I'm as cuddly as a cactus

Confession: I don't like Christmas.  It's my least favorite holiday, not just because I have a grinch-like personality, but also because 1. I'm not Christian so I don't see why I'm supposed to celebrate it   2.  I hate excessive American consumerism and 3. all it means for me personally is running around to 3-4 different houses in one day to fulfill familial obligations, and I firmly believe that holidays should be relaxing.


So, I was slightly annoyed when I had to wait 4 hours to use my kitchen this evening because it was filled with older women bickering with each other over the proper way to mash potatoes (by hand, with a masher, or with an electric mixer).  I had lots of vegan cooking to do if I wanted to have fancy food to eat for Christmas (and, while I'm not a huge fan of Xmas, I am a fan of vegan feasts, and I'm definitely NOT a fan of watching other people gorge on animal products while I have nothing tasty to eat).  I began prepping my food in the kitchen only to get all but kicked out, because it's tricky to cook when literally every single kitchen utensil is commandeered by one of two crazy old ladies..... even though I started cooking first.

I found myself up until 1am finishing my tasty vegan menu (traveling to 3 different places to celebrate Xmas leaves me little time to actually cook on Xmas day).   On my 4th glass of wine, I realized that cooking was getting more and more challenging, but in the end I hope it'll be worth it.

The menu:

Cinnamon rolls (for xmas morning)
Butternut squash and apple soup
Cashew nut roast with sage and onion stuffing
Quinoa salad with tomatoes, basil, and chickpeas
Pumpkin chocolate chip cookies

I think my Mom may also prepare one batch of green beans with margarine instead of butter, so I can eat them.  She's so flexible and concerned that I have something to eat (for those of you who need the clarification, yes that was sarcastic).   I love her anyway though.

The items I picked to make were somewhat laborious, and definitely pricey.   In fact, my check-card was declined at Safeway this afternoon when I spent over $100 on groceries, and I stood at the check out line feeling embarrassed that I had no other way to pay.   Before I left for the grocery store, I had logged into my bank account online and intended to transfer money from savings to checking, knowing I'd be spending alot of money on dishes that required a plethora of ingredients.

I stood at the register, insisting to the cashier that this made no sense; it obviously wasn't her fault but we needed to call my bank or something.

"I just checked my bank account before coming here.  In fact I transferred money into my account just in case!"

I had the pleasure of calling my mom and asking her to come to the grocery store and pay my $70 grocery bill (I paid the first 30 in cash), and her thinking I was a moron for not managing my money well.

Shortly after calling her, I realized I have a somewhat smart-phone, and logged in to check my bank account online.   I quickly realized the problem; my absent-minded self transferred money from checking to savings instead of the other way around, leaving a mere $20 in my checking account.   I fixed the problem almost instantly (yay, internet!), explained to the manager that I'm a moron, and he laughed, allowed me to pay my bill and take my food and leave.  Undoubtedly his impression of me went from deadbeat to ditzy spoiled moron in 2 seconds flat. I'm actually not sure which impression I'd prefer people have of me, though I was glad to have my overpriced goods.

For my first vegan Christmas, I feel a decent amount of pressure to show my relatives that being vegan doesn't mean I don't eat, and in fact I eat alot of tasty dishes.   How does Christmas become about dispelling myths about veganism instead of Jesus, loved ones, and Santa? 

Easy.  I'm a heathen.

Before you finish reading this post with the impression that I'm a grinch with a heart 3 sizes too small (or is it 2 sizes...?), tonight I helped my sisters type up letters to Santa.

My 11 year old sister (yes, she still believes in Santa) typed a letter essentially saying "Dear Santa, Thanks for stopping by, but we have alot of relatives and alot of gifts here already, I don't think we need much more.  Enjoy the cookies!"  I teared up (yes, literally) at her selflessness, though I remembered shortly after that she's manipulative and it could all be a ploy to get Santa, admiring her lack of greed, to leave her MORE stuff.

My 8 year old sister left a slightly bossier note, one that I typed up for her and debated whether to point out to her that it was rude (I didn't). 

