. But… quite frankly, I’m still waiting to see the smart side. Can anyone blame me? As I pointed out, on “Attack of the Show” she’s not shocking us with her brain powers—she’s putting things in her mouth. Or wearing next to nothing. And “pretending” that she’s stupid.” Because, like, that is apparently really funny. Then she turns around and poses in Maxim or Playboy. She likens herself to Tina Fey because, apparently all smart and funny women are the same. She isn’t anything like Tina Fey, though. To begin with, Tina Fey is a comedian. She’s totally smokin’, but much of her shtick is about exhibiting her intelligence. Not her tits. Or her ass. Or how many times she can put a hotdog in her mouth.

And also: Rachel Maddow. Gorgeous. Smart. Hilarious. (What now, bitches?! What now?!)

Like I said, I don’t have a problem with a woman using her sexuality as part of her comedic shtick. So long as it’s not the only part of her shtick. Yes, we as a culture need to be more body positive. We need to encourage our girls to embrace their own sexuality (when they’re old enough to understand what that means, of course). We need to tell them that they can be smart and pretty and funny and that one doesn’t have to be exclusive of the other. But I gotta tell ya – from what I’ve seen Olivia Munn just ain’t that funny. And she certainly hasn’t done anything to indicate that she’s smart. When “hotness” is your only shtick, what goes from “Rah Rah I’m A Famous Confident Sexy Woman!” gets…well, pathetic.

Oh, but it gets better. Or, rather, worse. Because she can, in fact, be an even bigger asshole.

Regarding her success (this is from the same interview above): “Somehow, we all get our way in. Maybe some of those female bloggers who write about me, maybe their way in is because they’re a narrow-minded bitch. Maybe mine is because I can tell a joke and wear a bikini. But it’s not just because I could wear a bikini. You know what I mean? What I’ve learned is to not be ashamed of anything that I have or I’ve done. I busted my ass, and it hasn’t been an easy road for me. At all. […]When I read stories about me and they’re like “Olivia Munn, best known for putting things in her mouth,” it’s hard not to get frustrated. Really? That’s what I’m known for?”

Oh, gosh golly. Now I’m fat, needing to put the sandwich down and talk a walk, AND I’m a narrow-minded bitch.

Like I said, if you don’t want people to think that you’re only famous for wearing a bikini and being sexually suggestive… Stop doing nothing but wearing a binkini and being sexually suggestive. Believe it or not, if you don’t show that you can be funny and smart, people have no idea that you are. When you do interviews where you ~~prove that~~ act like you are neither and instead act like a hateful bitch, people are are going to wonder about you even more. And sorry, Olivia – no matter how many times you try to hawk it, the fact that you wrote an autobiography does not, in fact, prove that you are smart. Plenty of dumb people write books. (Insert Sarah Palin/ Stephenie Meyer / Ann Coulter / Tucker Max / etc jokes here.)
Dita von Teese is an example of a woman who is capable of embracing and capitalizing on her sexuality. Her “hotness,” if you will. She is, after all, a burlesque dancer. When you read interviews with her or see pictures of her out in public, she’s a vision of gracefulness. She’s intelligent and well-spoken. I would imagine a great many feminists look to her and go, “Aha! A gorgeous woman with a smokin’ body making money off of her own hotness!” The thing with von Teese is that she doesn’t try to claim she’s anything but what she is or does anything but what she does. Though she has done other things – modeling, designing, etc – she knows what she’s grounded in. She’s honest, which is something Olivia Munn can’t seem to be with herself. She also acknowledges her detractors with…well, without calling them fat bitches.

I did this for Jon Stewart yesterday in my good-bye letter, so I’ll do it for her. To be fair and all that. All that she had to say about the questions and concerns about her ability was, “Yes, I did these things. I honestly feel like some of the things I did –especially swimsuit spots in Maxim and Playboy – were incredibly empowering. I am proud of my body as I think all women should be. The crazy sketches are the things that helped make me famous in the past, but I’m excited to shift gears and try something new. For those who don’t think I deserve it—watch the show and make your decision then. There is a reason Jon Stewart hired me and my boobs aren’t it.”

See how easy that is? Classy. Simple. Addresses the concern without blowing it off. Endears you to the public. Even a little bit humorous with the boobs point.

(Side note: Why the fuck am I not a celebrity PR person?)

Anyway, after that point she decided to delve into “feminazi, they-hate-me-cuz-I’m-beautiful, girls are vicious” tropes. (I’m not sure but it’s quite possible she lives in stereotype land.) Taken from the rest of the article:
“I’ve been in three girl fights in my life, and they first thing they do is try and claw your face. They want to claw your fucking eyes out. That’s sometimes what I feel when these girls write and blog about me.”

Then: “Bring your daughters around, I’m going to be a shining example of how you can have success and a book and be the stupidest person you’ve ever met! Come watch! They can be like, “Honey, see that lady over there? I know that people are taking her picture, and they really seem to like her. And yes, that thing she just said was pretty funny and people are laughing. And O.K., she wrote a book and got it published. But see how she’s wearing lip gloss? You don’t want to be anything like her! Stupid naked bitch.””

Okay, first of all, why is it all-women-tropes-all-the-time in Munn’s magical stereotyping land? Apparently, men aren’t allowed to hate her (or at least they don’t criticize her). And I guess they all find her incredibly funny, like, for reals. If Olivia Munn was blatantly hilarious and smart I don’t think anyone would be questioning her hiring at TDS. Sure, she could warm up on the Daily Show (most commenting I’ve seen on her official first performance have been lukewarm at best) and show us all what she’s made of. That would be awesome. It might even restore a bit of my love for Jon Stewart. The fact is, based on what she’s done in the past there’s no reason to think she is that funny. (At least when she’s wearing clothes.) This is a fact only compounded by the fact that she is not a comedian. (All the other correspondents are, as have all the ones previously hired. Including the women.) She could be a goddamn Playboy Bunny and if she was a comedian we’d all be like, “Hmm. Well. Okay then? Is she funny?” *furious Googling* “Holy shit, she is! Awesome!”

Side Note: I’d like to take a moment and point out here that I am a feminist and don’t leave the house without two different lipgloss options in my purse. Oh, that’s right. I even carry a purse. Point is, far be it from me to criticize anyone wearing lipgloss.

On Wednesday she was interviewed by Salon.

Cue the vitriol.

“[P]eople in Hollywood didn't know what Jezebel was. "The Daily Show" didn't know what Jezebel was. But this article was picked up and pushed out and these women sit behind this very thin veil that I can see right through, this idea that "we stand up for women." If you stand up for women, then don't bash me.”

This is kinda akin to the My-Name-Is-Sarah-Palin-and-I’m-a-Feminist-Because-I’m-Famous argument. Just because you have a vagina, you’re not a feminist. Just because you have a vagina doesn’t mean that other feminists don’t get to question your methods. (Also, please stop being such a melodramatic bitch. Jesus fucking Christ. Have you read the article? Do it. Because if you haven’t and you still feel like they’ve done nothing but “bash” you then you clearly have no reading comprehension skills.) Feminism is not about standing up for all women all the time just because they have vaginas—therefore, we question, criticize or “bash” people when it is necessary, even if those people have breasts.

The rest of the interview gave me a headache. More of the same (although there are a couple things that were addressed that makes me even more frustrated with Olivia Munn—I’ll bring those up later). Munn basically avoided answering most of the questions by some random vitriol or anecdote. The interviewer brings up the fact that there’s concern about the “narrow berth for women in comedy” and Munn brushes it off as “There are so few spots at all and it’s so hard and only the very best make it to The Daily Show.” (Implication: She’s the very bestest.)

The interview brings up the fact that there is even fiercer competition for women in comedy and that’s where part of the frustration about Munn’s hiring lies. Munn brushes it off as “I’m easy to hate” and “I’m thinner than I used to be” and more “you can be smart and funny.” None of which applies to her not being a comedian.

The interviewer brings up her Maxim shoot and her defensiveness about it and she brings out the whole “bitchy women bloggers” crap again. (This time in reference to her dating Chris Pine. Yeah. I don’t know how her mind swirls around all this irrelevant bullshit, either.)
I’m going to head back to the Daily Beast article one more time before I start in on a separate (but equal?) subject. Earlier, I linked the Daily Beast article and referenced her joking about the Holocaust.

Specifically, she said: “In the first 10 minutes of my meeting with Jon, I made some kind of Holocaust joke—and by the way? It’s always too soon—and he died laughing. He was like, ‘Wow, you open up with the Holocaust?’” Munn recalled. “I said, ‘No, no, it's cool. I dated a Jewish guy!’”

Yeah. Seriously. So she made a joke about the Holocaust, mmmkay, it’s been done….In fact, I’d say it’s almost passé at this point. But...the joke wasn’t actually funny. So now I’m really confused about why that made Jon Stewart like her more. But then—and here’s where my eye rolling nearly causes my retina to detach—she actually follows it up with one of those “I have friend/know someone/dated someone” excuses. You know the kind: “I have a black friend so it’s okay if I may black jokes!” “My one black friend doesn’t mind if I say nig**r so no one else should!” “I just made an outrageously homophobic statement but my hairstylist is gay so that makes me not homophobic and part of the gay ‘in crowd.’” Basically: even if you’re not a bigot, the excuse is lame and following the “joke” with an excuse like that kinda indicates why people don’t think you’re funny. It also indicates that you’re an even bigger douchetastic asshole than previously thought. (And that goes for everyone—not just Olivia Munn. I’m equal opportunity about that shit, fuckers.)

On yet another interview, Munn was all douchey and un/anti-feministy. Enjoy that HERE.

The interviewer asks her why she’s not a feminist. Her response? “I just consider myself a person in this world who wants to stand up for everyone who can’t stand up for themselves. I care just as much about the guys as I do about the girls. I want geeks to feel empowered to stand with people who are more socially accepted. And I want girls to feel that they can be pretty and funny and edgy and not apologize for it..”

Pardon me, please, while I *headesk* for a minute. I don’t fucking get why she has this enormous chip on her shoulder. Every time I turn around there’s another article where she’s talking about how hard it is to be pretty, especially if your funny (and now edgy) or smart or both. No one is fucking asking you to apologize. No one ever said you can’t be funny and sexy and smart, and you even pointed out that Tina Fey is all those things and people love her. Gee, could it be…I dunno… you have a shitty attitude? You’re outrageously whiny and self-righteous?

Another thing: what about us ugly girls? You know, us fat and jealous and spiteful bloggers? She doesn’t care about us? Because, frankly, over the history of the universe it definitely hasn’t been the beautiful people who’ve struggled relentlessly. In fact, even now it’s not beautiful women who are paid less than ugly women. You don’t after all, see ugly girls plastered all over the TVs or becoming famous for walking around nearly nekkid, do you? Ugly faces aren’t all over the magazines, right? So…what the fuck is her problem? I understand that there are very beautiful women who can face their own unique set of challenges, but jesusfetusfajitafishsticks does she must ever think that she is inhumanely gorgeous to talk about how hard it is for her because you’re pretty.all.the.time.

Being all humanist-y is very noble and all, but I’m pretty sure she isn’t. Those are pretty specific segments of the population she seems to care about. Additionally, if she was all about the “underdog” she’d probably be at least slightly amenable to feminism. You know, because…shit still isn’t equal for us? Just saying.

What baffles me about this is that she has written about/discussed MULTIPLE TIMES her struggles with the (sexist) entertainment industry.

In the Salon interview she talks about the time she did the shoot for Playboy. Even though her contract explicitly stated that she wouldn’t be doing nudity she had a stylist and photographer who were pushing her the entire time to get naked. Regarding it, she said, “But I remember sitting on the stairs, feeling so violated afterward. I was sobbing.”

In the Vanity Fair interview, she tells about her experience creating her book cover: “ I was at the photo shoot for the cover, and I’ve never done this before, but I just shut it down. I was crying. I knew what the publishers wanted. I’m not stupid. But I wanted to compromise. I told them I’d bring the Wonder Woman outfit to the shoot, but I do not want to be on the cover dressed like Wonder Woman. So I’m at a studio in LA, and the photographer keeps calling the publishers in New York, and she’s telling me what they want. “O.K., less tie. Open the shirt a little more. They want more cleavage.” Finally I was like “No!” I know they’ve done book stuff for a long time, and they know what they’re doing. But I was like, “What do you guys think is going to happen? Are you literally going to gang-bang me, throw me down, dress me in the Wonder Woman outfit and be like, ‘Now smile, Olivia. Smile!’” It was just too much. I wish I had pushed harder against it.”

I think Olivia Munn might be a case of Women-Who-Need-Feminism-But-Don’t-Know-It.

She should never, ever have to struggle with being pushed into things that make her uncomfortable, sexual objectification included. The fact that these things so profoundly upset her really begs the question: Exactly how comfortable has she been with exploiting her own sexiness to rise to fame? She keeps droning on and on about how she’s allowed to be “sexy and smart and fun” at the same time and that she has the right to use the fact that she is all three to her own advantage…and yet a Playboy shoot has her in tears (and rightfully so).
This also reminds me of all those insecure (if beautiful) girls in school who only had guy friends because “They just don’t get other girls.” Because “No, really, they’re just one of the guys and being objectified and listening to their sexism is just part of that.” It’s just so, so sad.
When it comes down to it, Olivia Munn indeed is a douchenozzle, cunty, vitriolic, self-righteous asshat of an asshole. Even if she is hot. It seems, however, that that has been the price of success.

Written by: Jealous Fat Bitch Who Needs to Put the Sandwich Down and Go For a Walk.

Dear Jon (Stewart): I Think We Need to Take a Break

2010-07-07T20:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Jon,

I know this already sounds like a “Dear John” letter, but can I help it if your name actually is Jon? I didn’t think so. Now that I’ve pointed that out, I’m going to be honest: this *is* a “Dear John” letter.

We’ve had some really good times, Jon. I’m not going to lie: you and The Daily Show were probably half the reason I was able to survive those sad and lonesome Bush years as a liberal in Alabama. You turned my pent-up aggression, frustration and disbelief into laughter—thereby averting my head from exploding.

I appreciate that. Really and truly, I do.

You also got me through the 2008 election because, well, the same pent-up aggression afflicted me every time Sarah Palin opened her goddamned mouth.

My love for you and The Daily Show has long run deep, so it’s with great sadness that I have to say: I want to take a break.

Why? Because lately you and the other TDS-ers have, frankly, been acting like cunts. And not because 40% of your people have them.

You see, Jezebel recently posted a very insightful article on The Daily Show’s “Woman Problem.” I point this out because the way you and your people have been acting seems like you think the article was actually called Jezebel Thinks I’m a Sexist Prick. In fact, it is abundantly clear that no one at Jezebel thinks that, but they do think you have a “woman problem,” since, well…the article they wrote is called The Daily Show’s Woman Problem.

The points the article makes are clear: In the past seven years no new female correspondents have been added to the show. Only just recently was Olivia Munn added who is, by the way, not a comedian but instead a “model” and “actress.” One that Jezebel rightly and fairly points out, may have a “built-in” fanbase but it’s largely because she is typically scantily clad and/or erotically putting things in her mouth. Most of your previous (*cough*previous as in over seven years ago…*cough*) correspondents never lasted long on your show and a couple of them have even come out and decried the “boy’s club” hierarchy and the double standards for comediennes in the workplace. Far be it from me to say whether or not they’re correct on that point—I, after all, never worked at TDS and, yes, sometimes disgruntled ex-employees say negative things about their previous bosses. All of that still doesn’t change the fact that Olivia Munn is the first female correspondent you’ve added in seven years and even now she’s still in tryout mode. It doesn’t change the fact that this year you’ve had more than 70 male guests but less than 20 women. (What? Women just don’t do anything important?) On top of that, when the Jezebel writer tried to contact The Daily Show and get some kind of comment – a defense, a dismissal, anything – your people blew them off.

There are a lot of ways that you could’ve responded to this once it became an article going nearly viral around teh internetz. (You could’ve gotten ahead of this thing and commented when they first came to you but now we’re way past that.) There were lot of really classy, slightly snarky but still totally reasonable ways to respond.

Here is how it should’ve been handled as a press release / statement from you, Jon: “I vehemently disagree with the implication that I am sexist. Olivia Munn may not be a comedian but she has done work in comedy. Yes, as an attractive woman she has been in Playboy and done silly, half-naked things as bits. Her attractiveness is absolutely not why we hired her. We hired her because she’s intelligent and has a track record of being hilarious and because once we met with her we discovered that she has the perfect personality to fit in with The Daily Show culture. At The Daily Show we highly value our family-like atmosphere and endeavor not to hire anyone who shows no ability to fit into this culture. That being said, I certainly understand your frustration with the lack of female correspondents and writers and the fact that we haven’t added a new female correspondent, to which I say: Our bad. It wasn’t intentional but it’s clearly a problem and we will commit to improving our awareness and commitment to an equal opportunity work place in the future.”

U c wat I did there? I responded to what some unapologetically hypocritical morons with no reading comprehension skills thought were ad hominem attacks, addressed the questionable new hire, acknowledged that there was a problem (however unintentional) and committed to fixing it.

You couldn’t do that, though. It seems the Jon of yesteryear has left us. Maybe it was too many episodes of imitating Glenn Beck and too many hours of listening to Sarah Palin’s “You betchas!” Maybe they have actually turned you into the liberal version of Glenn Beck: oversimplifying arguments and offering straw men as responses to criticism.

Instead of acting like the Jon Stewart I once loved so much that I would have his children (even though I hate children and can’t think of pregnancy as anything other than some creepy alien inhabiting my body and sucking all the nourishment right out of me, ickickick), you grossly oversimplified the concerns of the Jezebel article by dismissing it as “Jezebel thinks I’m a sexist prick.” Especially since Irin Carmon, the writer of the original piece, never said that. (If you had read it you would know.)

And you know what? I could’ve maybe let that go. Given enough time, I could’ve accepted what seems to be the norm at the show by falling back into willful ignorance.

It simply couldn’t be left at that, though, could it? No, your show – or more specifically, the women of your show (as if that serves to illustrate something other than the point that 40% of your employees are female) – responded. By acting like we’re all still in high school.

As if to intentionally create a parody of themselves, all the women-folk at your show got together and took one giant picture of themselves and wrote a letter! Because, no, really, there are women at the show! Look at them! And they're smiling so they must be happy!

The letter starts off as cuntily as possible, with “Dear People Who Do Not Work Here.” Because, like I said, this is high school. They refer to the Jez writers as “interlocutors” because, you know, they’re so far above ad hominem attacks and clearly want to stick to the facts! They dismiss criticisms of The Daily Show as “the bitter rantings of ex-employees.” They accuse Jezebel of “ignoring what current staff say about working at The Daily Show.” THAT line has got to be the one that had me most riled-up, because not ONLY did the Jezebel article include positive statements from a woman who had left TDS and then returned, but THEY TRIED TO GET SOMEONE FROM THE DAILY SHOW TO COMMENT BEFORE RUNNING THE ARTICLE. Apparently these fine ladies at The Daily Show have the reading comprehension of high schoolers, too (but only the ones in the "special" classes). At least the ones who were the comedic geniuses behind the letter, anyway.

