I'll be taking a few days off from blogging, as I've got some personal stuff to work out.
I'll be by every once in a while in case the comments go out of wack, but for all intents and purposes, things should be mostly quiet on the new-posts front, unless we go to war with Iran, Roe v. Wade is overturned, or someone in my immediate circle dies.
At which point, I'll be blasting again in a public forum. For now, I'm going to go bitch to my private peeps forum about Life Issues.
See you all in a couple days.
Monday, January 17, 2005
I'll be taking a few days off from blogging, as I've got some personal stuff to work out.
Ha. I was hoping this one would get a reaction from him...
Check out Brendan's take on being the son of a feminist. I keep wishing this guy lived in Chicago. We'd go watch fights at the Aragon and argue gender politics over Thai food, and he'd have a blast with Jenn's circle of psychology students...
Oh well. That's what blogging's for: finding your people, however scattered they may be.
...you glance over at the Everclear CD next to your computer and think, "Hey, I'd like to listen to that. But aren't I listening to it right now? What disk is in the machine?"
Well, no, Kameron, you wouldn't be listening to it right now because you're staring at it sitting on your desk.
My brain has died. I'm heading out to kickboxing.
Seriously gotta get this shit together. It's the fucking 21st century.
Fierce arguments have gone on inside and outside the Food and Drug Administration, which may decide as soon as this week whether drug stores can sell the emergency contraception known as Plan B without a prescription to women age 16 and older.
Easy access to this kind of birth control might "encourage women to have sex."
Oh, wouldn't that be terrible.
Last May, the FDA rejected nonprescription sales of emergency contraception, against the overwhelming recommendation of the agency's own scientific advisers.
Your body is a battleground...
Random rant from prettygirl
Clear. Blue. Not So Easy. Day!
You're gonna have to get outta town. If your Dad finds out, he'll have it taken away from you because he thinks you're dangerous. And if your ex-boyfriend finds out, he'll try to get custody. And with your record, he'd stand a hell of a good shot (You threw your mom down some steps).
When you get across the state lines, open a bar. Name the bar and the baby the same name. Gluggs. The bar will become your favorite place in the world.
Your dad, your ex-boyfriend, and the law are gonna come after you to get their hands on the kid. When they all die, it will be thanks to your son. He'll have killed them to save your life. That night, he'll burn down the bar and take off.
Though you won't have the bar anymore, you won't be sad. Because you'll know that somewhere in this country Gluggs lives on in the shape of your beautiful boy. All you ever wanted was a bar that would outlive you.
Happy Clear. Blue. Not So Easy. Day!
Someday, I will have a real job. In the mean time, some breathing space:
"Aerodynamically the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn't know that so it goes on flying anyway."
- Mary Kay Ash
"Life is hard. After all, it kills you."
- Katharine Hepburn
"Let us not confuse stability with stagnation."
- Mary Jean LeTendre
"The lovely thing about being forty is that you can appreciate twenty-five-year-old men more."
- Colleen McCullough
"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."
- Anais Nin
Actually, raising up boys to believe that women are people too is pretty fucking cool:
In the past several years we’ve seen a glut of magazine articles, talk shows and books like The War on Boys: How Misguided Feminism is Harming Our Boys and The Decline of Males demonizing a simple term: feminism. How silly. Feminists are people who believe women deserve the same opportunities and compensation as men...
I believe feminists by their very nature imparted questioning minds to their sons, encouraging them to question stereotypes including those existing within our school system: jocks, nerds, freaks and snobs. They learned from us that name-calling is a critical part of alienation. We taught them to appreciate differences, not disdain them, to neither be nor seek victims.
We taught them to be discerning, to carefully evaluate influences, ranging from peer pressure to media input.
For feminists active in the business and political community, sons learned to interact with a myriad of individuals, from the powerful to the disenfranchised. They carried those experiences with them, and, I believe, profited as adults. I also think we imparted a sense of purpose in our sons, the knowledge that every life is part of something bigger and does make a difference.
Children of feminists know that every stand they take may not be popular. They may be subjected to ridicule or contempt as a result of their beliefs. But through the examples of their mothers, they know a worthy stand is worth the price.
I got my quarterly or whatever stock statement yesterday. I put 3% of every paycheck into a diversified stock account, which includes stock in my own company. And my eyes boggled at the dollar amount.
In the last year, stock in my company has nearly doubled.
We're doing Iraq contracts, afterall.
I find it deeply ironic that somebody like me, the white, educated, working-for-the-man type who's financially benefiting from the presidency of George W. Bush is actually more anti-Bush, pro-taxes, actually-some-socialism-is-neat than the Midwesterner whose factory job has been outsourced to India who won't have any retirement (stock or otherwise) or social security benefits in old age and whose daughter's children he'll have to support because his vote for Bush was a vote against Roe vs. Wade.