"Dear Santa,

I hope you traveled safe.   I just wanted to let you know that Stephanie's old stocking is now MY stocking, because Mom said that Stephanie doesn't need presents from Santa any more because she's grown.   And Stephanie's old stocking matches Rachel's better than my old stocking, so I'm taking Stephanie's.  You might not know it, but last year you kind of messed up and switched Rachel and Stephanie's stockings.  Make sure you put Rachel's gifts in the Moose stocking and mine in the Teddy Bear stocking.  Also, I hope you brought me what I wanted..... a dress.

Your friend,
Jordan"

Children's notes to Santa make my heart grow at least 1 size.  I'm slightly less grinchy now.

Ways to feel like a terrible person: #1 - Sick your dog on the housekeeper

My family dog, Ubu, is a playful lab that pretends to be super protective.  He growls when anyone nears an entrance of our house, and as soon as someone actually walks in the door, quickly begins wagging his tail in hopes of getting some attention and love.

Because of his fierce attitude when potential bad guys are at a distance, but his enthusiasm and friendliness when anyone actually gets near him, my family and I play a game with Ubu when anyone knocks on the door.

"Get the bad guys Ubu!  Get the bad guys!" We rile him up, to see how much we can get him to growl and bark at the door, and whether it might actually scare the person outside, who is always someone that we know.

Last night my mom told me to make sure to pick all my stuff up off the floor in the morning, so that Dala the housekeeper could vacuum.   After doing this, I immediately forget that Dala is coming, sit on the couch drinking my coffee, and when I hear a car pull up in the driveway, begin instructing Ubu "get the bad guys!!"

Assuming it was my mom walking in from running some errands, I continue to get Ubu all worked up when I hear the door open and someone step inside. 

"Get her! Is it a bad guy Ubu?  Get her!!"

To my surprise, Ubu continues growling, though by this point from where he's sitting, he should be able to see my mother and be jumping all over her and giving her kisses.

A woman starts muttering quickly and fearfully in a language I don't understand, and I get up off the couch and walk near the door to see the woman that must be Dala.

"Oh my god -I'm sorry! It's just a game.. I thought you were someone else!! I'm so sorry!!  Ubu, sit!"  I try to apologize and keep the dog away from her.

Dala walked past me without saying a word, and to be fair I'd be kind of pissed too if I walked in to be underpaid to clean someone's house and they sent their dog over to attack me.

The inner workings of Stephanie's brain

People often ask me, or I can tell from the puzzled looks on their faces that they're wondering, What goes on in your head?

To partially answer this question, I've provided snippets of interactions I've had recently that prompted me to retreat into my own brain and ponder things. 




Tonight my step-dad showed me a car he was looking at online, one that I pointed out cost more than my college education.

"Well... it's 400 horsepower."
"Did you just compare the value of this car to the value of my college education?"
"Yep...I mean not just any car. This one is 400 horsepower."

I wonder what "horsepower" even means, as it's a word I've never cared enough to think about before tonight. Does this mean a car with 400 horsepower has the capacity to move at 400 times the speed of a horse?  That it would take the strength of 400 horses to move this car?  I decide no on the second theory, as people often have to push dying cars to the side of the road and usually don't have 400 horses to help them accomplish this.  It must be the first theory, I decide. If I google it and get a boring answer that doesn't support my theory, I'll be disappointed, so I've decided not to.


In making some cooking plans, I started to google a question, to the effect of Is such and such brand of something or other vegan.

After typing the word "is," I see that google has already generated a list of questions I might intend to type.


Is facebook down?
Is Beyonce pregnant?
Is Lady Gaga a man?
Is Mariah Carey pregnant?


I tried to imagine caring about the answers to any of those questions, except of course the facebook one. I immediately checked to see whether I could log into facebook, and with a sigh of relief when I successfully did, I closed out the site anyway and returned to cooking plans.



I became a big fat introvert when some distant relatives came to stay for the holidays. One of them, a woman who commented on how I'm such an adult since she last saw me, (I'm not convinced we've actually ever met before today) prides herself on seeing how many consecutive sentences she can utter before having to stop for a breath. While I know I am occasionally guilty of doing this myself (my record is 2.7 minutes without having to breathe), when others do it I sort of want to crawl into a hole and die.