They then signed the letter with all the names of the people working on the show and their job title. Hilariously (or sadly), this only reinforced Irina’s point: of the women staff, only 3 were writers and two were correspondents—and one of them being the JUST added Olivia Munn, at that.

I hate to use these words because they’re almost only applied to women, but here’s what I think of the letter writers (and you, Jon Stewart, for being complicit in this): They were catty, bitchy, and cunty.

The letter wasn’t even funny—a huge disappointment to those longtime fans of TDS like me. The main argument of the letter was, “Jon is a really nice guy!”

Wow. Just wow. For conceivably logical, rational, intelligent and – dare I say it? – liberal adults this letter was one large and pathetic straw man.

It didn’t even begin to address the points in the Jezebel article about the lack of female correspondents and writers, the fact that several former workers have criticized The Daily Show for the same problems (except for calling them bitter ranters, of course) or the obvious lack of balance between male and female guests. Because, according to them, they don’t have to address them since “Jon is a really nice and smart and funny guy and he would never do any of that.”

As I said earlier, it would’ve been super easy to respond to the critiques without coming off as bitchy asshats with no reading comprehension skills.

What's probably worse to me than the general cunty ass-hattery about the way The Daily Show has chosen to respond is how flippant they've been about everything. I would hazard a guess that if someone wrote a critique of TDS being preferential towards white employees or not hiring many non-whites The Daily Show would be much less flippant. I doubt you'd have Wyatt Cenac pen a letter talking about how cool you are towards him and...well... I was going to throw out the number of black women working on the show but from the blurry picture online it doesn't seem like there are any. (I could easily be wrong. The picture quality isn't that great.) After all, Wyatt could talk about how awesome Jon is in supporting Kwanzaa and MLK Jr. Day, right? And that would in no way be patronizing or minimizing the persistent struggle for black people to get recognized for their accomplishments, rise above stereotypes, etc., right?!

And yet...I'm not seeing that happening. Ever. If someone questioned TDS on that front I would guess that TDS would immediately be issuing a press release talking about their non-discrimination policies, etc. It wouldn't become a funny joke. You wouldn't not read the article and then post what you (or your black employees) think is a funny letter in response.

But apparently, since Jon, you're so nice and all, we're supposed to forgive the inequality. Look past it. Let it go. Because, goddamnit, we women-folk get to vote and drive cars and have careers and pose in binkinis in major magazines so what else do we have to whine about?

What do you suppose we do, Jon the non-sexist non-prick? It seems to me that the implication here is that The Daily Show is a golden cow: no one should be able to criticize it, ever. And certainly not for potential hypocrisies. Should we ladies all just sit down and cross our legs and shut the fuck up? If we’re not supposed to outraged (or at least questioning and concerned) and object to inequality then the implication is that we should sit down, shut up and be complacent about it.

I’m sorry, Jon. That just won’t work for me. It’s why I dumped my high school boyfriend. It’s also why I still wonder if Glenn Beck raped and murdered a girl in 1990.

You didn’t have to stop him, Jon. You just didn’t have to help him hide the body.

Like I said, I’m going to have to take a long break from you and The Daily Show, during which time I’m rescinding the previous offer of my ovaries.

Maybe one day soon your show will de-asshatify itself and I’ll start watching again (or at the very least, my brain will repress this whole traumatic experience and I’ll forget what happened in the first place).

Until then, Jon, I’m saying good-bye.

Sincerely,

Jealous, insecure fat bitch who needs to turn off my computer, put down my sandwich and just walk it off.

Fuck You, Men's Health and Your Douchey Female "Journalist," Too

2010-07-04T19:11:00.000-07:00

One of my New Year’s Resolutions this year was to stop buying chick magazines. It’s the only res I’ve kept. In fact, I don’t know if I can even remember the rest.

Women’s magazines –even the ones that pass themselves off as “health and fitness” mags—are notoriously stupid. There’s a celebrity interview, a weight loss article, a beauty make-up article and about a hundred guy-focused articles. “347 ways to tell if he really really loves loves you instead of just loving you!” “17 tricks to give him an orgasm that will paralyze him for a week!” “Some kind of quiz to make you remember how neurotic and insecure you are so you’ll keep buying our magazine and its promises of making you magically turn into the person you want to be!” Dumb.

Men’s magazines apparently aren’t much better. If they were, you poor penis-packing homo sapiens wouldn’t be subjected to shit like Laura Milne’s “25 Secrets She Wishes You Knew.” I’m not sure what about this is more pathetic: the trope-y way it addresses women as a whole or the fact that the author seems to be afflicted with all of these neuroses.

What’s worse that many of the actual secrets are the little quips she posts to qualify them. Not all of them are god-awful, but allow me to share the ones that are the most pathetic, sexist and, frankly, insulting:

Women speak a different dialect than men. For example, "I'm fine" means "I'm so not fine," just as "No dessert for me" means "I'll be polishing off yours."

Ohhhhh, that’s so cute. No, really, it’s adorable when you use tropes about women being passive-aggressive communicators. Because, like, I’m not an adult who can say what I mean instead of playing middle school communication games. It’s also cute that you think you were both funny and original when you wrote this.

Remember, PMS stands for "physical and mental stress." So let me cry freely, behave irrationally, and eat your dessert. My mood swings are hormonal, not personal.

Wow. WOW! You are like, the Sarah Palin of feminism. Once again with the pathetic tropes from crappy sitcoms. What the fuck is wrong with you? People like you are the reason a woman can’t be legitimately pissed off without someone going, “Oh, she must be PMS-ing.” Honestly, lady, if you are that batshit crazy because you’re about to start bleeding for a week you need to get help.

Manicures and pedicures are a woman's gift to her man. I love looking pretty for you. The time to worry is when I stop going for them.

Omigosh, like, omigosh! You aren’t supposed to like, tell teh menz about that! Just like you aren’t supposed to tell them that they’re the only reason we want to exercise, put on make-up, do our hair or wear high heels! It’s all about them! All the time, men, men, men! It’s not like it, I dunno, feels nice to get a pedicure. Nor would we ever make ourselves look nice just for our own satisfaction. No, no—if there were no penises to be had we’d just run around looking like cavewomen.

Always tell me when I look hot; never tell me when I don't. And don't forget: I need 20 compliments to offset one thoughtless remark

Yes, as such weak and delicate things a hint of disapproval or unkindness from our man turns us into sobbing messes. We go all Brittany Murphy in Girl, Interrupted, hiding chicken remnants under our beds. It destroys our self-esteem and the only thing that can possibly repair it is a minimum of twenty compliments. Because you love us? Right? You think I’m pretty? So pretty ? The most beautiful princess in the whole world? Right? Right?!?!

I remember the shirt you were wearing when you first said, "I love you." The fact that you don't makes me question whether you meant it.

In other news on “As the Psychotic, Neurotic Bitch Turns…” I can barely remember what I wore yesterday, much less last week. Forget about what anyone else wore. Menfolk, let me advise you: If you have any hint that she might be upset that you don’t remember your outfit the day the day you said “I love you, ” run. Run now. Cross state lines. I promise you, you’ll thank me when you’re in a relationship with a grown-up woman and not a needy twelve-year-old.

Of course you're the best lover I've ever had. All others cease to exist when I fall in love.

This actually made me L-O-L. Look, we might tell you that you’re amazing in bed but just because we love you don’t mean you’re our greatest fuck of all time. (Insert Kanye West joke here.) Ever read a woman’s advice column? Yes, depending on the source they can be mind-numbing, but there are constantly questions from concerned womenfolk about how bad their SO in bed and how can she make him better? We’re not going to tell you this partly out of love and kindness and partly because we’re afraid that if we do you’ll never get hard again. Love is great for a lot of things but it doesn’t magically make you a sex god.

I secretly delight when the maitre d' slips up and calls us Mr. and Mrs.

…Because this is 1950 and the only thing I want out of my entire life is to be married.

I can, will, and do fake it. Like when Gossip Girl is starting. Would you rather I fake a headache?

Some women do this. These are the same women who write in to advice columnists asking for how to improve their SO’s performance.

I'll probably be late—because I'm preening for you. At least that's how I reason. My reasoning skills are phenomenal!

Oh, my god. WHO IS THIS PERSON? IS THIS SERIOUSLY A REAL PERSON? PLEASE SWEET BABY JESUSFETUSFAJITAFISHSTICKS SOMEONE TELL ME THAT THIS IS SATIRE!

So, apparently we aren’t actually capable of rational thought. Oh, sure, some of us go on to earn PhDs and become famous scientists, politicians, writers, engineers, etc but if you look closely, all of our accomplishments aren’t real….we’ve only been given a gold star for our efforts! That’s right – where the college emblem on our degrees should be is a gold star sticker.

And, look – she even managed to include the sexist “women are always late” joke in her list! How fucking original!

Because, when it comes down to it everything that we do we do for men, right? Seriously, who is this lady--Dane Cook's female alter ego?

Look, normally I’d post the link to the crazy bullshit I’m ranting about. I’m not doing it with this one. You can Google the article or go to the Men’s Health website. I’m not posting the link on principle—I don’t want to be responsible for any extra traffic to this vomit-worthy piece of shit.

Fuck you, Men’s Health. Fuck. You.

Damn You, Twilight

2010-07-04T13:19:00.000-07:00

I may laugh hysterically at your movies; hate your sexism and creepy, abusive relationship; wrinkle my nose at your absurd over-saturation of the merchandising market (undies? srsly?); mock the 1564354651234651 times that Stephenie Meyer use the word chagrin--and usually incorrectly (yes, I read the books...let's not get into that here); and delight in the endless snark and satire of the franchise on teh interwebz....

.....but I'll be damned if whoever puts together your soundtracks doesn't do a fucking good job. I don't know whether to to be miffed by the fact that so many good bands have sold out to the franchise or just grateful for the new music.

Whatever. I'm listening to the movie #3 soundtrack right now.

OMGWTFBBQ stop chagrinning me, ya'll.

SCOTUS Shows Ovaries of Steel: A Win for Non-Discrimination

2010-06-29T11:26:00.000-07:00

As we all know, the poor Christians of America are a terribly trod-upon bunch. They're constantly battling discrimination because, goddamnit, they're a minority! Umm...or something.

It was with great (snarky, skeptic's) delight that I read an article over at the Center for Inquiry about SCOTUS putting their foot down ('bout damn time) when it comes to the whining of a Christian student group. (Life is hard, ya'll!)

It seems that the Christian Legal Society at the University of California, Hastings School of Law got their chastity belts in a bunch when the University refused to "officially recognize" the group unless they adhered to the University's non-discrimination policy. You can read the CFI's article here.

You know... the one where the gays and the trannys and baby eaters have to be let in the group if they wanna. (Mmmm....baby.)

Why would the CLS care about this? After all, shouldn't they only care about being recognized by a "higher authority?" (Wiggles eyebrows and points upwards suggestively... at.... oh... fluorescent lighting. Sorry, Jeebus.)

Funding, of course!

In a decision that makes my blackened atheist soul sparkle, SCOTUS decided that if the group wanted to receive funding and be recognized by the PUBLIC university they had to comply with the same rules as everyone else. *shocking!*

It was a 5-4 decision, which means that four people in SCOTUS are assholes. Also, probably Christians. Care to guess which? Oh, that's right: Alito, Roberts, Thomas and Scalia. (Can I call it, or what?)

Justice Ginsburg wrote the opinion, saying that the University's policy "is a reasonable, viewpoint-neutral condition on access to the student-organization forum." The Christian Legal Society "seeks not parity with other organizations, but a preferential exemption from Hastings' policy."

I think I just developed a bit of a girl-crush on Justice Ginsburg.

Anyway, one small step in the right direction! Huzzah!

Most Honest Campaign Ad Ever (!!!111!!!1!)

2010-06-29T10:58:00.000-07:00

If any politician had the kind of ovaries of steel it would take to actually be this upfront in a campaign ad I might have to vote for him/her. On principle. Unless they were a Creationist. Then all bets are off.

On the flip side, though this video is hilarious it makes me wonder: how the fuck do people watch campaign ads and not see it for anything OTHER than this?

Oh, that's right. People are dumb.

Read more:

Oh, Wednesday (and why I hate corporate America)

2010-06-16T09:14:00.000-07:00

I get up early every Wednesday morning for a weekly meeting. I listen to people talk about exactly the same thing they talked about three or four months ago. The same problems come up. They all say the same things and everyone has to get their opinion out and in the end everyone agrees that something needs to be done but no one says concretely what will be done so that the same issues don’t come up in the future.

In a couple of months we’ll be talking about the exact same thing and everyone will be giving the exact same speeches and acting like it’s the first time any of this has come up.

Wednesday mornings make me feel like my life is stuck on repeat.

2010-06-08T16:00:00.000-07:00

Thank goodness this country is starting to crack down on all the illegals! They are SUCH a problem. I mean, if you're not prepared to show that you have street cred in the US of A then you should be ready to get ou---Wait? What's that officer? You want to see my documentation? Well, of course! I support this law in Arizona and will therefore hand you my driver's license as verification that I am... Huh? You don't accept driver's licenses? Your looking for my family's immigration documentation proving that they came here and too land from the Indians legally?

Damnit.

An Observation: Sweden

2010-06-05T23:26:00.000-07:00

After careful consideration I have decided it is time that I make an announcement: Good things come from Sweden.

Like, really good things.

I feel that it is important that you know this so that you can appreciate this and be as enlightened as I am. Do you not believe me?

PROOF:

1. Swedish Chef

So, de beency bouncy burger, eh?

2. Ikea

Because, really, where else can hip, young, twenty-somethings by awesome decor and furniture for cheap? Sure, putting some of the furniture together requires a degree in industrial engineering but that's all part of the fun!

3. Steig Larsson and the Millenium Series

My man Steigy created one of the greatest ass-kickingest female characters ever. And he's from Sweden. And now he's dead, which I'm still not over. *sigh* But really, Lisbeth Salander makes me want to pull out the black leather, cut my hair short, dye it black and hit up the goth scene. She is that fucking cool.

4. Let the Right One In (movie & novel)

Easily my favorite (non-comedic) vampire movie. Apparently Swedish kids are creepy as shit. Especially the undead ones. But really, this is an amazing film. Such minimalism was used in the music and special effects that you really believe the characters. Essentially, it's the antithesis of Michael Bay... and that's just good for my soul.

And finally (and maybe most importantly)...

5. Alexander Skarsgard

Sweet baby Jesus is he ever one delicious hunk of man meat. True Blood could be the crappiest show ever (it's not) and I would watch it because he's in it. Because, uh... I'm not objectifying him at all. Really. He's a person with thoughts and feelings. (I just don't much happen to care about them.)

And now for a little literary snobbery...

2010-05-26T11:47:00.000-07:00

Been a while since I've updated my latest literary adventures. Thought I’d break out a couple quickie reviews of what I’ve read recently and hopefully point you towards a good (or away from a bad) book if you’re in the market!

The Good

Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach

I read Mary Roach’s Bonk a year or so ago. It was okay but nothing to stay up late reading for. Stiff, on the other hand, was fantastic. Roach unflinchingly (okay, maybe slightly flinchingly) answers questions about what happens to human bodies after death. Where do you end up when you will your body to science or donate your organs? What are some alternative and more eco-friendly body disposal options? How do you know your dead and, hey – how tasty are you? The book is informative, inspiring without being preachy and full of snark and humor. Death remains a difficult subject to broach—if not a completely taboo one—and Roach succeeds in looking at the subject with the kind of humanity that makes us capable of laughing at ourselves.
Go and buy it if: You’re a teeny bit on the morbid side, plenty snarky and/or obsessed with the show Six Feet Under.
Stay far away if: You get queasy with descriptions of body parts. You’d rather not think about death or what happens to a body after death. You’re too lame to be my friend. (Oh, that’s right. I went there.)

The Girl Who Played With Fire by Stieg Larsson

I read The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo (the first novel of the trilogy) about six months ago. It took me (at most) two days. Since then the book has been making its rounds in my office and I haven’t seen it. It has, however, been in the hands of no less than five different people. The Girl Who Played with Fire is book two in the series. To my overwhelming disappointment, this series was supposed to be something like twelve books long but Stieg Larsson had the great misfortune of dying after turning in books two and three for publishing. Thank the high heavens he was able to get the world that much! RIP, Stiegy! (Can I call you Stiegy?) I read book two in a day. Literally. (It was a Saturday, but still.) It’s even more fast-paced than the first book and Stiegy fleshed out the characters more. I like this book enough to ignore some of the poorly translated sentences and idioms. I like this book enough to ignore the fact that one of the main characters – a middle aged journalist with commitment issues – seems to attract every woman under the sun. I like this book enough to ignore that maybe the main female character – a gothic-chic, ass-kicking, emotionally crippled, super genius – is probably just a *little* too good to be true. Because I love her anyway, goddamnit. And the mystery is as ass-kicking as Lisbeth Salander.
Buy this book if: You like – no! LOVE – mysteries. You’re still a little goth at heart. You love an ass-kicking female protagonist. You like your mystery mixed with a dash of social commentary.
You won’t like this book if: You’re too much of a lit snob to enjoy a good mystery. (I’m not judging. I can be a lit snob, too.) You don’t jive with unconventional female characters or lifestyles. You want a fairy tale ending. You like books written by people like Emily Giffin.

The (Not So) Bad

Gang Leader for a Day by Sudhir Venkatesh

Here’s Sudhir’s deal: He’s a new grad student at the University of Chicago studying sociology. He’s a wayward soul having yet to settle into the rhythm of the university and city. Or something like that. Anyway, long story short, Sudhir goes out to one of the most dangerous projects with a sociology questionnaire for a project he’s trying to work on. His question is: “How does it feel to be poor and black?” Did I mention Sudhir – despite Asian roots – grew up in an affluent California family? Oh, yeah. Anyway, poor Suddy runs across a gang leader who kinda sorta agrees to take Suddy (I’m all about making up nicknames today) under his wing and give him an insider’s view into the lives of people living in the Robert Taylor projects in Chicago. Most interestingly is that the book explores the gang’s involvement in the lives of the local habitants – and what positive and negative effects it has. It’s laced with an unspoken social commentary that Suddy leaves the reader to derive his or herself (which I appreciate). There’s even a bit in there about the economics of the gang. Why it’s not on “The Good” list? Not enough sociology. I like details and the personal stories but I think the book would’ve been amazing had Sudhir been able to step back and look at the situation with a sociologist’s eye and analysis.

Buy this book if: You wonder about the inner workings of gangs and communities. You’re genuinely trying to get the dynamics that would drive someone into a gang or what it means to be poor and black in Chicago.
You won’t like this book if: You’re looking for in-depth sociological insight into the inner workings of gangs. You’re a cute white girl who think it’s cute to purse your lips and throw up gang signs in pictures.