Interview with Gloria Steinem in The Guardian.
"What is frustrating," Steinem says now, "is being told that no matter how hard I've worked, it counts less than my appearance. Although if you're not considered conventionally attractive, that also becomes an issue: you know, you're a feminist because you couldn't get a man." Still, there is a part of her that doesn't like getting older. "You become less visible. You become a category rather than an individual - an Older Woman."
Thanks to my buddy Julian for the link.
And this was the moment when I realized it, musing through the LSAT center, law school websites, looking at requirements, cut-off dates:
The LSAT test day is over four hours long. Keep your pencil moving to help yourself stay focused. If there is anything the LSAT measures, it is raw determination and endurance.
And I thought... You know, I could do this. Hell, I mean, what else am I doing? I mean, besides the boxing, the work travel, the book writing... er, I mean, really, what else am I doing?
Spend 6 months studying for the LSATs? Take it once in June and again in October, if I totally crap it. It's not like it'll be the end of the world if I suck. Then I'll at least know, and I can do something else. Falling flat on my face doesn't bother me.
Took the morning to come up with a list of law schools in the northeast and a couple in Seattle. And the whole world just narrowed, and everything just lined up and came into focus.
This is why I took two years off from school. To find that moment.
I mean, I don't expect to get into Columbia or anything, but why the fuck not apply to 12 or 15 schools: if they all tell me to go to hell, so what? I have a bunch of other shit I've been wanting to do. No sweat off my back (prepare for: "and they all told me to go to hell - anybody want to go to Peru?" - I'm a realist).
I can rock out the personal essay and why I want to do it, the "South Africa" thing always peaks people's interest, and being another 40K in debt doesn't bother me. It's just money. You can't take it with you.
Fuck it. I've been chewing on it too long. I took a year and a half off to figure out what I wanted. It finally clicked. I can quit at any point in the process, and it gives me something to work toward. My brain is dying. I've been going crazy being out of school for so long. I need a challenge. This feels right. If I bomb the LSATs, at least I'll have given myself the challenge of studying for the LSATs.
It occurs to me that last night I had a conversation with Jenn that went something like this:
Me: "You know, I've been running really fast for the last seven years. I want some down time. I need to take some time to appreciate what I've got."
Jenn: "That makes sense. That sounds like a really good idea."
Me: "You realize that that's just my stance on it now, for this moment?"
Jenn: "Yea. We're the sorts of people who pile a lot on our plates."
That attitude lasted exactly one night.
I'm fucking hilarious.
Do you even want my commentary?
My attraction to Yellow is based purely on looks and familiarity. Yes, motorcycle riding would be fun. Yes, he is a nice person. He is funny. He can be dorky. But he's not a real dork. He's the sort of guy who would take me out, but hide me from his friends, cause I'm not the sort of woman he "should" be dating (read, thin blond stewardess. Yes, he once regaled our group with news of a date with a blond stewardess who "wouldn't stop talking").
No, I am not batshit-fucking-insane about him. I do not angst over him. He doesn't read books. He is convienent to sigh over for about four days a month (what would we do the rest of the time?). So, what's the point? I'm fucking busy, not tossing and turning about him - I know exactly what the sighing's actually about: he's the only single guy of about my age and close enough to my type who I actually interact with on a semi-regular basis. He merely looks very pretty today, walking through the office.
I appreciate that.
Ah, hormones. Just that: hormones. Funny, how I still have that little social twinge: no, no, I can't just be sexually attracted to somebody, I have to pretend I'm romantically crazy about him.
Actually, no. I can appreciate that I'm not nuts about him. He's just damn pretty.
Social pressures on repressing female desire? If-I'm-hot-on-him-I-have-to-figure-out-how-to-marry-him? When that's absolutely not what I want at all?
Unfortunately, I didn't write it:
"Listen up, you grain-fed honky dickweeds - not just you, WW, but every fucking honky out there needs to hear this. We're not alive for very long. Have you noticed this, dickcheeses? We do not have all the fucking time in the world to draw up cost-benefit analyses on potential long-term pairings. If you're not swept the fuck away by your lady, move the fuck on. If you're not gritting your teeth and biting the palm of your hand like goddamn Squiggy every time she walks by, get over it. If you're not having the best sex of your life - and this is when you do that, dummies, in your mid-fucking-thirties, this is your big fucking shot at great sex, or at least this is where it starts - if you're not blown away, freaking out, breaking out, thrilled, shivery, talking a lot, sending stupid fucking emails to each other, rolling around, sighing, bragging, buying dumb little gifts - then how do you think you'll feel in a few years when you're fucking old and creaky and you have three little doo-doo factories in residence? You fucking dumbass honky-ass losers.