Love Walked In by Marisa de los Santos

I was prepared to give you a lengthy speech about the woes and idiocy of so-called chick lit and why I hate it…and then I read this book. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not Nobel Prize-worthy. It is, however, entertaining (despite its chick-lit-y-ness). The book pulls together unusual characters and examines the relationships between them when they’re grouped in an unlikely scenario. Yes, the way they meet is serendipitous and everything works out a little too neatly. (It’s chick lit.) Despite this, it’s easy to get attached to and involved with the characters because Marisa (oh, that’s right…we have the same name…and she even spells it the same way I do… TAKE THAT two “s” Marissas!) has the skill to pull people into a relationship with her characters. In some ways, it’s as though the characters are whispering their secrets to you as you’re watching the events unfold.
On the flip side, it only ends up in the (Not So) Bad list because, well…it never lost its essential chick-lit-y-ness in the process of becoming a story. Entertaining, sure… but not something that’s going to make you think. It's good chick lit but I wouldn't go so far as to say it's a good book. (See the difference?)

You should buy this if: You want chick lit that is reasonably well-written. You need a little pick-me-up. You want something to entertain you instead of making you think.
You should avoid this if: You hate chick lit in any and all forms. You don’t like when stories end happily. You’re looking for an out-and-out romance novel. You think Stephenie Meyer is a good author.

The Ugly

Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner

This is the book that was going to have me be ranting against chick lit in all its forms. The thing is, I actually *wanted* to like this book. I was rooting for this book. I read In Her Shoes (by the same author) years ago and liked it, even. (Looking back, I probably liked it because I was only about fourteen when I read it.) Anyway, yes, it’s total chick lit. In fact, it’s sad-fat-girl-ends-up-with-everything-and-skinnier chick lit. I could deal with those. What I couldn’t deal with is the fact that the main character is a self-centered, whiny, ungrateful bitch. There are really no redeeming qualities about her…and she hates everything. EVERYTHING. On top of the obnoxious main character (Hello, Twilight!) the plot is just…absurd. She becomes best friends with a movie star and her manuscript is going to be turned into a movie. Are you kidding me with this?
You should buy this if: You liked Twilight. A lot.
You should avoid this if: (insert snarky comment about liking good literature, being over the age of 14, etc here)

Ishmael Beah, Fictionalized Memoirs and "A Long Way Gone"

2010-03-23T14:21:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I finished reading Ishmael Beah’s memoir A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier. Not often am I so troubled by a story that I have to put it down and take a breather mid-novel, but with this one I found it necessary.

Beah recounts his life from age 12, when he and some friends were traveling to a nearby village so they could perform in a talent show. While they were away a rebel army attacked their home village and killed or scattered most of the residents – including their families.

Allow me to pause here and say that one of the most disturbing – but refreshingly unique – aspects of Beah’s story is that he is able to tell it through his twelve-year-old eyes instead of through an adult’s eyes trying to remember what it means to be twelve. Because of this, his story is more compelling and more personal to the reader. You feel like you’re walking hand-in-hand with an adolescent through his journey.

The most intriguing aspect to this is that Beah is able to recapture his youthful ignorance and naïveté. Because young Ishmael thinks of the war as being something distant that had no effect on him (such is the folly of the youthful mind – only that which is close to you is relevant or impactful). When there rebels come, therefore, it is a hundred times more confusing and impactful. Bloody scenes are more nauseating and horrifying.

Ishmael and his friends had to travel alone (alone meaning without an adult) through the warring country trying to find refuge, food and safety. Eventually, Beah ends up at a camp for the government’s army that seems to be safe for him and the friend or two who were still with him. As the rebel army drew closer to the camp, all boys over the age of six were recruiting into becoming soldiers. They were trained how to use a gun, given a lot of drugs, and sent out to fight.

In his own words: "I raised my gun and pulled the trigger, and I killed a man. Suddenly, as if someone was shooting them inside my brain, all the massacres I had seen since the day I was touched by war began flashing in my head. Every time I stopped shooting to change magazines and saw my two young lifeless friends, I angrily pointed my gun into the swamp and killed more people."

The trials Beah went through are horrendous and I’d rather not give a detailed account of them so that future readers can read and understand for themselves.

I do want to point out what makes this book so remarkable: as a first person account, it illustrates exactly what “sitting duck” victims children are, how easy it is brainwash children into becoming soldiers and how difficult it is to rehabilitate them (even though it is possible).

A lot of flack has come about due to supposed inaccuracies in his memoir. An Australian paper in particular has called into question the validity of most of Beah’s memoir – citing that it’s extremely unlikely for all that he experienced to happen to one child; that he has his dates long and he couldn’t be a soldier as long as he claimed; blah etc blah. Beah – and his publisher – have since decried the reporters who question his memoir.

Like James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces some people have been particularly offended by any possibility that his story might contain anything less than 100% accurate. In Beah’s defense, he was particularly hard hit in 2007 since that was the same year that the validity of a couple of memoirs came into question.

Here’s my problem with this militant questioning of Beah’s possible inaccuracies: (1.) he was a child (2.) he was hopped up on drugs half the time (3.) regardless of whether every aspect of the story is true, he was severely traumatized because of it.

When I recall my own childhood the memories are blurry. Things I would swear happened up and down (5 nights a week at a dog training facility where my mother taught obedience classes and with that, five nights a week of fast food) my mother laughs off and tells me didn’t happen as often as I think. Or the severity of a particular memory wasn’t as bad as I thought. Or – now, in my adulthood – I realize that what seemed like an overwhelmingly catastrophic event was blown out of proportion by my sensitive, emotional, adolescent brain. I would be hard-pressed to remember enough of my childhood to write an entire memoir on it. Memories which are not recalled because they were a part of the routine of my childhood (Nick at Night on TV, a night or two during the week at the dog training centers, etc) are only fleeting – a scent here, an image there.

For the reasons I mentioned above, I don’t discredit Beah’s memoir. It is certainly within the realm of possibility that things he’d thought happened didn’t or – more likely – happened to someone else and in a traumatized, drug-driven haze he incorporated it into his own memory. Such is the brain of the child. If there are inaccuracies, I certainly don’t believe them to be intentional or malicious in nature.

Even if Beah knowingly fabricated stories or stole stories from other people’s lives, it reflects more poorly of our culture than it does him. His memoir shot up on bestseller lists because of the gore and detail and horror. Barring that, it probably would have been ignored as sub-par or dull. We, as a culture, need shock and awe to grab our attention. We needed the horror of James Frey’s fictionalized autobiography to give the layman, the Oprah’s book club crowd, a deeper understanding – and more empathetic understanding – of rehab and addicts.

Sad and pathetic, to be sure, but true.

Because of this book a new awareness about the plight of child soldiers was brought to the UN—and a new sense of urgency. Sierra Leone was once again atop our social awareness radar (if only for a few months). The story itself, though, resides within us and allows to be able to regard the images of poor black children in refugee camps in Africa (which we watch on plasma TVs in our luxurious homes) with, perhaps, just a little less apathy.

And isn’t that something?

Thoughts on "The Other Woman"

2010-03-11T16:32:00.000-08:00

I’m a fan of the website The Frisky. It’s a guilty pleasure, satisfying my need for information on fashion, relationships, sex, and miscellaneous girly things. As a general rule, the writers are fun – mixing in a good bit of humor and sass with the writing so that it’s not so blahblahgirlystuffblah. Today, an article was published entitled Girl Talk: I slept with your husband. Here’s why. Essentially, the article describes a one-night stand with a married man whom the author met at a bar. She saw the ring on his finger, knew he was married, and went for it anyway. She flirted with him, he flirted with her. They had dirty sex.

The end of the article sums up as follows: “So, why did I do it? Because he was there. It was my own private power trip, and he was my accessory. I slept with your husband for one reason: because I could. I’ll take my karmic lumps as they come to me.”

The tone of the article can come off as a little snooty or smug, and I understand that. What I appreciate is that the author doesn’t try to find excuses for her actions. “I was emotional!” “I had a hard day!” “It was a moment of weakness!” “I was so drunk!”

Look, I’ve been drunk and made piss-poor decisions. I’ve also been drunk and been weak and vulnerable and out of a bad relationship. It doesn’t excuse my decisions. Drunk or not, I made them. I take ownership for them. No matter what someone tells you about how drunk they are, unless they’ve been roofied, are passed out, or a drunk beyond they ability to say yes or no (and regardless of whether they remember their decisions the next day) people are always capable of thought and making a decision.

But that’s what I appreciate most about the author. She owns her actions. And she’s absolutely blunt in a way that few people ever are when she has sex with a married man: She wanted it. So she had it.

Why does it have to be more complicated than that?

Literally within minutes of the article being published the barrage of comments started. None of them good:

Oh hell yeah karma is coming for your ass. That’s really slimey. I’m kind of pissed even though I’m divorced now, but damn you could be the heifer that slept with my ex husband. Hope you don’t plan on getting married because karma says that some heifer will sleep with yours too.

It’s hard to believe people can be this evil.

. . because I’m a loser with no self-esteem, and screwing your husband was easier accomplishing something I could be proud of on my own account. This is like saying you’re proud you got a 400 on the SAT, which they give you just for signing your name.

It reeks of self-sabotage, but it’s packaged as cruelty toward the wife. I don’t feel like my worldview has been widened at all—what exactly was the point of this post?

You, author, are one of many whores, but my husband is my only husband. It’s true that he took the vows, but common decency should have kept you from participating. Also, you slept with him because you could? Then, were we to meet, I would deck you in the face. Because I can.

I will never understand this mentality. What makes a person so damaged that basic human empathy is beyond them? Is it being so narcissistic that you have come to believe everyone else are just dolls without feelings that you can play with and throw away? Is it a complete lack of self esteem that you believe you are not a decent person so there is no reason for you to act like one?

as long as there are skanks in the world like you, this guy is going to find them. It’s almost laughable how you think you’re so special that you’d be the only one. Get some class

“Skank” is indeed an ideal word for this situation. “Slut” and “Cheap whore” also come to mind, as do “Stupid” and “Immoral.”

Look, I would never sleep with a married man. (I have slept with men who have been waiting for a divorce to finalize. Papers filed, living separately, etc. That’s for another different story, though.)My father cheated on my mother twice before he divorced her and married his second affair. I saw the wreckage left behind. Hell, I was the wreckage left behind.

But here’s what bothers me: What’s with the “other woman” blameyness? She is not the cheater. The husband is the cheater. She has no moral vows to keep…how is this any different for her than any other female having casual sex or a one night stand?

A lot of romantic emphasis gets put on the word “marriage.” People ascribe to it this mystical quality and – when the mysticism is questioned by the trivialities of reality – people get incredibly defensive (as you can see above). The truth is that marriage is mundane. It’s a contract between two people to combine assets. Sure, there’s a lot of lovey stuff thrown in to wedding ceremonies – but really, you’re sharing assets and agreeing to work as a partnership. Romances and flowers and all that crap? Not a part of the marriage.

It get’s taken for granted that men can and will cheat and the women they cheat with are supposed to be doe-eyed ingénues who are only forgivable because they “didn’t know” he was married, or they’re immediately labeled heartless evil skanks. This response is grossly unfair to men in general. They’re not all walking automatons of testosterone who have to be treated like toddlers and protected. They are people. They are women with penises. (Uh…sorta.) So all of the ability that women have to think and mull over what is right and wrong, what are the consequences of certain actions, etc… They have those abilities, too! You don’t have the right to expect that if you let him run wild at a party that all the adult women are watching over him with a keen eye and helping take care of him. No one is giving him a cookie and patting him on the head unless they're... well, you know... giving him "the cookie."

And, for those doe-eyed ingénues of you out there, allow me to tell you a little secret: Men have sex. And they LIKE sex. And usually, no matter how much sex they get, they’d probably also like more sex. But as much as we joke about how their penis keeps all the blood from their brain and prevents it from working, it’s simply not true…and it’s very condescending to believe it may be and that they aren’t responsible for their actions when it comes to sex.

The author of this article raises an excellent point and the responses only strengthen it: we are quick to vilify the “other woman” and ascribe to her all sorts of unseemly traits… Clearly she must have seduced this poor young man away from his sweet, pure wife! Surely some of the blame rests on her! The truth is that a night of casual sex is easy and mundane. A man cheating on his wife is mundane. The author - Penelope - didn’t have to “seduce” the man. He was available and ready for extramarital sex. She was simply the person he had it with. Had the man not wanted the sex and / or had something not been lacking in him and his relationship, he would not have cheated. He probably would have had be heavily seduced – roofies, booze, flashes of breast, you name it.

Here’s the other thing about Penelope: She – like the gender I described above – also likes sex. And she is comfortable enough with her sexuality and herself to have sex with a stranger and not immediately regret it the next day… or to feel shameful during an “abstinence-only” education era where a LOT of shame is ascribed to sex. Good for her, I say. Have sex. Safely, of course, but have sex.

This seems to make a lot of women uncomfortable. Many of the comments reflect an assumption that because she’s having sex with a stranger – and a married man at that – that she’s somehow off her rocker. She has intimacy issues, she needs to see a therapist, she has low self-esteem, she doesn’t see herself as worthy, blah blah blah. Of all the animals out there, humans are the only one to ascribe significant emotions to sexual intercourse. For all other mammals it’s just sex (though, arguably, some species seem to have sex for pleasure). We are the only species that ascribes a (I’m going to use the word again) mystical importance to sex – and females, specifically, seem to find it significantly more important than men. (Generally, of course, not in all cases.) I argue that this is not specific to our “nature” but rather an entirely cultural construct, drilled into us from the time we are babies—that men and women are raised to have different approaches to the importance and significance. The thought, therefore, that a perfectly sane, emotionally healthy woman could have sex with a stranger (who is married) and enjoy it seems perverse, sociopathic, etc.

This seems to prompt the whole idiotic question of whether “women can have sex like guys”—essentially that women can have sex without emotional commitments. The very nature of the question to me is absurd. Sex only carries the importance that a person allocates to it, regardless of gender. If you don’t think it’s some magical thing full off oohs and aahs and symphonies played by angels, then, yes – absolutely you can have sex purely for pleasure no matter what the gender. In fact, I might say that it’s healthier to herald this attitude. Sex is great! And research suggests that the more you have the healthier you might be. With such high expectations put on such a mundane (there’s that word again!) act, we are inevitably going to have a more difficult time enjoying it, and enjoying it without feeling guilty.

When our inner fantasies and romanticisms are questioned we take it personally and offensively. We immediately go into attack mode. In some ways “love” and “marriage” remain the only “Santa Clause” ideals that we get to carry into adulthood. It carries the air of magic around it – somehow ethereal, slightly incomprehensible, but always desirable. I can understand why people would want to go after the author for it – especially because she’s a woman and by highlighting the banality of the situation she’s challenged our fantasy. She’s challenged a fantasy most women are afraid to challenge because it seems like a betrayal of our gender. It makes people squirm, and – somewhere deep down – it’s making married women wonder about their men and ask the question, “If it’s that easy could he possibly…?”

No matter the situation, it’s time we stop blaming the “other woman/man.” Yes, there is a definite skeez factor in sleeping with someone in a commited relationship, but they don’t have any reason to respect our relationships – especially if we or our partners aren’t. Blaming the other person is only a way of deflecting the blame fully from our partner, where it really belongs. I'm not saying that it's great for people to completely disregard the boundaries of marriage that some people hold dear (again, there's a skeez factor) - but if your partner truly values it, there will never be a question of whether he/she cheats.

It is also WAY PAST TIME to stop referring to women who have sex and enjoy sex indiscriminately as skanks, hoes, etc.

In this case I actually applaud the author – not for her snooty tone, if indeed she has one – but for her total honesty and willingness to take on the onslaught of insults. It’s not an easy thing to read, but it is good to finally hear “the other side” of the situation with no holding back and no apologies.

ah, so.

2010-03-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity), covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But, it is never gone. "

-Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy

Thanks.

2010-02-26T22:57:00.000-08:00

We had an after-work gathering yesterday. One of my coworkers brings his daughter. She has chipmunk cheeks and big blue eyes and she's at that hilarious age where she's kind of talking and is totally goofy. I play with her for a little while and then move back to the other end of the table.

Coworker - You need one of those.

Me - Oh, no. They're great in twenty minute increments but, you know, after that... heh.

Coworker - Yeah, you'd have to have a man for that anyway.

Me - Um, yeah that would be necessary. (Looks around awkwardly.)

Coworker - So how's that going? You get yourself a boyfriend yet?

Me - Uh... no...

Coworker - Just keep striking out, huh?

Me - Yeah... um... I guess so. heh.

Same coworker who had suggested I might be a lesbian.

*sigh*

I've never cared about being single before, but at this rate I think he's giving me a complex.

I'm On To You, Nicholas Sparks. Love Story, My Ass.

2010-02-08T14:21:00.000-08:00

Riddle me this: What male has successfully tapped into female buying power with over-the-top, disgustingly adolescent love-dovey drivel of books?

Oh, that’s right. Nicholas Sparks.

Once again, a movie based on a crappy Nicholas Sparks book has experienced great success in the box office.

This time, the book is Dear John and it was turned into a movie starring Amanda Seyfried and Channing Tatum. It broke Avatar’s hold on the box office, blah blah blah.

(I’m going to skip the social commentary about how pathetic it is that something like Dear John is the only flick that surpass something equally stupid like Avatar. We’ll save that for another day, folks.)

I’ve read a few of Nicholas Sparks’ books. Once or twice was unintentional (before I knew who he was and the extent of his writing) and another time the book was foisted upon me. “Oh, you didn’t like the movie? Well, you’ll just love the book!” (I didn’t, by the way.)

The books, by the way, are laughingly adolescent. The writing itself isn’t good enough to ignore the ridiculous “plot” and it’s so disgustingly diabetic that I’ve always felt paralyzed in a sugar coma by the end.

And yet, this shit sells.

I’m not going to see the movie, so I’m sure you’re wondering how I could even attempt to review this new movie / book. I’m going to share a big secret with you: ALL HIS BOOKS ARE THE SAME.

All you have to do is play a game of ad-libs:

(Girl name) and (Boy name) meet under star-crossed circumstances. Because of (insert hokey reason) they cannot be together. Even though they can’t be together because of (reason) they still find themselves falling in love under unlikely circumstances. When they finally seem like they’re going to be together and everything will end happily-ever-after (insert tragic event or death of one of the main characters). End of story.

Kleenex is purchased in bulk, tears flow, middle-aged women sniffle their way out of the theater. It’s all very tragic and Romeo and Juliet. It’s also the plot for: Message in a Bottle, A Walk to Remember, The Notebook, Nights in Rodanthe, etc etc etc.

I’d really like to talk about how much I hate the purple-prosed Sparks. About how crappy his books are and how dumb the people are who don’t read one or two and leave it at that but who read ALL of them and think they’re actually good literature. (Again, there’s a difference between good, entertaining and emotional porn.)

I’m not going to, though.

You see Mr. Sparks: I’m on to you. I know the truth.

The truth is that every one of your books is satire. In fact, this is the biggest joke on us all because you wrote the dumbest books you could think of and based them all on the exact same premise and filled them with clichés and MADE MILLIONS. Oh, I’m on to you, all right. I just know that one of these days, once you’ve made enough money that you can buy a continent and live happily with an endless supply of women and booze and meaningful literature you’re going to come out with a Hunter S. Thompson-esque autobiography in which you tell the greatest story ever: how you duped everyone into believing you were serious about this shit. How you didn’t even have to *write* these books – you just created an algorithm that filled in blanks for you. And how – through the formulaic creations of a computer algorithm, you exploited women’s emotions and turned those tears into dollar signs.

I get you, Mr. Sparks. I’m just waiting. I won’t even tell anyone your secret. All I ask in return is…

My own country on your continent. One with a really good beach. I’ve always thought I’d be a rather good dictator, after all. FYI - I think Australia might be within your budget. Lots of beach and surfing and hot boys with cute accents and adorable animals.

Let me know. I’ll be waiting by the phone.

Rabble Rabble! Reflections on "The Invention of Lying"

2010-02-03T13:20:00.001-08:00

My opinion on most of what Hollywood vomits up and calls a film is pretty obvious from a previous post. Sadly, Hollywood’s biggest productions are a reflection of what a majority of our culture actually wants: crappy, easy, overdone, no-thought-necessary shiny things with lots of special effects (I’m looking at you, Avatar).

Everyone once in a while, indie gems make it big and eye-opening documentaries get some press. Even more rarely, every once in a half while do big studios take a risk and put out a movie that’s gonna be good but will be bound to get some angry rabble-ing from the masses.

Enter: The Invention of Lying.

I watched it last night with two of the three uncles, one of whom was laughing himself teary.

Here’s the premise: Ricky Gervais’ character exists in a world where there is no lying. In fact, the very concept of something not being true doesn’t exist. People tell the truth all.the.time. Even when it’s best to keep the mouth shut. There are no little white lies, no fudging of the truth, not even fictional books. Blah blah blah, you get the point.

Gervais – every so sly and wry – wrote a pearl of a comedy with this, largely by doing what he does best: setting up awkward situations and letting them play out to the full extent of their hilarity.

Example: Gervais (a sad, fat, general “loser”) goes to pick up Jennifer Garner’s character for a date.
Garner: Hi. You're early. I was just masturbating.
Gervais: Well, that makes me think of your vagina.

Example: A motel sign reads: A Cheap Motel for Intercourse With a New Stranger.

You get the picture.

Eventually, Gervais successfully tells the world’s first lie and discovers that he can continue to do it to his benefit. Example: He can say that the bank owes him one million dollars and they’d just hand it to him, because no one can conceive that that would be untrue.

Now that the premise of the movie is set up, enter the complication. Gervais’ mother is dying in the hospital. She’s scared and crying because she’s just going to die and become eternal nothingness (or something of that nature). Gervais, out of sympathy for his mother, tells her that when she dies there is not, in fact, eternal nothingness. When she dies she will get a big mansion and everything she could want and that all the people she loves will be there. (Yes, you see where this is going.) She dies. Doctors and nurses hear him and are baffled – they want to hear everything they can about this place in the sky and how he knows it.

Gervais goes home that evening only to have thousands of people show up outside his apartment building and wait for him to come out and tell him more about what happens when they die.

Reluctantly, Gervais ends up writing a series of facts which, he says, “The Man in the Sky” has told him. They’re taped to the back of Pizza Hut boxes and he presents it to the people from the stoop of the apartment building. Yes, he gives a sermon on the mount. One that smells like pepperoni.

The Man in the Sky controls everything. He causes all good things to happen. Oh, and all bad things. “Well….he sounds like a prick!” observes one audience member.

You see why people in the real world are Rabble-ing.

For a funny film it carries a lot of heavy messages: what happens when we never question anything we’re told, is lying ever okay, is it better to accept / know the truth or to accept a comforting lie, etc. It is, however, fully of brilliant one-liners delivered by a hodgepodge of famous actors in various cameos (as well as Gervais, who is the king of them all).

The movie prompts laughter, indeed, but it’s not just purely comedic, funny-ha-ha laughter. It’s humor caused by looking into the face of reality. Real situations we’ve been in. Real people we’ve met. Real truths. Gervais presents a black mirror of ourselves that would make us weep if he didn’t do it while gently chucking us under the chin and saying, “Even in the darkest situations is humor.”

Gervais – an open atheist – certainly presented a thoughtful (and realistic) side of religion that most shy away from openly portraying. Though critiques of the movie are rife with rabble-ing religious masses (Christian fundamentalists, most loudly), these people seem to miss the point. Gervais may be critically eyeing religion, but he’s also gentle and compassionate towards the followers.

After all, it certainly MUST be comforting to think that after lives of grief and tribulations something wonderful awaits us at the other side of the rainbow. Gervais acknowledges that we have a need to believe that we struggle to be good and with it a reward comes…though he is clearly critical of those who struggle to be good FOR the reward.

It’s easy to get into technical or evolutionary terms like “reciprocal altruism” and “evolutionary psychology” when we discuss what it means to be good and why we are. Gervais keeps it simple with the premise that you should be good…just to be good. And being good is common sense. Rape, murder, bad. Love, kindness, good. Wearing jeans – benign and irrelevant.

The Invention of Lying isn’t without its flaws. It’s Gervais’ first attempt at directing and a couple time-passing montages exist where a more seasoned director would’ve eliminated them; a romantic plot is involved and ends (lamely) in typical happily-ever-after fashion; the film has it’s “too obvious” moments and somewhere in the last third of the movie the plot starts faltering. From a critical cinematic standpoint, it certainly isn’t an A+. From a comedy-that-makes-you-think standpoint it wins all the way.

Overall, I recommend it highly. If you’re a non-theist, you’ll probably love it. If you’re a serious film critic, you’ll find it average. If you’re religious and unable to joke or recognize absurdities in your own logic, you’ll hate it.

(Though, frankly, that only makes me love it more.)

As much uncle said towards the end of the movie: “This is so simple and brilliant! Why the fuck didn’t I think of it first?”

People I Have Nothing in Common With

2010-02-01T15:12:00.001-08:00

After much thought, I have come up with a comprehensive list of people I have little to nothing in common with.

People who actually care about the ins and outs of celebrity lives.
People who like Ashton Kutcher.
pEoPlE wHo wRiTe lIkE tOdDlErS oN cRaCk.
People who write “Do magazines count?” under their “Favorite Books” section on Facebook. (And no, no they don’t.)
People who think “good literature” includes Jodi Picoult / Emily Griffin / crappy sappy romance novels and / or the Twilight series and / or Paolo Coehlo’s The Achemist and/or Hosseini’s The Kite Runner. (Side note: there is a difference between “entertaining” and “good.”)
Nicholas Sparks (and his fans).
Blondes who wear excessive black eye make-up (frequently and during the day).
Men who think sayings like, “You have two choices with women: you can be right or you can be happy” are actually witty or meaningful.
People who say “I’m not a feminist, but…”
People who watch (and like) The Hills / Jersey Shore / Gossip Girl / The OC / etc.
People who use (with total seriousness) words phrases like: whatevs, besties, totes, chillax, “ is what’s up, so fabulous, peeps, “props to.___”, “my fave..” etc.
People who were in fraternities / sororities in college and - more than three years later (I’m being generous) – STILL talk about it like it’s THE.BEST.THING.EVER!!!!111!!1!
People who (seriously) don’t understand the differences between their/there/they’re and your/you’re and its/it’s.
People who attention whore on “social networking sites.” Shutthefuckupalready. Jesus.
Hipsters. Take that fucking plaid shirt off, asshole.
People who wear Ed Hardy.
People who watch and are invested in reality shows like The Bachelor, American Idol and Survivor. (I know there are others, I just can’t think of them.)
Anyone who still thinks MTV is cool or relevant.
People who think pets are accessories.
People who think pets are disposable the minute they become inconvenient.
Self-righteous foodies / vegetarians / vegans / organic-only eaters / etc.
PETA. Not only are they douchebags but they’re hypocrites, too!
People who can’t laugh at themselves.

A Penis for Your Thoughts? (On Sexuality Stereotyping)

2010-01-18T16:16:00.000-08:00

It happened on Friday.

I’ve rather been expecting it to happen while fervently hoping it wouldn’t.

I was in Cowork 1's office with Coworkers 2 & 3. We were sitting around chatting and drinking beer as is the Friday tradition. I can’t recall the conversation that even led to this, other than it had some joke to do with me and men. Coworker 1 pipes up with this: “Hey, you shouldn’t say that. Maybe Marisa is one of those ‘alternative lifestyle’ kind of people, what with the tattoos and piercings and everything.”

My response? “Fuck you.”

Our 2's response: “If it was anyone but Marisa I’d be worried about the fact that you said that.”

Me (again to 1): “Fuck you.”

I work for a homebuilder, which squarely puts me in the construction industry. I’m in purchasing so – fortunately for me since I am woefully unknowledgeable in the construction field – most of my work is done only from the office. Negotiations, writing contracts, maintaining vendor files, etc. Though I have the (*cough*) “luxury” of office work, I work with construction people all day long. Coworker 1. Our development people. My direct boss. The jobsite superintendents and our vendors. Menfolks.

If I’m not 100% “tough” all the time or show any sign of girly weakness, I will get my ass run over. I will be belittled and talked down to (even if unintentionally). I will be taken advantage of. I will be ignored. I won’t be taken seriously.

Though in other industries/professions having a soft heart or being a “sweetie” may be a benefit, this is not one of them. Not when you’re 23, female, working in a male-dominated profession with men who are the same age as your father. Though several (my immediate boss included) are very cool and respectful and fun, others are your typical chest-pounding gorillas constantly trying to prove who the alpha male is by flinging the most poo.

I’m friends with the other ladies in their twenties in the office and we grin and giggle and chat boys and fashion and other stereotypical feminine whathaveyous during lunch and after work…but none of the people I immediately work with have vaginas.

Allow me to also say this: I don’t beat around the office in ill-fitting clothes and Birkenstocks. I’m not flashing rainbows all over. I wear heels daily (what? I love them), make-up, matching jewelry, blah blah blah. So I may be in the process of cussing you out for being a dick, but I’m doing it through Mac lipgloss-coated lips. Point? I don’t even fit into an appearance-oriented stereotype.

I love gay people…. As much as I love straight people. (Since I dislike people generally, this probably doesn’t mean a whole lot but, you know, I’m equal opportunity and all that shit.) I don’t care who you’re sleeping with if it’s with an adult and consensual. (Unless I’m sleeping with him—then we have a problem.) I have family and friends who are straight and gay and frankly – whatever.

So, it’s not the fact that he suggested that I’m lesbian which bothers me.

What bothers me is the foundation upon which his assumption is based.

Yet again, ignorance rules the day. Strong female with no boyfriend = lesbian. Don’t talk about how much you want to get married and have kids = lesbian. Outspoken female = lesbian. Smart female = lesbian, unless you’re really shy and mousy.

Hillary Clinton and Condi Rice are both strong women (who are even in heterosexual relationships) and are still constantly referred to as dykes, etc.

Sexuality stereotyping continues well into the new millennium.

This is great fodder for comedians. I’m not PC (fuck that, it's boring) and thoroughly enjoy raunchy comedians who use all stereotypes and all people and all topics as fair game (like this guy: http://www.nathantimmel.com/). Hilarity abounds.

The problem is that in our every day life we continue to use these stereotypes in negative lights rather than keeping it to comedy. Having characteristics that are commonly attributed to one gender when you are the opposite gender is seen as a bad thing.

I’m a girl and I’m not going to take shit from you so I’m a lesbian. You’re a man and not emotionally unavailable so you’re queer. You read Cosmo and talk about wanting babies and obviously you're straight. You talk trucks and chug beer and wear flannel - straight boy, all right.

God forbid that any of these lines blur, right?

I’m a strong female and I love the penis (especially when they’re attached to even stronger men) but I don’t want to have one. I don’t have a need to flaunt this around all day with oft-described feminine apologetic of strong women, nor would I have a need to flaunt it if I had a grand preference for vagina. I like what I like. I don’t what I don’t.

Making assumptions about people’s relationships preferences based on the limited amount of things you know about them is asinine. It’s even more asinine when it’s predicated upon dated stereotypes.

In conclusion: Screw you guys; I’m going home.

Paris Diaries Parts 9-Fin (hon hon hon!)

2010-01-13T18:28:00.000-08:00

(Repost from June 2007)

Paris Diaries, Ch.9 - La fete de la musique!

The trains were unusually crowded on the trip back from the suburbs where we worked (Levallois-Perret) to the heart of Paris. The metro and train rides in the evening are usually less crowded than the mornings, but not today—we were being pickled in our own sweat by all the body heat.

It was June 21st, the first day of summer and therefore the day of "La fete de la musique." We had heard that La Fete de la Musique is a "big deal" in Paris, and I was amazed at the sheer number of announced concerts going on when I did a little online research, but I had no idea how big this thing actually was. We got back to the apartment, had a quick dinner and talked about plans for the night. We'd bought a few bottles of wine earlier, intending to head up to Sacre Coeur with the rest of the drunkards…eh…I mean Paris….

Seven o’clock and music drifted in through the window. We threw water and wine in the backpack and were out the door. Indeed, directly opposite the street from our apartment was a band playing.

All of Paris had turned into one massive party. At nearly EVERY street corner was a band, a choir, and individual singer, a performance group, etc. The streets were crowded, of course, but no one minded. The musical variety ranged from classic to jazz to pop to Latin to infinity…

Happily bouncing through the streets (okay I bounced forward, then back to Rebecca who hadn't caught up, then forward again) we stopped to hear any musicians who interested us. There were of course, some more talented individuals. One elderly gentleman (he was probably around 80) put on a shirt that said "Papy Dance," turned his hat sideways, and would hit the play button to his boombox, at which point he busted a move. Yeah, I totally just said that with a straight face.

Ambling down Rue de Rivoli, we encountered some Brazilian guys doing some sort of weird tribal-looking martial arts thing. It essentially involved two guys alternating spinning kicks over the other's head. If they went out of turn, one of them was getting a busted jaw. I pulled out a camera—and the guy banging a drum held out a tambourine for change. As I threw some in, he informed me that I had a very pretty mouth…..which was about the time that I got pulled out into their group to be held and kissed and hugged by at least two of them, while Rebecca gleefully took pictures. One of them kept saying, "We look good together, we look good together, we'll make pretty babies," in lightly-accented French. I was busy thinking, "Non, non, non," but as one of them was at that moment holding my leg above my head, and the other was capable of breaking my neck with his pinkie, I didn't argue much. These were some big bad dudes. Before leaving (or escaping?), one of them scribbled his name, email, and number on a piece of paper, stole a kiss on the lips (the cheeks were kissed away at that point, I assure you) and told me that I needed to call him and he would show me how to "Do what they do." Or….not, but I appreciate the offer.

We pushed through crowds down to Notre Dame, where the crowd thinned out some. There were two groups performing. One was a group of urban looking kids doing some street-dancing. They were very hardcore, because, well, how can you NOT be hardcore in a country where you live with your parents until you're 30 or marry? Apparently they were very good to the French locals, who seemed quite amused. I was disappointed, because at any given night at a club in the US you can see better dancing than that, but this is France, and they aren't force-fed hip hop and pop culture since they're born, either. The other performers were from a dance or aerobic studio and they were doing—I kid you not—some sort of modernized African dancing. Meanwhile, there was only one African and he was hitting the drum—the rest sort of resembled the Mickey Mouse Club, particularly with their big dopey grins. (Ahhh, Paris!)

Later walking proved that St Michel and the Latin Quarter were unreasonably crowded, so we struggled to a metro station and made the final trip to Sacre Coeur. Even on the way up the steps to Sacre Coeur Music played. By then it was getting dark, and in contrast to the dimming blue surroundings performers were lit up in a warm yellow glow. Staking our places on the steps, we popped open the bottles of super cheap wine (although mine was a Nantais rosé and the label assured me that even at less than 2€ it was of superior quality) and wished that the wind would die down some (it didn't because it never does in Paris, but it turns out if you drink enough wine you stop noticing).

It wasn't long before Rebecca and I found ourselves between two gentleman admirers. (This is not bragging. This is Paris. If you have breasts, it will happen. Period.) Fortunately for me, Rebecca's was the more persistent (mine was polite, and good for conversation), but she didn't mind the company. After the obligatory where-are-you-from, I was well aware that my new companion was a fudger of the truth. He claimed to be Parisian all the way, but his rolling of the Rs proved otherwise (and his friend looked more Italian, anyway). Not that it made a difference—he was interested, I wasn't, and when I heard some kids my age speaking English behind me. I hopped up the steps and worked my way into the Anglo-Saxon circle, apologized for my rude behavior, and explained that I was just escaping an unwanted admirer. They didn't mind—they were Polish and very friendly. None of them spoke French, but they all spoke English flawlessly. There were three of them. The girl explained that her boyfriend, Alexandre, had come to visit her in Paris where she was working, and brought along his friend Aleksei for company. I immediately adored them and their smiling, inviting, fresh-scrubbed faces and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening talking and laughing with them. Passing around cheap bottles of wine and champagne, we talked about cultural differences, what we liked in different countries, etc. At one point Aleksei and I were talking together, huddled to keep warm against the ridiculous wind, and he explained that, "He liked the French because they were always drinking wind and that make them happy. In Poland, everyone is angry because they're not drinking wine, they're drinking vodka." Not that he was knocking vodka, he added as an afterthought. At some point we ended up meeting another group from the University of Georgia (go figure) who were backpacking through Europe. The groups later left, and suddenly I realised that the majority of the party seemed to be over. Rebecca's admirer hadn't moved, and his companion was busy trying to convince her to go home with him (not gonna happen). After some kind of argument, they finally left. We were then trying to determine the best we to get back down the stairs of Sacre Coeur to hit the metro when we approached by two Italians (who rolled their Rs elaborately and without abandon) and were flirtatious, but not persuasive. After a lot of stumbling and drunken metro riding, we made our way back to the apartment and collapsed happily in our beds. An evening to remember, for sure (and a hangover the next day to never, ever repeat).

Paris Diaries Pt 10-- A Note on the Language

Hello, how are you?