This is how you find the man/woman of your dreams, stupids: You refuse to waste time on the man/woman of your loneliness-fueled spreadsheets. And if you can't get worked up over anyone... well, Jesus, what is wrong with you? Can you get worked up over anything at all? Here in LA, lots of people wax romantic about movies, but when it comes to their real lives, they're fucking numb and alienated and don't see the raw thrill, the breathtaking drama of every little minute. Blahblahblah boringcakes, motherfuckers! The girl who made you your coffee this morning has beautiful green eyes, and she paints weird portraits of her customers and keeps chocolate and rope stashed in her nightstand and she reads books about gardening and she knows what she wants. You could spend the next two months in bed, honkwinders, getting tied up and eating chocolate and watching old movies in the middle of the night. You could be swooning and sighing and feeling like the world is opening up like a flower. So why are you watching "Survivor" with that guy who bores the shit out of you, and pisses you off, and doesn't give a flying fuck about how you feel, ever, and mostly just wants you to get to the point and stop crying? Why are you heating up canned soup and wondering about the long-term viability of negotiating a reasonably satisfying coexistence with someone 3,000 miles away?
You stupid bitches. You're wasting your fucking time. Whenever someone really digs you, you go numb. Whenever you really like someone, you decide to just ignore the fact that they don't like you nearly as much. Or maybe you married someone, and now you give that person your worst possible self day after day, and then wonder why they look so crumpled and lame to you now. Go ahead, put it off, get back to work. Love is only the greatest fucking thing in the entire universe, but hey, you've got a presentation to finish, and besides, you can't really change anything, and only flakes and dreamers care about this shit.
Life is short, dippies. Today is the day to make your move. Buy some flowers, and a lottery ticket, and start to believe in the possibility that your life could be big and bright and pretty. As Frances McDormand says in "Almost Famous," "Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid." Magic, honkies! Believe in magic for once in your narrow little lives. Give up on the mundane for a minute, and open up your hearts, and listen to all the dead people in your office and on the street outside, screaming the same thing: "Live, motherfuckers! Stop planning and fucking LIVE."
Read it all.
Listening to too much from Emotive, particularly: Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums. It appeals to my dark, cynical, pissed-off side.
Rumsfeld added that America was committed to staying in Iraq and that there would be no second-guessing.
“This is a war against terrorism, and Iraq is just one campaign. The Bush Administration is looking at this as a huge war zone,” the former high-level intelligence official told me. “Next, we’re going to have the Iranian campaign. We’ve declared war and the bad guys, wherever they are, are the enemy. This is the last hurrah—we’ve got four years, and want to come out of this saying we won the war on terrorism.”
Check it out.
Via Bitch Ph.D.
Well, you could try improving ratings by getting 52% of the population up off the bench.
Better as spouses and cheerleaders?
Well then, crash & burn, baby. Unless you're going to market these couples as real people (and from what I've seen, they aren't. From what I've seen of the couples [they aren't selling this as a boxing reality tv show, but a "character" show "about" the boxers and their families], they're pretty gender-conformist), what you've got is a niche sport that you're only showing as being performed by less than half the population.
Ratings burn. Raise the bar, would you?
All that said, I intend to watch the first show. After all, I e-mailed Jenn from Denver and made her tape the latest installment of the puke-fest that is Battlestar Galactica on that King of All Misogynist Channels, Sci-fi. It's like an abusive relationship: you like the idea of what you could possibly experience, you're deeply invested, and you keep hoping it'll get better.
Like a rat and random electric shocks.
Woke up from a dream about going to New York with my sister, losing her and her son at a theater party held by an old high school friend of mine I once had a crush on, got lost on the train (numbers? colors? Does anyone remember what stop we got off at, shit, how does this system work? What street is this?), my dad flew in to check on us (insisting it was on his way to some pizza convention), which made me really angry, cause I'd already lost my sister and her kid (failing at my older-sibling duty), my plane ticket reservations were messed up, I had to call into work to say I was "accidently" in New York for a day, having screwed up my reservations somehow, I couldn't stay longer because my sister was going to room with some random guy she met at the party instead of splitting costs with me, my bank account was almost nil, I had just enough to change my ticket reservations, it was raining, and I was hovering near the phone, fuming from debating with the ticket people, and engaging in a furious internal debate about whether or not I was going to call Brendan and beg a beer during my last 12 hours in the city.
If that doesn't perfectly encapsulate all of my neuroses, I don't know what does.