It is an important rule of etiquette in French that you must spout bonjours like you are a sprinkler. Everyone in the office that you work with is allotted at least one bonjour the first time you see them. In my office in Alabama, we usually holler out a "Morning!" but that is far too informal for the ever serious French. In fact, if you learn to say "Bonjourcava" as one word (Bonjour, ca va = Hello, how are you?), you're even more French than if not. Literally, when you ask "ca va" you're asking how it's going. And therefore, to be French and indifferent, you don't typically answer "tres bien" (oh, you overly excitable American!), or even "bien" half the time. You respond with "ca va" (it goes) or a very solid "ouais" (Yes. As in yes, it's going, I'm busy.) French textbooks will tell you that you can say "comme ci, comme ca." This is supposed to mean "so-so," but if you say it, you will really look like you've only learned French out of American textbooks. No one says it. Frankly, they don't have time. They're French. It is also important to note that….. Even when dealing with salespeople, etc., you will always issue a greeting to them first. Issuing a greeting is a very good way to prove that you, in all of your uncivilized Americanness, are indeed attempting to be polite. (This doesn't apply to me, of course, no one here actually thinks I'm American….ahahah)

Coucou?

And on a final greeting note….when you get more comfortable with someone, you can coucou them. Well, if you write it in English, it's Coo Coo. People will indeed do this. You will hear it, and wonder why in the hell they've started talking like a bird. Are they about to bust out in the chicken dance? What in the hell is going on? Calm down, little Anglo-Saxon. You will be okay. They're saying hello. I don't know why or when this started, but the French do indeed coucou. Try to think of it as cute, and move on.

Kiss 'em good.

Greetings are always to be followed with faire-ing le bise. Or not. You will either do the French double-smack (one for each cheek, please) or provide a very firm handshake. Kisses are reserved for people you like more, know more, and work with more. Hand shakes are typically more for people you don't know as well, etc. I have a problem with the handshake—by which I mean, I have to force myself not to have a mock-serious expression every time I receive one, but so far I've held out. The double-kiss is, to provide an American equivalent, almost halfway between a hug and a handshake. There are benefits to this over the hug, for sure—with the bizarre American hug, one French pointed out, you get that incredibly obnoxious back-patting. Just make sure you don't LITERALLY kiss them. You make touch cheeks lightly, but you're kissing the air. Oh, oh....Unless they're tall, dark, and handsome. Then it is encouraged that you "accidentally" miss the air and kiss their cheek.

And when you leave….

You will never, ever sneak out of the office without a solid good-bye and letting them know when you'll see them next. (A demain, à jeudi, à lundi, etc.) Failing to "Au revoir" a sales person, baker, etc as you leave an establishment is unforgivably rude. I'm forbidden to cite my source here, but I have it on good ground that people have been killed for failing to properly use greetings.

Food

Bon appétit, bon appétit, bon appétit. Get used to this one - it took me a little bit to accept it because it seemed so cheesy. You will, however, say it before you eat to everyone you eat with, everyone who serves you food will say it as they're handing it to you, and everyone who happens to know or think that you're about to put something in your mouth will say it as well. You rarely see people walking around and eating randomly like in the US—food should be relished here (and trust me, damn near everything is worth relishing). But if you walk into a store eating a sandwich (barbarian!) the sales people will probably even offer you a bon appétit. (And probably a disdainful, sarcastic one.)

Merci

….Say it a lot. Even if it's not entirely necessary. You're thanking them for their patience and kindness in helping you with your French, in trying to understand your terrible accent and brutalization of their language. But when you say it, don't say "Mercy." You're not Elvis, I promise. It's MAYR-see. The R comes hard from the back of the throat. The C that sounds like an S is almost Sh-ed. Almost.

The Oh-la-la

Shockingly, Pepe le Pew has misled us. The oh-la-la is not even primarily used as a romantic or sexual line. In fact, rarely is it heard this way, unless it is a joke. It IS, however, important to use it. Probably a lot. When you use the oh-la-la, however, it is to be used as an indication of something wrong. Usually, the kind of wrong that irritates you or exhausts you. The kind of wrong that you have a little time to ponder over, because depending on the number of –las you use, you can indicate greater or less severity. Additionally, the tone of your voice should either get lower as you add –la –las, or it should be like a roller coaster: Oh-la-La-lA-LA-la-laaaaa. (The last laaa is always held.) In essence, it's a great way to whine without actually having to articulate the whine. And when this fails you, you always have….

Merde!

Stephen Clarke wrote an entire book dedicated to the Merde. It's English equivalent is "shit," and while it is used in exactly the same way, it doesn't have as strong of a "bad word" connotation as we barbaric Anglo-Saxons give it. (And oh, yes, no matter where your descendents hail from, you are indeed an Anglo-Saxon if you are a native English speaker…even if you're American.) To differentiate between the oh-la-la and the merde, time is a relative factor. You have paperwork that a customer filled out wrong? "Oh la la" and a big, long, exhausted, irritated sigh. You have paperwork that a customer filled out wrong but you need it now and he's already on the plane to North Korea? Merde! French can on occasion be a very creative language, and you can string this word together with a long line of other curse words, even. But you better make sure that the situation warrants the merding.

He Who Talks Loudest, Wins

On a final note…. The French argue. A lot. For whatever reason, they like playing the Devil's advocate as much as possible. (So do I, actually—maybe it's why I like 'em?) Even if they don't necessarily believe whatever is coming out of their mouth, something is coming out of their mouth, and thus they are satisfied. And when they argue, they argue loudly. It ends up sounding like a shouting match in my office here half the time. They interrupt one another, and the sound level rises steadily. The trick is to be the loudest without actually shouting. If you can get your voice just a little bit louder than the other persons, it's clear: You win. It may sound rude to Americans. It may sound like they're furious. Mostly, they just want to be heard. They're French. They have a lot to say.

Paris Diaries Pt 11 - Random Episodes

Random Scenes from Paris (All conversations translated from French to English)

Sacre Coeur, Fete de la Musique
I'm talking to some guy who came up and introduced himself. Rebecca and I are each flanked by an admirer. He's decent conversation, even if I'm completely uninterested, so I don't completely blow him off. "But in America," he's telling me, "You can't do anything without a lot of money. That's because of your capitalism." I nod, agree. "It's true—and frankly, for one of the most powerful countries in the world, we have a ridiculous number of people living below the poverty line." In front of us, the Latino performer changes songs, the group cheers, start dancing more. There's a warm orange glow coming from the location of the performer, in definite contrast to the dark blue hue the night has taken on. "Here we don't have that, because we have socialism." I don't disagree, but socialism has its limitations, as evidenced by the high unemployment rate in France. The night goes on. I start talking to someone else, come back, and find that as the party is dwindling, the gentleman admirers are a little more persistent in their intentions. I'm not surprised. Rebecca's involved in a conversation, and my admirer keeps asking me if I want to go for a walk. I tell him, point-blank, "I'm not leaving with you. You can probably go find another girl to talk to. There are lots of them here." He (poorly) acts surprised and offended. "No, no, I don't want to, I don't want to. You are the most beautiful girl here (yeah, right), and the most interesting (uh-huh), and the most serious." This is a compliment in France. To be serious. They were nice, but they went home alone, much to their disappointment.

Bar Close to Place des Vosges, Random Thursday Night

After wandering around the city, I decided I was ready for a drink and a little relaxing. I found a small bar that was set off the side of the street, playing jazz music. It looked clean on the inside, and relatively quiet, so I popped in. I wasn't disappointed when the bartender was gorgeous, with long-ish brown hair, a natural tan, tall, a typically definitive French nose, and bright grey eyes. "Un biere pression, s'il vous plait." He brought me the beer (draft beer in France beats the quality of American draft ten times over and is less expensive), and I settled into writing, reading, relaxing. I would stop, look up, people watch. The bar started to become crowded—with women. It was very quickly very clear why the bar was popular—the women in the neighbourhood were very well aware of the good looks of the bartender, and had no problem enjoying the view. Two girls sat in front of me, very clearly trying to subtly flirt with him. Women were coming in with boyfriends and watching the bartender more. I started to laugh silently, my mouth twisted up and shoulders shaking. Handsome bartender turned and looked at me inquisitively, half-smiling. "You laugh?" he asked. I nodded and he leaned closer. "Women really seem to like this bar." He flashed a quick grin. "And, uh, maybe it's why I like my job!" I didn't doubt it. He walked away to help another girl desperately in need of a beer, and the two girls in front of me gave me the evil eye since I broke the rules and—in all of my audacity—talked to the bartender (or got him to talk to me?). Catty is international. I didn't care. When I left he pressed my change very deliberately into my hands and wished me a good night. I didn't realize until I was a ways down the street that he had only charged me for two beers instead of three.

Rue St-Antoine / Rue de Rivoli, Random Evening

Dogs are popular in France, and the ones you see are well-cared for. (I actually haven't seen a stray yet.) I was startled the first day by how few people actually use leashes for their dogs, instead trusting that the pets will stay close to them (and they do). I'm wandering up the street towards the Bastille, watching an older golden retriever happily stroll along the sidewalk. Her owner, a good-looking guy in his late twenties, keeps turning around and looking at her with a bit of exasperation, calling her name. She responds with one wag and—I swear it—walking slower. The guy stops at the entryway to his apartment. As I'm walking past him, I glance at his happily ambling pooch and grin. He starts talking: "She does this every day! Every day I walk her, she goes slower, and she'll stop in front of the door and not move." I laughed, and the dog caught up with us and nuzzled my hand, earning a good petting. He looked at her with mock frustration. "Why do you do this to me, every day?" he asked her. I laughed, wished him a good evening, and kept walking. When I glanced back, the dog was sitting in front of the apartment door with her owner, having a stand-off.

Ile St Denis, Evening

It's around eight, but it's still very light out. The wind is blowing lightly, and on the other side of the bridge there's a man playing an instrument—it sounds very stereotypically Parisian, almost from the movie Amelie, but it's perfect for the evening. The water is glistening under the bridge and another tour boat passes through quietly. Steps lead down from the main traffic area of the island to the walkway closer to the water (the islands are all high above the water to keep the safe from flooding). Down along the walkway, groups are picnicking and enjoying the reprieve from the cold weather. I lean over, watch some of them. French picnics are not peanut butter sandwiches and coke drank from the can or a paper cup. They're elaborate affairs, complete with salads, baguettes, cheese, wine (drank from real wine glasses), and all sorts of other goodies. I amble over to Ile de la Cite, the larger island in the middle of the Seine that is home to Notre Dame. And there she is, Notre Dame, big and sturdy and comforting. Perhaps it's the large square in front of her that makes her seem so much bigger and reassuring, her age, or even the number of people who like to come and find a seat and relax here. The walk continues across to other side of the river to the Left Bank, where I stumble upon Shakespeare & Co bookstore, one of the few Anglophone bookstores in Paris, made famous by it's early 20th Century visitors (perhaps most famously, Hemingway). It's no Barnes and Noble, instead being small, cramped, and incredibly intimate. Books are everywhere and only loosely, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, piled on top of tables and into every possible corner, save the narrow creaky wooden floors where people can shuffle their way around in search of reading material. A black cat is snoozing deeply on top of a pile of philosophy (clearly trying to absorb Freud in his sleep). I pet him (he doesn't move, he's well-adjusted to visitors) and keep moving, eventually making my way back out of the store. I'm in the Latin Quarter, the sun is sinking a little lower in the sky, but the streets are still busy. One road leads me down past innumerable Greek restaurants, another past some knick-knack shops. "Excusez-moi, excusez-moi." The voice is insistent and male and I'm wishing I could duck into a crowd and disappear but, unfortunately, the owner of said voice catches up to me too quickly. He's a little taller than me, casual chic clothing, tanned skin, excellent physique. And pushy as hell. "What's your name?" Playing the I-don't-speak-French card never works—they all know enough English to chop it to pieces and force you back into French. He dances about conversation with me, but his French is accented enough to make some of the words run together oddly and it's hard to hear him anyway over the music and crowds and traffic. "You want to get a coffee with me? Eh? EH? No? Why not? Your friend can join us. A beer? No? You are walking? Where are you walking?" I'm not interested, and finally I got the point through by explaining that he was very nice, but I preferred to be alone. He left, and I kept on my walk, slowly ambling my way home but having a hard time returning to the apartment when the sun was just beginning to turn the horizon varying shades of pink.

Paris Diaries 12 - A Day in Champagne

We signed up for a tour of the Champagne region online. The smaller tour in English was booked, but the coordinator was very pleasant and offered us a discount if we joined the bus tour in French that he was giving for a group from the Banque de France (essentially equivalent to the Fed, in the US). We agreed, and so at seven on a Saturday morning we were trekking from the metro station to the Banque de France building. There was a gentleman who hailed us over towards him. He introduced himself as Gail—well dressed and pleasant, we talked some about our education in French, where we lived, what we were doing in Paris (they're always curious about these sort of things) and he told us about his US travels. The rest of the group and the bus finally arrived. There was a little under twenty people, including the actually tour guide, Trong (French, but of Asian descent). The ages varied, but most people were in their thirties, and in good spirits for a day dedicated to the happiest of drinks, champagne. We got on the bus, and Trong (who loved to talk, because he did it over the bus speaker the entire two and a half hour trip to the Reims area) introduced himself, pointed out the two Americans whom he told everyone to feel free to speak with in English or in French, as they preferred. Twenty minutes of navigating through traffic on narrow Parisian streets in a huge tour bus, and we were out of Paris and into the country. Suddenly France was before us presenting herself as an entirely different creature than the France we knew in Paris. It could have been the country in Alabama or Germany if you ignored the signs in French—hills sloping into other hills, patchworks of grains and fruits and vegetables, the occasional small town tucked into a valley in the distance. It was significantly more serene, and actually nice to be able to see farther in the distance than the building in front of you. We passed Reims and the bus shuffled its way through a tiny town that had a population of less than a thousand. Up, up, up the hill. Trong was giving us all sorts of information about the Champagne region, the town, the different Champagne brands (and in this one little town, we did indeed pass at least 5 different wineries, small though they may have been), and were in the process of driving up to a vineyard. We get out of a bus, and grapevines abound, heading down hills in neat rows. A woman greets us—she has dressed nicely (she was clearly more comfortable in work clothes) and has the short, stocky, sturdy country look to her. She was warm and inviting. It was her and her husband's vineyard (the champagne, of course, being named after them). She walks us up the hill, explaining the types of grapes used, the process of growing them, and all sorts of things (half of which I didn't hear because her voice was drowned out by the icy wind). Freezing and muddy, we got back up on the bus and were shuttled over to the actual wine cellar. What we didn't realize was that the cellar would be actually at her own home. The husband greeted us when we arrived, and we made our way down treacherous stairs to the cellar. The walls were carved from the natural chalk in the Reims area—the chalk actually helps keeps the temperature cool and stabilized in the cellar, so that the champagne can be a higher quality. We were then invited into her home, all 20 or so of us spreading out in her dining room where we sampled their champagne (very good, by the way) and traditional Reims cookies. The dining home was relatively spacious (but not large) and decorated in simple country kitsch. It gave us the opportunity to relax, talk to one another, and speak a little with the owners. Trong, afraid that we didn't understand everything about the process, translated some of it into English, which did aid in some of the technical terms. He also was insistent in making us memorize what most Americans fail to realize--Il n'y a que champagne de champagne!!! (There is only champagne from Champagne, and all the rest is sparkling wine!) Later we moved on to lunch at a fantastic restaurant, and a tour of the famous Taittinger cellars (with--literally—hundreds of thousands of bottles of champagne in the process of being made….possibly the real happiest place on earth). The guide there was only a guide, a pretty young woman dressed in a very formal suite, her hair pulled back, her make-up flawless, and reciting—in a very well-enunciated way of the well-educated—the information about the cellars and the Taittinger history. This tour was longer and required going up and down innumerable stairs. The climb back up had poor Gail winded, and when he asked me, "Well, Miss Alabama, how are you liking this?" he barely heard my reply over his slight wheezing as we made our way up the stairs. The day ended in Reims, with a thorough tour of the Reims cathedral and its architecture. We were fortunate enough to go on the weekend of the Joan of Arc Festival, which we perused before heading back on the bus. Throughout the tour we made conversation with the Banque de France crowd. They were pleasant and interested in American life, how we found Paris (much better than Alabama, thank you), etc. I ended up in a very detailed conversation with a restaurant manager which entailed a comparison of restaurants and careers. He was ex military which gave us plenty to talk about, including how surprised he was at the size of the American PX one of the times he'd gone. Two women were of Spanish descent, and when I told them I'd been to Spain, they were eager to talk a little bit about where they were from and to talk to Rebecca in Spanish. One of the gals, Sophie, was a little younger than the rest and tried to stick to me, Rebecca, and Gail. Another lady, with short dark hair, glasses, a petite frame and a secretive smile said she had been to Memphis and that she liked Elvis. We left the tour at the end of the night exhausted but in high spirits and amidst the well-wishes of the Banque de France crowd. The stereotype of the French and mean, rude, and arrogant certainly applies to some the way that any stereotype applies in certain cases, but the majority of the people we've met so far have been so kind, so helpful, and so friendly and inquisitive that it throws most inhibitions and fears and previous notions out the window.

Paris Diaries 13 - More Random Paris

Le Bourget, Last Day of Paris Airshow

We get off the metro on the last stop, planning to head to the Airshow. It's one of the biggest airshows in the world, and while I'm not that interested (thanks to a military family, I've seen a hundred of them) Rebecca had never been to one. My supervisor at ESTACA gave us free tickets, so on that particularly warm Sunday we headed out. The difference between the centre of Paris and the outer edges was immediately apparent. In the US, the 'inner city' is where you struggle with the most crime, the most gangs, the dirtiest and most unpleasant areas, hence the drive to move towards the safe and happy suburbs. In Paris it's the opposite, where the centre is the cleanest and most upscale—frankly, if you can afford to live in inner-city Paris, you're pretty well off. Or a tourist. Here, though, trash abounds, rolling down the street with the wind, garbage cans over-stuffed, and larger numbers of North Africans (France's immigration plague). There are men standing around at two in the afternoon chugging down beer looking dirty and unkempt, in sharp contrast to the GQ French we'd gotten accustomed to seeing both inside of Paris and in Levallois-Perret, the suburb where we're working (which is definitely one of the more chic, upscale suburbs). Despite the ugliness and dirtiness, there is a touching humanity that continues to exist here, in the brothers laughing over a drink, in the friends gathered in the cafes, and in the kids playing basketball in the park. It's the kind of humanity that flies in the face of the well-to-do, that says, "Maybe we don't have a lot of money, but we're probably happier thanyou."

Notre Dame de Paris

My feet are getting tired from walking and it's starting to get just a little bit darker. The clouds have covered the sky and so on goes the jacket. (Parisian women always carry big purses. There's logic to this—the best way to dress in Paris is in layers, and if you have a big purse, you can fit a scarf, an umbrella, and potentially even a jacket.) I find a place to sit in front of Notre Dame, pull out my journal, trying to think of what to write and having so many things to write that I couldn't untangle my thoughts. Someone comes up to my left, talking on his cell phone. He's talking loudly and then pauses and asks me, "Excuse me, but can I borrow your pen?" I hand it to him wordlessly, he writes something down and gives it back. I ignore him. He gets off the phone and says, "I'm very sorry, my friend is Italian and wanted me to write down a number right then and I didn't have a pen. But that's the Italians. Do you know any Italians?" I say I do. "Well, then, you know how they are." I do indeed. He says something else, but he says it too quickly for me to catch it and I have to ask him to repeat it. "English?" he asks. I nod. "Where from?" (That's always the next question.) I tell him and he's interested (and not in the, oh, that's okay, you seem nice and not very American and I still hate your president but you're okay in my book, kind of way). He tells me that he studied in Mississippi, that it's pretty barren, there's nothing to really do there but the people were friendly, and we mutually agreed that Paris was better. He left. The guys to my right were sitting and drinking beer, slightly dirty from some sort of manual labor and mid-thirties, but they seemed to be a generally happy crowd. They gave me an empathetic glance when the guy finally left, and I just sort of shrugged my shoulders. I kept writing. A few minutes later, one of them asked what I was writing about. I didn't really have an answer because I wasn't sure myself, so I simply told them Paris. This started a whole other round of the same questions, but they were very nice and so I didn't mind obliging. "You are very pretty," they said, for which I thanked them. "Are you going to write about us?" "Well, of course!" I assured them, and they said I was nice. I didn't stay around much longer but wished them a good evening and ambled (slowly) home.

Paris Diaries Parts 4-8

2010-01-12T11:58:00.000-08:00

(Reposted from June 2007)

Paris Diaries 4 - La vie en general

So it's been over a week of living in the lovely city. Our apartment is fantastically, europeanly small. The entirety is probably roughly half the size of my bedroom. The shower is so small that you have to stick at least one elbow out to scrub your hair, stick the top half of your torso out of it to lean down and shave your legs, and when you're drying yourself off—at least one of those shaved legs is going to have to stay IN the shower, because it's not going to work any other way (with the exception, perhaps, of a contortionist). The toilet is actually pointed towards the corner, which I suppose was an architectural quirk meant to create more space in the bathroom, but it in fact results in requiring that you sit on the toilet sideways.

Everything is mélangé… the dishes are in the living room, the clothing goes in a closet in the kitchen, etc… There are sort of bunkbeds so that there are in fact, two beds…I sleep in the "loft" which is in fact stairs leading to a large slab of wood upon which has been thrown a mattress.
C'est fantastique and quirky and I love it—although I might love it more if didn't keep slamming my calves against the front of the wooden stairs leading to the loft, leaving my legs bruised and un-skirt-able. But, such is life. Perhaps it sounds like complaining about the apartment, but I wasn't lying when I said that I like it well. The idiosyncrasies make it more memorable, and it is located perfectly in Paris, right in Le Marais, with a beautiful church and metro station around once corner, museums down the other, and Place de la Bastille, L'Hotel de Ville, La Seine, and Place des Vosges all no more than 4 or 5 blocks away.

In the mornings I roll out of bed and go running along the Seine—in almost no time I've passed some of the larger sites, including Notre Dame, and have to make sure that I'm careful to watch the time or I'll be late for work.

In the evening, even if we don't feel like doing anything too exciting, I can walk almost anywhere and find something entertaining—or just relaxing.

Some little cold or something, inherited from the woman who sits in the desk behind me, has sadly kept me grounded the past two days—I haven't had much energy for running around the city, and have been hitting the bed early, but I'm sure it will pass quickly.

In the mornings to work we take the metro and the SNCF… Can I say that I love being in a place where there's actually public transportation again—and Paris is really something wonderful. Easy, cheap (it was about 50€ for a Carte Orange, which gets us everywhere in Paris and to and from work every day—for a month). It's good to be in a city. I love the fast pace of it—into the metro station, down stairs, take the first line, switch metro lines, hit the train station, take a train to the final destination, walk the few short blocks to the school. The fast pace (there's always at least one person running and the rest of us walk at a very quick pace so we don't get run over by the herd behind us) is entertaining, and there's so many people that you have to wonder about—people go to work, to school, home. People everywhere all the time. It's great. Besides which, when you enter the station there are people there handing out free papers with the morning news (I mean can you ask for more—really?). On the metro, most people are reading (and I don't even mean Cosmo—the news or novels…be still my beating heart) or listening to MP3 players—little ipod headphones abound.

Often you see lovers see one another off or wait for one to arrive at a metro line.
But it's important to remember that you still must always look serious and like you're doing something incredibly important. It's really necessary to look more French. Even if you're NOT doing anything important. If you perfect a certain gaze, you can constantly look uninterested in everything, particularly if you purse your lips just a little. The most expression you're allowed on the metro is the occasional wry twist of one side of your mouth, or perhaps a raised eyebrow. (Don't worry—I am an expert at both of these.)

Paris Diaries 5 - I don't like them, either.

I don't like Americans in Paris, either. ..

The thing is, typically if you can tell someone is clearly American, it's not because they're doing something good. Frankly, I don't blame the Frenchies for their disgusted little nose curl at the word "American."

I've run across and helped out a few Americans while here—it was only apparent that they were American because I heard the English with an American accent or saw that they were struggling with a metro map. In those cases, the individuals (one a kid backpacking across Europe alone, the other a couple who were struggling to translate food items at a grocery store) the people kept to themselves, were polite, etc.

It's when they're obvious Americans that it's a problem.

Ten-ish last night, on the metro. Most people are sporting MP3 players and standing or sitting quietly. A few people are reading, a couple are talking in low voices amongst each other. Those of us standing have our feet planted firmly and hold a rail to maintain some stability when the metro takes a curve or the driver stops (some drivers seem to love trying to play "how many passengers can you knock to the floor in one stop"—needless to say, the rides are always entertaining.

There's a stop and a group of four kids get on—they're probably in their late teens, by the look of them. Thin, well dressed (mommy and daddy had paid a lot for those outfits), flawless hair—they could have been French. Except after two seconds, it was extremely apparent that they were not. To begin with, they were incredibly loud. No one is that loud here—not even the French kids on the metro at midnight who are feeling drunk and rambunctious. There are some things you just don't do—loud is one of them. Secondly, they were everywhere—for only four kids, they were taking up an awful lot of space, particularly since they kept moving around. One girl, whose over-straightened, mousey brown ponytail kept bouncing in front of my nose, thought it was really cute to lean back and forth and back and forth while holding the railing.

My lips pursed, my irritation rose instantaneously, and one thought hit me: "This is why Americans get such a bad reputation in Europe." Actually, this was then followed by a significant amount of expletives in my head, none of which really bear repeating.

To my left, two middle-aged French gentlemen in suits sat, and watched the Americans, then looked at me. They caught my eye, gave me an empathetic look, then exchanged a few words, which, thought I didn't hear, was clearly regarding the American brats in front of me. At the next stop I moved away so that I wouldn't have the girl's ponytail up my nose. The men smiled, and I said something in French along the lines of the fact that I'm Canadian. The men laughed a little.
The ride continued, I got increasingly irritated by the increasingly loud little monsters, and informed my roommate, who was trying to dodge my franglish cursing, that I was preparing my lecture.

The Americans got off at the same stop we did, and were obnoxious all the way out of the metro. Heads turned, looks of disgust were shot by other metro passengers at the kids, and the message was clear: "Stupid Americans. Obnoxious Americans. Annoying Americans. Etc."
I spent over a year in Germany being inundated with messages in AFN commercials about how important it is to try and "fit in" in another country, to "be respectful, not draw attention to yourself, and make a good impression." Besides that, both my parents have had extensive exposure to other cultures, and made that point clear themselves—when you're the foreigner, everything you do stands for your entire country's culture. Be mindful.

These kids were old enough to know better.

And I have a temper.

Rebecca & I were in front of them going up the stair to exit the metro. Suddenly I spoke—not quite shouting but loud enough to pierce the noise of the ruckus behind me.
"Hey! You know what's SO COOL? When a bunch of snotty American brats go to a FOREIGN country and are LOUD and OBNOXIOUS and give all the rest of us a BAD REPUTATION."

They were surprised. Rebecca laughed. I heard something about, "We weren't doing anything to you…"

It undoubtedly didn't change them a bit. But it made me feel better.

Paris Diaries 6 (I think) - Ramblings

La vie, c'est assez belle…

Being in a big city—particularly a big European city—is like breathing again. It's that feeling that you get when you finally let out a breath that you didn't know you'd been holding in.
I'm again struck by how much I've changed over the past year… Undoubtedly infinitely more self-assured, comfortable in my own skin, etc…And adventurous? When did that happen? Unexpected, for sure, but still there.

…And overall, this whole experience is rather adventurous, and even just a year or two ago I don't know if I would have been up to this challenge (or embracing it as I have, at least). I'm 21, living in a foreign country after doing the research for finding a place to live, getting plane tickets, etc with someone who isn't much older than I. I flew across an ocean alone (not literally, but lacking a guiding figure like a parent or teacher). I'm now living in one of the biggest cities in the world where they speak a foreign language, have a foreign culture (even if for the most part, it feels less foreign than my own often does), and where, admittedly, it would be relatively easy to get lost and just disappear. I go places. I do things. I don't stop. The hesitancy that I used to have concerning speaking French is fading away, the remnants of it typically only present when I'm exceptionally tired… (Not to say that, despite having a decently English-less accent, I don't slaughter the language anyway). I'm an adventuress, looking for new opportunities, seeking the unexplored, trying to take it all in and find more.

I am not homesick—almost not at all. This feels like home. I miss my family (as always, since they don't live in Alabama anyway), I miss my friends (this would be more fun with them), but other than missing the minor inconveniences of not living in a permanent residence…I am not homesick. J'ai pas de nostalgie.

The beat of Paris, the rhythm of the city, calls to me. It is like no place else that I've been (and I've been to quite a few places). It's clear to me why this is the place where so many artists, writers, intellectuals called home.

Paris is all at once hectic and stressful, and calm and freeing. It's the mugginess and sweat on the metro and the sweet scent of carefully tended flowers by government buildings, museums. It's alienating and intimate. Perhaps indeed the "greatest city on earth," though being a West Coaster to the core it's hard to admit that. This place is beautiful, is ugly—but there is even a sort of frail beauty in the ugliness—in the graffiti, the broken down buildings, the underprivileged on the side of the street, the disillusioned and cynical youth. Paris is life in all its faces—it's a heartbeat, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing.

I expected that despite all hope I would arrive and dislike it here—instead, I hate to think that I ever have to leave. I have just three short weeks and weekends left, but I can't even stand to think about that (so I don't, and just keep going).

Paris Diaries Chap. 7 - Minxing on the Metro

The metro, being one of the greatest inventions ever thought up by man, has recently revealed to me an aspect of itself unnoticed before that is so simple, yet so thoroughly French, that it caught me off-guard… The metro is a hotbed of flirtation. It's not illogical that it took me a minute to catch onto this—we are talking about a people who are so stone-faced while taking the metro that it's hard not to consider the possibility that there have been robots created by the local government just to make it °°appear°° that there are more people in Paris than there really are.

Anyway, hotbed of flirtation.

It was a Friday night and we were taking Line One back the Le Marais. It was crowded. I didn't make it far from the door and ended up holding on to a pole with my arm going straight over the poor guy's head. I glanced down apologetically and he smiled. I was afraid I was going to fall into the poor guy's lap as quickly as the metro driver was going, and as hard as he was hitting the breaks at the stops (some of the metro drivers have not-so-secret F1 driver dreams…and they take it out on the poor metro-lites). I was cold, wet (we'd taken a Bateaux-Mouches tour and, as it always does in Paris, it rained) and ultimately feeling as unattractive as possible, bemoaning the frizzy chaos of my hair and cold toes. There was enough movement coming from the direction of beneath my arm to make me glance in that direction—the poor gentleman sitting below me kept glancing up at me, and at the next stop stood up. And stood next to me. It was right about that moment that I realized he had stunning moss green eyes. And that they kept flickering over to my face. Look, make eye contact, smile, look away. Oh, you naughty little minx! (I'm talking about him, not me.) He got off at L'Hotel de Ville but glanced back at me before he did.

Lesson to be learned about French metro flirting: they stare, they might even smile a little, but unless they're trying to use ESP to communicate, they don't say much of anything, it doesn't really go anywhere, and they hurry home to mom (whom they're still living with at 25….that's the Europeans for ya).

Since this encounter, I've been stared down a few more times in the metro, watched other people get stared down, witnessed innumerable shy little smiles being exchanged, and then a whole lot of nothing. (It may not lead anywhere, but it does feed the ego and entertain while it happens). As a matter of fact, it's entirely possible that half the reason none of this flirting ever goes anywhere is that the men who are flirting are going home to wives. Or girlfriends. Or boyfriends? (We stay in the Marais, and this is entirely possible.)

In case anyone ever has the opportunity to experience this—make this even more entertaining for yourself. Stare at someone back, but don't smile. Sexy.

Paris Diaries, Ch 8: Rules of the Rue

In France, as in all foreign locales, you immediately learn to "go with the flow." This is particularly true when being a pedestrian in France.

I can say with confidence that the French are the most defensive, crazy, terrifying, but maybe best (huh?) drivers I have witnessed.

There are strict driving laws in France. I just haven't figured out what they are.
Two lanes on the road not enough? Create a third by driving in the middle! Or halfway on the side! Comme vous voulez! As a French driver, if you intuitively know that the red light is about to turn green but you ALSO intuitively know that the intuition of the driver in front of you is not as sharp so they are not currently in the process of moving their foot off the brake this very moment, it is encouraged that you should honk at them. Mind you, they do seem to genetically have significantly better spatial judgement, because they don't mind passing someone with only the with of a hair between the cars, but this is clearly not a gene that EVERYONE possesses as I have heard my share of metal screeching when moped drivers miscalculate space. Nearly all cars have dings and dents and scratches.

In the event that you happen to get seasick or motion sickness or anything like that, I highly encourage that you never ride in a French taxi. For you will be hurling, only it won't be off the side of a boat, it will be in a very nice French taxi and you will have one VERY angry French taxi driver. (I don't get seasick, so I personally found this adventurous.) There's lots of quick swerving, braking, cursing, and concussions when you bang your head against the window or front seat.

However, as I am, for the most part, a pedestrian, I have found that there are rules for pedestrians, too. If you ever happen to be a pedestrian in France, you should learn the rules that I have come to understand regarding walking in France, and you will save yourself a lot of trouble.

The only rule is: EVERYTHING IS A GAME OF CHICKEN.

Yes, I think that pretty much sums it up.

Okay, I'll elaborate.

Rules for Sidewalks: Always a game of chicken between pedestrians.

Subrule 1: Claim your territory. You don't realize how much in the US you unconsciously abide by a certain rule of etiquette for the sidewalks until you're in a place that doesn't. For example, if two people are walking side-by-side on a narrow sidewalk and someone is walking past them, one of the two will move behind the other thus giving the third person space to pass. That doesn't apply here. If there are two people, NO ONE is moving for you just because you, one little person, happens to be walking on what is CLEARLY their sidewalk. They're going to keep walking and you're going to have to step into the street and risk your life. Unless you are NOT the chicken and force one of THEM into the street! Aha! Success! Maybe they THOUGHT it was their street, but indeed you have now marked your territory and it is YOURS! Never mind the person now getting run over; you have won the game of chicken!

Subrule 2: Oh, woe is the stone-paved, uneven streets. The French streets and sidewalks are lovely, primarily because their cobble-stone or whatnot and therefore quite pretty. However, this means lumpy walking areas—cracks in the sidewalk abound, there are little holes between stones, etc, etc. Let me make this clear: this is the game of chicken you will never win if you are a female. Somehow, French women seem to genetically be capable of navigating these roads in stiletto heels without breaking heels or ankles or necks. As a tourist or non-native, you will not. You will indeed break a leg or neck, particularly when it starts raining and those beautiful streets become traps of death, waiting to make you slip on their shiny surface. You have a couple of options: (a) you can wear flip flips or tennis shoes and prove to the entire world that you're a tourist, but keep your neck in tact. (b) you can wear a pair of chic looking tennis shoes that aren't really for athletics but look supercool (i.e. Pumas), or the flat ballet slippers that are quite popular, or even fancy-looking heel-less leather sandals, and at least in this way you might give yourself a bit of tourist ambiguity (Is she a tourist? Why, I'm not sure—her shoes are throwing me off!) (c) you can resign yourself to the ALMIGHTY WEDGE HEEL! Admittedly, I never cared much for them until I came here, where suddenly, they made so much sense. Yes, yes, the men reading this might find this a waste of space, but I assure you it is very practical for the female readers.

Rules for Crosswalks: Always a game of chicken between the pedestrian and the driver. ALWAYS.

Subrule 1: The French drivers will indeed stop for a red light. BUT, if they're making a right turn, it's iffy. So if you have the little green man telling you to go, GO. But go with purpose. If you go and you go with purpose and you have the right of way, the driver will stop. If you don't go with confidence, the driver might mistake you for a bug, not a human. Well, they might swerve just in time to not kill you, but your toes are fair game. See? A game of chicken. Who is going to stop?

Subrule 2: There is strength in numbers! If you have a red light, but there is a group of people going, go with them! For one, they're most likely French and exude enough confidence to make up for your menial touristy lack of certainty on your ability to cross the street before you become a bug on a windshield. Additionally, while the occasional jaywalking pedestrian might be an acceptable target for a French motorist if he has the green light and therefore the right of way, chances are good that he doesn't necessarily want to go on a crazed killing spree and plough through a group of people. Plus, the damage to his car in that case might be too significant, in which case, he will stop. He will be the chicken if your ego can somehow be bigger than his. This is also good for picking out the non-natives…for they stand there looking silly and confused while everyone else crosses in a group.

Subrule 3: Follow that stroller! It is possible that parents in France exude more confidence than any I have yet encountered. They will indeed jaywalk on busy streets with their baby or little toddler and have no fear of getting hit. Frankly, who's going to hit a mom and their kid? That would just be bad PR…and karma. The first few times I saw this I saw this I got nauseous—who is going to put their kid in danger like that? But ooooh, no. I haven't seen a Momma or little Jean Jacques or Marie Sophie get hit yet…. I'm pretty sure that motorists weigh the importance of getting to that meeting 20 minutes late instead of 15 minutes late against their personal physical danger if they hit Mom and Marie Sophie and Mom lives. So, point being, follow the stroller because no one is going to hit the mom and her baby. Let the motorist be the chicken and stop.

Subrule 4: NEVER RUN. It's just not French, unless you're doing it in the metro station or on purpose (as in, running for physical exercise). Be French. Don't run. Even if you decided to jaywalk and suddenly you realise that the car coming towards you is a lot closer than you thought (and yeah, it's possible that they sped up just to give you a good scare). No one runs. Walk quickly, yes. Run, no. Play chicken. Chances are good that the motorist will not in fact hit you. Okay, I actually have no idea what the chances of this are, but it is important that you don't be the chicken and lost your dignity. Now, your leg if you get hit—not important. Your dignity—important.

I broke Subrule 4 the other day. I met up with a French friend (if you can call someone who is French by citizenship but doesn't like wine French, that is). We grabbed a drink, talked, laughed, discussed culture, politics, etc. I was explaining to him the rules I have learned regarding crossing the streets which he seemed to find quite amusing. Anyway, we crossed a street as we were headed towards the Seine. He crossed before me, I miscalculated timing, and was suddenly afraid that I was going to hit by the shiny car not far from me. I ran. "Don't run!" he yelled, "It's the rule! It's not French!" Okay, forget it. I'm a chicken. I'm a big fat, feathery chicken. Sometimes.

Anyway, I would like to reiterate the point: EVERYTHING IS A GAME OF CHICKEN. DON'T BE THE CHICKEN. Bisous & @+

Paris Diaries Parts 1-3 (Repost from June 2007)

2010-01-08T15:18:00.000-08:00

A Paris, France...

Eh, bien...

(En anglais, for the dirty Americans...)

So, Tuesday began the long journey to Paris. There was a short flight between Huntsville and DC, from DC to Toronto, and the longer international flight between Toronto and Charles de Gaulle airport. Having slept all of two hours (thanks to Sean & misc others for one last night of heavy partying) I actually had some opportunity to get a few hours of rest on the 7-ish hour flight over the Atlantic so I wasn't completely dreadfully jet-lagged by the time we arrived. Jet-lagged, perhaps, non, but still completely brain dead, oui.

After grabbing bags, my traveling companion, Rebecca, and I, made use of some odd number of years of French to figure out how the hell to get to our apartment which is, for the record, not much larger than my bedroom closet, but almost in the dead-center of Paris.

A train ride lead us to a Les Halles, where we, with bags in tow, exhaustedly made our way up approximately 5 escalators to the street. Mind you, I have a backpack, a purse, and two full-size rolling suitcases to drag on the train, off the train, up the escalators.... After dragging the things forever down the streets of Paris and not able to find a taxi (at this point, we were swearing off Paris forever) we made our way to our apartment.

The owner greeted us, bitched at us for being late, finally took us to the apartment which had been significantly more flattering in the pictures, and proceeded to whine and gripe about Rebecca giving her the rent payment in American dollars. (She wanted it cash, Euros, but the agency we used had said traveler’s checks were fine, yada yada yada). Her two monstrous grandchildren ran around the apartment screaming, grabbing things, and jumping on beds. Our beds.

I was beat, Rebecca was exhausted, and we were both pissed as hell to discover that the internet in our apartment does not seem to want to work. Or rather, there is none. There’s a cable, but my laptop is saying there's no connection. Lovely.

All this sounds so-so, but in my exhausted brain it was horrific and miserable. I was near tears, and half-way blaming a couple of jerks that I knew COULD have helped, but weren’t' about to. yada yada.

Anyway, we tossed our stuff down and went searching. My stamina lasted significantly longer than Rebecca’s, who quickly went back to the apartment and slept. Suddenly, I was energized (though still brain-dead). It was like a homecoming, being in Europe again. Strange, but rather than being awe-inspired by the old and fast-paced city, I felt comfortable.

I made my way from le Marais, to Place de la Bastille, to a small quick-stop style restaurant where I had a turkey falafel and a quick conversation with one of the workers (Turkish? North African?) who talked about how expensive Paris is, why I’m here, where I’m from, etc. When I say "Etats-unis" it's always a slightly surprised expression, replaced quickly by a tidbit of disgust, replaced again by surprise, then indifference. We talked more; I thanked him, left, re-considered telling everyone that I was Canadienne. To the river, to l'Hotel de Ville, across the river, located Notre Dame de Paris, walked more, and was utterly content. I found myself standing in front of Notre Dame, taking a quick and guilty tourist-y photo. It was at this point that some gentleman stopped as he was walking past me, where he proceeded to say, "Pardon, madame, mais vous etes tres belle," which I wryly thanked him for (no one is "tres belle" after 48 hours of minimal sleep and traveling for at least 14 hours of that time....) and we proceeded to have an entire conversation.

It was a strange conversation, and when he asked me where I was from, I again told the truth, he again looked surprised, told me I spoke well and that he thought I was from Germany. I told him I lived in Germany briefly, after which he told me he spoke German, and we proceeded to have a conversation in frandeutsch, in which he mixed French and German, and I spoke entirely in French.

I got lost (as usual) but the fantastic thing about inner-city Paris like this is that you can quickly find where you need to be. Just walk in one direction long enough and eventually you'll find a site you know from history books, and you can navigate from there.

After many hours of sleep last night, I woke up this morning.....stuffy and wanting more sleep. aha.

Rebecca and I made our way to l'Hotel de Ville, where we found a quick lunch and watched people come and go through a couple of tents set up to raise awareness about EU-supported "days of non-smoking"...got a carte orange for traveling on the metro for the month and she went home to call her family and rest while I went on yet another adventure. (Very few people have the same sense of adventure, or endless energy as I...I’m accustomed...c'est la vie....)
Again, endless walking, to include somehow making my way on to a relatively shady street, where there was nothing other than sex shops and bars (mmm...kinky...or hopeful?), ignored those who would shout "madame, madame!", did a little shopping, a lot of feeling happy, etc etc.

The Parisian men are almost entirely well-dressed although the women vary (which surprised me a little, but then again, I did live in Germany where no one dressed well, man or woman, so whatever). Besides which, perhaps it's in the air or something but the men here are beautiful. I don't mean i-want-to-sex-you-up right now sexy, just generally beautiful. Classic features, very often quite tall (do they fertlize them...?), and always impeccable hair. C'est fantastique, ca.
Okay, maybe I lusted a *little.*

Rebecca and I later made our way to dinner, dessert, and this particular internet cafe...I tried talking Rebecca out of t-shirts and tennis shoes ("you're going to stand out, Rebecca," followed by "we'll, I’m going to stand out anyway") but she found out she was offered a job by her high school of choice today, so congrats to her, and onwards with tennis shoes and t-shirts if she wants.

bah.... I don't have the energy to write anything more colorful au moment, so that will have to come later. Meanwhile, I’m in Paris.

@+ et bisous a tous...

Oh la la.... (France Diaries part Deux )

It's Sunday. It seems impossible that I've only been in Paris for less than a week--I've been all over this city. I've decided that it is impossible to be bored here. There are approximately 56169489456489874564897456419874564846181849.56484941 things to see here, most of which you can see more than once without being tired of them. Failing that, you are so happy just to hang out. Ask the Parisians. They find steps of big buildings and sit there. Just hang. Where to start?

~Jeudi~After leaving the e-cafe Rebecca and I made our way to Notre Dame. The walk is so easy....I'm not sure how far it is, but it goes quickly since it's so pleasant. We got there around dusk, and watched some performers in the square in front of the cathedral. There were fire throwers, etc. (Very Disney, I know). Inside the Cathedrale at night it is still beautiful, and definitely preferable to during the day when there are thousands of tourists milling about. The atmosphere was relaxed and serene, and still awe-inspiring with the minimal lighting inside the cathedral. We walked back to the apartment slowly, grabbing a chocolate chaud (it was quite chilly outside) and enjoying the pleasant stroll.

~Vendredi~Friday began the first day at the school where Rebecca & I are interns. The school (ESTACA) is closer to the suburbs. As Rebecca and I live quite close to the river in center Paris, this begat some confusion the first morning we tried to make our way out. The metro doesn't necessarily run in straight lines from center city to the outer city--which makes sense, since it still hits all the important stops. Now that we're accustomed, we're hopping the metro like pros (the French public transportation system is possibly one of the greatest inventions known to man...)...but that first day we switched lines about 3 or 4 times, had to backtrack once, at got thoroughly confused when we got to Gare St Lazare and had to switch from the metro to the SNCF (the train). Once there, it was all good.

We're interning in the international program office. The ladies working there are all quite friendly, and I was given quite a bit of work (which I actually find a relief, since it makes the day go by faster). What I do not find a relief is the international keyboard. It is the most bizarre thing I have yet encountered with a computer, and takes me, with a typing capacity of 60+ wpm down to about 10 wpm. Okay, maybe 6.

Friday night after work.... La Tour Eiffel, bien sur! It was Rebecca's big wish. I compromised--we didn't have to walk the ENTIRE way to the Eiffel Tower, but we did take the metro to the Grand Palais, walked across Pont Alex III and walked from there. It was a lovely walk (though freezing...dreadfully freezing...to the point that my most happy purchase so far has been a scarf). I was happy and wearing my very cute, low-heeled sandals that I paid a whopping 5 euros for and the 6 euro scarf and we walked along the Seine towards the Eiffel Tower. It was chaos, of course, and not nearly as tall as one would think, but interesting regardless. We walked around, ignored the infinite men walking around selling souvenirs, and made our way towards the Trocadero (but not, mind you, before buying a crepe sucre and cafe au lait, a la Alana....)

The Trocadero is without a doubt one huge party. There was easily a thousand people there, half of them passing around bottles of wine (note to self, get wine before going next time), half of them making out (note to self, find someone to make out with next time) and everyone gleeful. That is possibly where you have the best view of the Eiffel Tower at night. If there's one thing Parisians can do (okay, there's more than that, but they can do this to), it's dramatic lighting. The Trocadero, the bridges, and the Eiffel Tower are no exception. While the Eiffel Tower has a perpetual orange-yellow glow at night, at certain points throughout the evening it is lit up like fireworks---white lights twinkle all over. It's a Christmas tree on crack. But better. The Parisians snort derisively, try to look as cool as possible, and act like they're way too fancy to like it (even though we all know they do), while everyone else cheers. Particularly the Italians. (Find the loudest groups. There--those are the Italians)

Time slips away so quickly and quietly in Paris that before you know it it's midnight. This has happened to us every night we've been here. Part of this is possibly because it's light outside until about 10 or 10:30....part of it is just because you're always so entertained....there's always something new or interesting to look at.

~Samedi~While we had sworn we'd get up early, we slept in until eleven. Immediately a trip the little grocery store by the apartment for a few necessities (bread....*drool*....*cheese*....*drool*....water, cheap red wine, etc). The individuals working there were quite pleasant, and they rang me up while I bagged my own groceries. (It's the thing to do, apparently, although I don’t' remember it being like this in Germany). And this is where I leave you kids, since the e-cafe is closing. I'll tell you the rest later (including pigeon poop, our excitement at discovering Moulin Rouge and the existence of a Musee d'Eroticisme - no pun intended, the significantly less clean and slightly scarier area around Sacre Coeur, and how many times in one evening you can be asked if you want to take a coffee with someone). @+ et bisous!

Side Note 1 from the Paris Diaries
I'm not easily shocked…and when I say that, I'm being relatively specific to things pertaining to: nudity, sex, etc. Anyone who has ever been to Germany can tell you that people have absolutely no problem stripping down to nothing (particularly the older men with large stomachs, for some reason…work it, baby!), porn comes on cable at seven o'clock at night, etc...

It wasn't even until I moved to Alabama that I heard the term "PDA"…and took me a while to figure out that it had a negative connotation, too.

That being said, seeing innumerable French couples engaged in heavy make-out sessions doesn't surprise me, or cause a second glance. When I say "heavy make-out sessions" I probably should elaborate… They roll around in the grass in public parks, bodies intertwined. Were they not to be clothed, they would in fact be having sex.

This is neither here nor there (although it does make me laugh whenever I hear a wayward comment from a European about "slutty American girls" since, from what is incredibly evident throughout most of Europe is that Americans are total prudes comparatively)…but what does confuse me is this…

Don't they get bored? I've kissed some good kissers, some knees-go-weak kissers, etc…but seriously. There was conversation thrown in there, jokes, whatever. Two hours of what is essentially foreplay…? Seriously? Plus, there's not even the added oohs and aaahs of it being "taboo" since it's in a public place…no one cares in Europe.

There was a couple doing precisely that in the Place des Vosges yesterday evening, where I was reading (it seems I finally wore myself to inactivity). I'll give you that they're young and in love or whatever…but there weren't even breaks for talking and giggling and being silly or flirtatious. Kiss-roll-kiss-change positions-kiss. Booooooooooooooring.

Am I the only one that finds this dull? Or am I too jaded to see the excitement of the young and amoureux?

Paris Diaries ~ Part Trois

~Samedi~ (cont'd)
After getting groceries we hopped the metro to Place St Michel. From there we walked to Notre Dame, which on a beautiful Parisian Saturday is thoroughly overrun with tourists. In the middle of the square, a large school / choir / something of 20-something-year-olds from Holland was singing, serenading the tourists and passing around wooden shoes to collect donations. They were gorgeous, charismatic, flirtatious, and at two in the afternoon, totally smashed. (But still singing in tune!) I'm quite certain that boys in Holland have fertilizer dumped on them when they're growing up, since they were all about seven feet tall.

We made our way inside Notre Dame--also beautiful in the daylight, despite the tourists. I find Paris quite interesting in that it is such a hotbed for tourism a lot of customs are broken and few bat an eyelash. For example, in Germany people are welcome to go into churches and look around...but take out a camera and you will be asked to leave. Here, there are none of those rules (and I took advantage).

After that, we ambled towards what in English is the Cluny Museum (or in French, the National Museum for the Middle Ages). We were sidetracked by chanting in the distance...I dragged Rebecca up to the Sorbonne, where we caught sight of our first French street rally! Woo-hoo! Anyway, Cluny Museum (quite interesting, especially the jewelry, religious artifacts, and coffins in the basement...) then a brisk walk to St Germain des Pres...

Almost all the cathedrals through Europe were originally painted very elaborately on the inside... what we see of the cathedrals now--the dramatic architecture but blank walls--are really just hollow shells of what they once were. Paint fades over time and historical events wear on the ancient buildings. Somehow, most of the original paint in St German des Pres surivived...and it's really quite miraculous on the inside. Rich maroons meet forest greens, navy blues, gold, etc in murals on the walls and ceilings, stars on the columns, etc... It's rather breathtaking. A very loud and colorful festival was going on outside, bringing attention to Cape Verte and all of its cultural loveliness. (Or trying to attract French investors, anyway). 2€ bought me a delicious beer, which I relished in the heat as we listened to music.

Eventually tired of being elbowed, we took off for yet another adventure--St. Sulpice. Any DaVinci Code lovers? The church was featured in the movie for its gnomon (the English word which I have forgotten, of course....It's actually taking effort not to write this half in French...) The thing is quite impressive, if only for it's height. It's almost dizzying looking up it. Multiple write-ups on the walls declare the dangers of believing in certain fiction (good ole Catholic church). The church is actually also known for its big organ, and the players of said instrument. (We hope to catch a concert there, soon)

Another brisk walk (I told you, I'm exhausting poor Rebecca...) and we were at the famed Jardins de Luxembourg...lovely and very cultivated, like most French parks. We sat (I had almost killed our poor Rebecca) and relaxed in the cool late afternoon air. We made our way to a game of boules, which, after about ten minutes of watching I still could not figure out.
Rebecca being tired, my feet starting to cramp, we decided to go on to the apartment. Finding a métro station, we made our way inside, passed through the entry with our carte orange like metro pros (we're not, but don't tell anyone that) and made our way down umpteen million stairs. (My legs love the workout...Seriously.)

But wait! La Pigalle, the infamous Parisian red light district which is home to both the Moulin Rouge AND the Erotica Museum was just A FEW STOPS AWAY? Surely we could take a quick detour! (You see why Rebecca is tired?)

There I was on the metro, having the most American moment I've had so far--thinking that we were going to get off the metro at La Pigalle, and everyone was going to stare and start talking in English with bad French accents: "Ah hah! Look at zose dirtyyyyy American girls go to zeee bad deeestreect."

Actually, thinking it did kind of make me blush, but it did also make me want to laugh more. Which would have been bad. Parisians on the metro don't laugh. It's forbidden by law. Well, at least you would think it was. Regardless--I had a moment of clarity, remembered I was in France where they don't care, and got off at La Pigalle--with lots of other people, as it turned out. We walked around some, took a few pictures, made plans to come back and visit the Erotica Museum (seriously...just looking in the display window was entertaining...how can I miss an opportunity to tell my grandparents I went THERE?!)...and decided to make like the rest of the people in the area and hit up the crepe kiosque.

So there we are, digging through purses to find money for the crepes we're buying from the kiosque.

In Germany, there are more pigeons than in France...well, at least in Paris that I've seen. Significantly more. Germans love animals, and a very pissed Polizei will confront you if you're caught messing with them--including the lowly pigeon. They even have entire pigeon houses in the middle of the squares. It's quite nice, actually. So I've never before had a problem with the little winged rodents.

Until in Paris. In front of a crepe stand. Looking for money.

Went I felt something wet fall on my forehead and down my nose, and when I went to get the water off, I realized it was not water. It was white.

It was pigeon poo.

And the least graceful moment I have had in Paris yet. Miraculously, it didn't get in my hair or on my clothing, and I got it off so quickly (yay for travel-sized kleenex) that no one noticed.
Funny stuff, kids. Aaaahh....Paris!

At least the verdict is in on the Parisian pigeon's opinion of American women.

Anyway, this was even more incentive to get a crepe sucre, where the sucre was mixed with Grand Marnier and served hot and fresh....mmmm....

Rebecca was beat and headed home at that point, but as is incredibly clear when you're in Paris, every night is a party. It was only nine or ten and still light out, so she and I parted ways, and I took the metro to Sacre-Coeur.

For a big city, most of Paris is exceptionally clean--it's quite surprising. Until you hit Sacre-Coeur, that is, and trash sort of tumbles down the road. It tends to be what happens in the more touristy areas.

European cities (and Paris being no exception) has lots of signs pointing in the general direction of the big sites...until you get close to the sight, and then the city officials have apparently decided you can find your way from there. Getting off the metro, there was nothing to direct me to the cathedral, and it's not like when you're surrounded by tall buildings you can see much...so I just headed off in one direction.

It was clear that I was going in the wrong direction when the crowds thinned considerably.
And I realized someone was following me. That someone made his presence known at a crosswalk, where he asked if I wanted to "take a coffee with him."

Non, merci. After a few no's, I kept going and he seemingly went away. Except that he didn't. He followed me some more and tried to continue the conversation. So I played the oldest trick there is: pretended I didn't understand. "Oh, you speak English? I am from England, too!" Really, buddy? Then why did we have to switch back to a conversation in French because my French is better than English? "Yes, my name is Farouk! Where are you from?" "Des Etats-Unis." Usually that stops them cold. Well, I'm exaggerating, but sometimes when they hear it they do look at you like you have the plague and your americanness could infect them at any moment.
Didn't work. He very persistently followed me until--ah! voila!--the bottom of the steps at Sacre-Coeur. At that point he was out of breath, and my face was tired from what I hoped was my best disdainful, uninterested expression ever. Apparently giving up at the realisation that to further pursue me he was going to have to climb all the steps, he was persuaded that I wanted to continue all alone and went away for me to climb in peace. The basilica is quite amazing, and so is the view. In the evening, however, everything is hazy, so it was relatively difficult to make out anything but the tallest and most distinguished buildings.

Paris is the people of the Stoop People. It's just what they do—grab a few bottles of cheap wine and find some stairs where they can sit and be social. Combine that with a good view, and the steps of Sacre-Coeur were covered. I made it up the last set of steps (the ones directly in front of the basilica) and was there asked by another gentleman if I cared to get coffee with him. Which I didn't, thank you.

Inside Sacre-Coeur, the basilica demands silence and absolutely no photos. This is strictly enforced. A choir of nuns was singing, and the gentle harmony of their voices was like wind blowing off the ocean. The only sounds made by the innumerable tourists walking around quietly was the scuffling of their shoes and the occasional whisper.

While I wanted to explore more I decided that I'd better hop the metro and get back to the more secure-feeling Le Marais before it got too dark. Despite spending several evenings walking around alone after dark in Paris, it still feels secure. I wouldn't venture into most places of Huntsville, Alabama at night like that, but Paris….? Psht. It feels like a playground.
Down the stairs I went, this time closely following a few German guys and hoping it would at least make it look like I was with them. The first metro line—some short and drunken (by elevenish at night, most people taking the metro are at least slightly drunken…I imagine it makes the trip more entertaining) black gentleman who spoke French with a slightly African, tribal-sounding rhythm (from Ghana, perhaps?) was gesturing wildly to his friends telling what appeared to be a very interesting story. A very beautiful French boy, with a long straight nose, a perfectly shaped mouth, and bright blue eyes was watching the man with slight disdain. (It's how I know he was French) He kept glancing at me, so I finally met his eyes and quirked my mouth—one of those, "We can both find this gentleman mutually ridiculous" looks. His face was like porcelain—completely unchanging, and he just looked away. I tried not to roll my eyes, particularly when he kept glancing back at me.

The next metro—a longer trip, with more stops, but this line ends right next to our apartment. I sit, then across from me sits another brightly blue-eyed gentleman. (I know I'm not the only one who has noticed that these silly pretty Frenchies have eyes in ridiculously bright colors….or maybe I just expected more browns?) The French kids have pretty limited styles that I've noticed thus far. There's a lot of the GQ kids, some gansta kids (always funny) and the Rastafarians. Seriously—white kids dressed like they just came from a Bob Marley concert—oh those silly French! Et, comme d'habitude, no one bats an eyelash.

This kid had on, specifically, one of those crazy tall hats that always make me think of the Mars Attacks aliens. He was busy looking very Parisian-on-a-metro—and by that I mean miserable. You'd think their face would crack if they smiled. I know that Americans get a bad reputation for smiling like idiots all the time, but if that's the case the French are the same in the exact opposite manor. The constant need to be completely emotionless all the time, or at best smug, makes them seem like a bunch of egoist adolescents, in perpetuity.

I was feeling bubbly, silly, and a little tired. He looked at me. I gave him a large, toothy, stupid smile as if to say, "Smile, stupid whiny boy."

His face didn't crack. It DID NOT CRACK people. Not a look of disgust, not a look of amusement….he just looked away.

And so ended another Parisian evening.

Feminist Truths on Self-Destruction...

2010-01-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

From Maureen Dowd's Are Men Necessary?:
"Would a man find the prospect of a string of partners so appealing if the following rules were applied: that no matter how much he may like a particular woman and be pleased by her performance and want to sleep with her again, he will have no say in the matter and will be dependent on her mood and good graces for all future contact; that each act of casual sex will cheapen his status and make him increasingly less attractive to other women; and that society will not wink at his randiness but rather sneer at him and think him pathetic, sullied, smaller than life? Until men are subjected to the same severe standards and threat of censure as women are, and until they are given the lower hand in a so-called casual encounter from the start, it is hard to insist with such self-satisfaction that, hey, it's natural, men like a lot of sex with a lot of people and women don't." ---Natalie Angier as quoted in Dowd's book

"Consider the differentiation: A gorgeous, fit guy who sleeps with an overweight, unattractive woman is 'throwing himself on a grenade' for the team. A gorgeous, fit girl who sleeps with an overweight, unattractive man is lucky to have found romance in movies like Sideways and Hitch." --Maureen Dowd

------------------------------------------------------------------

From Wasted by Marya Hornbacher:
"Becoming a Woman means becoming someone dissociated from, and spiteful toward her body. Someone who finds herself always wanting."

"This is one of the terrible, banal truths of eating disorders: when a woman is thin in this culture she proves her worth in a way that no great accomplishment, no stellar career, nothing at all can match."

"Why must the power of the female body cancel the power of the female mind? Are we so afraid of having both? What would it mean for women to have both?"

"I believed that my power--it was a general sort of idea--would be incrementally increased with each pound lost. Studies of girls show that they associate thinness with both academic & social success."

Randoms....

"Men are taught to apologize for their weaknesses, women for their strengths." -Lois Wyse

"Because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, "She doesn't have what it takes." They will say, "Women don't have what it takes."" -Clare Boothe Luce

"I've yet to be on a campus where most women weren't worrying about some aspect of combining marriage, children, and a career. I've yet to find one where many men were worrying about the same thing." -Gloria Steinem

"Taught from infancy that beauty is woman's sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison." -Mary Wollstonecraft

"Many beautiful women have been made happy by their own beauty, but no intelligent woman has ever been made happy by her own intelligence." -Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

--------------------------------------------

I wish I could lie and say that regarding these quotes I have reached an otherwordly acceptance of myself that lets me disregard the social norms mentioned above. Unfortunately, I still find myself cloaked in them - if not suffocating beneath the weight of my own self-judgement on these matters.

Meh. I'll get there one day. (Maybe.) (I hope.)

2009-12-30T13:04:00.002-08:00

And moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers

2009-12-24T18:13:00.000-08:00

Favorite Words

2009-12-22T13:54:00.000-08:00

Persnickety
Flabbergast
Befuddle
Snarky
Discombobulate
Flummox
Snooty

Postsecret or Post-Secrets?

2009-12-22T13:01:00.000-08:00

One of the best things about Postsecret is that whether the "secrets" make us laugh or cry, they usually resonate within us. Postsecret is a great reminder of the universality of the human condition. Whenever I look over the posts with friends we frequently agree to the same cards - "Yes, that is so me!" "Ohmigosh! I was JUST thinking that!"

The underlying feeling behind secrecy is isolation - but Postsecret proves that even in our secrets we're not alone.

Workin' 9-to-5, What a Way to Make a Livin'... (repost from another blog)

2009-12-21T18:14:00.000-08:00

I'm finding myself falling into an 8-to-5 pattern of mediocrity and I hate it. It's mind numbing and soul-sucking. It's not that I hate my job or the people I work with. In fact, I love the people I work with, my boss included. (Crazy, right?) It's just not for me--it doesn't give me purpose. I'm not a nine-to-five, home to the husband and kids in the suburbs kind of person.

Every couple of months I have the same terrifying nightmare where suddenly I am married and have kids and am living the life of any typical suburbanite. I always wake up with a cold feeling of dread pressing against my chest. The fear of having become tied down in a series of subtle events until I'm middle-aged and stuck and can't cut those ropes, can't liberate myself. For some people this life is the ultimate goal - it's heaven, it's perfection, it's whatever. That's fine for them. I am actually rather envious of people who have those ambitions.

For me it feels like a death sentence.

Yet here I am working an administrative job and trying to make the best of it. It's such great experience! Working in Area X lets me utilize my math and negotiation skills and learning Area Y is letting me use my writing and analytical skills! It's great! Really! I have a job during the recession and I'm so grateful! Happy! Happy! Happy!

I am grateful that I'm pulling in a paycheck. I am grateful that I'm working when so many aren't. And I'm certainly glad that my job isn't bad - it isn't meaningful and satisfying work for me, but I don't dread coming to work.

It's just....

Banality leaves me wanting to blow my brains out. A loud bang! An explosion! Bright red blood and bone and brain matter splashing across the background, splattering against furniture and walls! It's more appealing than the gray and beige of daily life. I hate gray. I hate beige. I'm an extremist.

As I said, I love my boss. I love the people I work with. And, in the grander scheme of things, I love my job. I enjoy the negotiations, play with numbers, working with people, problem-solving, yadayada. It's just hard not to get bogged down by the paperwork because I'm one person juggling so much-and paperwork is banal. Blessedly, my boss understands this and is constantly trying to find ways to introduce new learning opportunities.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, then, really is.... I don't have purpose. Since I don't have a purpose I am lost and miserable. Going from 21-ish years of constantly striving for a specific goal (high school diploma, bachelor's, whatever) to a vast sea of... day-to-day work without those tangible goals frustrates me.

More unfortunately, I'm unsure at this point what direction would lead me to feeling fulfilled and thus and in a bit of a limbo until I make some decisions. Ah, life.

It's strange because suddenly I'm seeing all these people I went to school with graduating and moving on into new chapters of their lives but I'm feeling...stagnant. In the past year since I left Alabama, half of my friends have gotten married / pregnant (and exes, but that's for another post). Forget the goddamn swine flu. Pregnancy is the real epidemic in the dirty south - Apparently if you sneeze near a pair of ovaries they catch sperm. Go figure.

All of this - my stagnancy and whatnot - is my responsibility (which I accept). As I tell mes amis frequently, life is what we make it. If you want your reality to change, change it.

I want my reality to change. I just don't know what I want it to change to.

Part of it is that I'm so scared of making the wrong decision that I'm paralyzed.

Then there's that whole "failure" thing looming over my head. (Being a perfectionist is awesome, in case you were wondering.)

meh. meh. meh.

Whoever suggested that post-college life in your 20s is fun lied. In fact, they were completely full of shit.

...as a feather.

2009-12-21T13:34:00.000-08:00

I dream a lot. I imagine it has something to do with my insomnia - instead of getting that good "deep" sleep most people seem to get, I have multiple random dreams during the night and wake up after each one.

Most dreams are disconnected, surreal, whathaveyou. They don’t make much sense nor is there a real “story” – just random happenings.

A motif occurs in many of my surreal whathaveyous: floating. In repeated dreams – regardless of the actual dream itself – I constantly have a problem with floating away. It seems like it would be fun at first – floating in the air, twirling, liberated. The problem is that I don’t have a way down and no control over it. So instead of actually feeling liberated and happy, I’m full of anxiety and trying very hard to hold onto something so that I don’t completely float away.

I suppose I’ve never felt tethered to anything or anyone. When I was in The Dark Place back in Alabama I used to wonder: if I died, how long would it take anyone to notice? I didn’t live with anyone. I had no significant other. The family in town I never spoke to nor saw and the family on the West Coast was pretty accustomed to not hearing from me for days or weeks. My friends are busy people and as such we could go extended periods of time without seeing or hearing from one another. I realized that the people who would first notice an extended absence were the people I worked with.

Something rather pathetic about that, really.

On the other hand, it has me thinking about a passage from The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I toy with the idea frequently.

"The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man's body.The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously an image of life's most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?"

From nathan to 'isa... when my heart, it did a-shatter.

2009-12-18T18:48:00.002-08:00

Nathan blogged this to me back in 2006... and I thought I would share it in the event that any other wayward soul might need to see the message. <3

a little bit about 'isa
Current mood: blah
Category: Romance and Relationships
it wasn't supposed to end like this, was it?

death and death alone was supposed to apart the two of you.

he rescued you from your family and perceived (false) flaws; let you know you were loveable when all around you was falling apart, and you cherished him for it.

loved him for him.

now blinders attach as periphery and focus fade, a tunnel vision of tomorrow waking up in a bed alone arrives.

for the next few months you'll look in the mirror and see unlovable looking back at you.

it's all right.

it's ok.

it's the way things are meant to be.

(even when you feel ghost fingers caressing the side of your cheek)

better a break than a deterioration of lie.

one person holding on too long only happens in inertia, a law of continuance.

understand the courage it took to allow you the opportunity of finding someone better.

appreciate the opportunity you have to feel every fiber of your body torn asunder, to be acutely aware of every molecule within you.

so many on this planet go through life numb to the peaks and troughs.

let them live in the middle.

enjoy your moment of awareness.

Kundera & L’insoutenable légèreté de l’être

2009-12-18T13:50:00.001-08:00

"Love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost."

"Le plus lourd fardeau nous écrase, nous fait ployer sous lui, nous presse contre le sol. Mais dans la poésie amoureuse de tous les siècles, la femme désire recevoir le fardeau du corps mâle. Le plus lourd fardeau est donc en même temps l'image du plus intense accomplissement vital. Plus lourd est le fardeau, plus notre vie est proche de la terre, et plus elle est réelle et vraie.
En revanche, l'absence totale de fardeau fait que l'être humain devient plus léger que l'air, qu'il s'envole, qu'il s'éloigne de la terre, de l'être terrestre, qu'il n'est plus qu'à demi réel et que ses mouvements sont aussi libres qu'insignifiants.
Alors, que choisir ? La pesanteur ou la légèreté ?"

It bleeds, it aches, it recovers.

2009-12-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

One of the kids in my company is getting divorced. He's only 26 or 27 but it's my understanding that he's been with his wife for several years.

He's a great kid. Really nice, really funny,and just an all-around All-American kind of guy. He's pretty good looking and makes up for any limitations in appearance with a disarming charisma rendering him profoundly likeable. You meet this guy and wish he was one of your best friends in five minutes. You want to grab a beer with him, invite him to parties, have him over for dinner. All of that.

His (to-be-ex)wife I've only met once or twice and briefly at that, but she's one of those cheerleader-ish, fit, blonde, drop-dead gorgeous types that you will absolutely hate if she isn't the sweetest person in the world. (I can't attest to her personality because I don't really know her.)

I rather imagine that to those around them they have that "perfect couple" vibe - you can just imagine them meeting in mixers for their sororities / fraternities.

And now, as previously mentioned, they're in the middle of a divorce. From the whisperings around the office and the occasional sardonically self-deprecating comments by the to-be-divorced, it seems that they'd been having a few problems for a while but that she found herself a boyfriend and now is the driving force behind the desired-for divorce.

It's a pretty common occurrence, but that doesn't make it any better or easier. I have been impressed with my youthful coworker - I don't think he's known that long but he doesn't have the run-over-by-a-semi look that I had for roughly 6 months after the Frog dropped me. He doesn't look all teary and miserable, he seems to be eating just fine, etc etc etc.

I asked him today how he's really doing. He said some days he's fine, and others it's hard to get out of bed.

I can't begin to explain how thoroughly I empathize with him. When the Frog walked out the door (or rather, kicked me out of his) everything in my shattered into a million tiny pieces. I'm sure it's only a fraction of how the Kid feels, since he and his (ex)wife have been together so long.

In the age of divorce and laissez-faire lovin', it takes an inordinate amount of courage to say the words "I do." Everyone who utters them is taking the biggest of all risks - a risk of getting hurt so badly that you will never recover, a risk of giving up all other possible (better?) partners, a risk of failure or a future of monotony.

Despite this, in the past year-ish almost every one of my past lovers has fallen completely in love with the person they date directly after me. If they're not married or engaged they are quickly on the way there. (Apparently I have a gift.) Several friends have gotten married, not the least of which are the Comedian and the Vegetarian.

Frankly, it is incomprehensible for me to imagine what that is like. To commit to someone so fully and completely. More than that, it is incomprehensible that anyone would ever want to make a commitment like that to me.

I wrote myself off a long time ago and am resigned to eternal singleness…okay, I’ll just say it: spinsterhood.

If relationships (and flings) are successful because they force us to grow and change, then each one of mine has been. If they are successful because of how they’ve ended and actions taken during them, then I’m a whopping failure.

I have had five primary relationships that started, crashed and burned in my young dating life. I have an amazing talent for getting dumped. Of course, half of that is getting into relationships with the wrong person in the first place. (Look: I'm fucked-up. You should know this now.) At the end of the last few I drank a lot, cried a lot, made a lot of stupid mistakes, took comfort in mildly self-destructive behavior (see what I mean? fucked. up.) and had a couple worthless hook-ups that left me feeling cheap and used and empty. And I got over them.

I suppose in this pathetic and roundabout way I’m trying to say that I admire the Kid. He put his heart out there. He took the big risk. He’s being crushed, but soon enough he’ll recover (even when it seems that there’s no recovery in sight). He’ll find love again, because he’s the type who falls in love and has women fall in love with him. He’ll marry and have children. No matter what he feels in this moment, his happily ever after will come.

For some of us, that is a risk we can't take. It's not just that we won't... it's that we don't even know how. Personally, I can't conceive of what it means to take that risk and fall in love and find that littler personal victory: one small happily-ever-after in life. And, well... I don’t imagine a person can have what they can’t conceive of.

People willing to take these risks deserve the ultimate support when it slips through their fingers.

In every way do I ache for the Kid. The many nights of cold sheets and mornings of groggy confusion followed by crushing heartache…Nothing is worth that. I wish I could hold him until it fades away (sentimental? Disgustingly sweet? Perhaps – but don’t get used to it because it won’t happen again). Wish I could make it better somehow, or take on that feeling myself that he might not experience it, but I can’t. I wish I could sit down over hard liquor with him and have a long chat about what he's feeling and my experience in overcoming it. Wish that I could hold his hand, sign him up for classes to keep him mentally and physically occupied, and be an endless source of hugs. A safe haven for tears.

Instead, I see him at work, smile sympathetically and try very hard not to cross the boundary of socially inappropriate, anticipating his big risk. Even those of use who can't conceive of taking the risk are profoundly happy for those who do.

Are you fucking serious? (Also: Why I love Jon Stewart)

2009-10-16T08:39:00.000-07:00

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Rape-Nuts

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show
Full Episodes

Political Humor

Ron Paul Interview

From Rachel Maddow: Southern States & Women's Health Care

2009-10-08T16:27:00.000-07:00

I never watch Rachel Maddow. In fact, I don't really watch most "mainstream" news channels. This was brought to my attention from a friend and I thought I'd share.

Miles Fisher + American Psycho + Talking Heads = Freakin' Sweet

2009-08-04T10:34:00.000-07:00

I didn't even LIKE American Psycho (talk about a snoozefest) but I love this.

"Hi, Mom!" By Nathan Timmel

2009-07-24T09:35:00.000-07:00

A dear friend (the nathan timmel named above) compiled this during a USO tour he did. (He's a comic. Sometimes.) Great and sweet video.

Am I the only one who is constantly shocked by how young these guys are? <3>

From Post Secret.

2009-07-10T10:48:00.000-07:00

Welcome

2009-06-29T19:04:00.001-07:00

Sitting around one day, popping Prozac** and wondering what my therapist meant by "I'd like to see you as often as possible," I realized that I needed to take up a "creative outlet" and try to separate some of the(multitude of) rambling ideas in my head. You know - kick it out of my head, expunge it from my soul, that kind of thing. Also, to have a place where I can use words like "expunge" while blathering on about social issues and new stories. And stuff.

Hence, bloggy. Hopefully to be funny, always to be rambling, and sometimes to be coherent. Maybe.

So, you know... read and stuff. And comment if you want. Or don't. Whatever.

Cheers!

**I wasn't actually popping Prozac. Xanax, maybe, but not Prozac.