So when my grandma (no, not the Mormon one) asked if I wanted a glass of wine at 4pm, I replied "Yes, please!!" and sipped a smooth red wine (one that's likely far out of my price range when my family isn't footing the bill) while mentally drowning out her ramble about democrats ruining the world. I fantasized about a future holiday spent with an unknown future significant other and their well-adjusted, gay-friendly, anti-racist family - who perhaps also start drinking delicious wine at 4pm.



This evening I was accused by my grandma of not following my vegan diet when I used chocolate chips to make cookies.

"Milk is just something the Europeans put in our chocolate to water it down for us and keep the good stuff for themselves," I explained, "like the English did when they sent us beer."
"Is that true?" she asked.
"Basically.  I mean... pretty much.These are semi-sweet chocolate chips. They have cocoa and sugar... but they're not processed with milk. You just have to know the right brands to buy."

A quick taste-test passed my chocolate-addicted grandmother's test, and I wonder how it is that a chocolate fiend like her never realized that milk chocolate ISN'T the good stuff, and if any of the stuff I just claimed had any partial truth to it.

My eavesdropping step-father looked at his beer, undoubtedly pondering whether he should head to England for a better pint.

Behave children... Or Santa will curse you.

Santa (this dude on the left, if you're unfamiliar) recently asked me to help him with a Christmas project for my sister, Rachel.  He plans to hide her main present in a certain room of my house, and asked me to create a scavenger hunt in different rooms of the house, ending with her gift.


Today I wrote up five clues to be attached to Candy Canes, the first of which she'll find in her stocking, the last of which will lead her to her new bike. 
 

The second candy cane she finds will have this note attached:

Congratulations! You're well on your way,
I want you to work for this gift I brought on my sleigh,
Here's another clue to help in your looking
You'll find it in the room where your Mom does the cooking.
 
The scavenger hunt continues, and even includes a fake-out, in which Rachel will receive one clue that says her gift is in the basement, but then will arrive in the basement to find a note:

Ha! I got you… you thought your gift was down here!
Santa has a sense of humor, my dear

Eventually, Rachel will get to her bike.  I decided there needed to be a final note on the bike - to bring closure to the scavenger hunt.  My writer's block kicked in after the first five verses, and I struggled to find appropriate rhymes for the last one.

Hoping for some helpful feedback from my friend Amanda, I sent her this:

I hope you're excited, you've found it at last!
Be careful not to drive it too fast,
Always wear a helmet - safety first
Merry Christmas dear Rachel, I hope it's not cursed!

I then proceeded to laugh about the word "cursed" (which I obviously did not intend to use in the real poem, but I had to entertain myself through my writer's block) for several minutes.   I tried to find alternatives, interjecting the word fun into my poem, but my useless rhyming dictionary only suggested that I rhyme "fun" with "Satan."

In fact, I frequently use Satan in my methods of achieving fun: my mom has decorative letters she puts out every Christmas that spell out Santa, and I tend to make a game of re-arranging them to spell "Satan" and waiting to see how long it takes her to notice.  She gets really mad.

When I told Amanda how hilarious I found my "cursed" poem, she suggested that perhaps I need more sleep.  I pointed out that between 12pm yesterday and 12pm today, I slept for 18 hours (don't judge me for my gluttonous sleep habits, blame the surgery and the meds).

In my well-rested state and with a clear mind, I've decided to become a writer of children's books. 

First titles to include "Fun with Satan," and "Behave, or Santa Will Curse You."

I have the break-up skills of a 14 year old

I recently signed up for a netflix account, mostly so that I could stay up until 4am every night watching 24.  But last night I needed a break from the addiction, and instead opted for a Swedish film about teen lesbians (no, not porn).

I read the subtitles as popular, attractive Elin struggled with her sexuality as she fell for Agnes, a nerdy socially rejected lesbian at her school.  After the two made out, Elin freaked out and started dating Johan, a boy who had been relentlessly pursuing her.

One day, Elin was hanging out with Johan in her living room.  She retreated to her bedroom, closed the door, and called him on his cell phone. 

"I don't want to see you any more.  You can leave."  She said (though not in English).

The next day, Elin called Johan again. 

"I'm sorry... but I'm in love with someone else."

Wait... did this girl really dump him via phone from the next room, then call him the next day to dump him again and mention that she was in love with someone else?   Elin is a little harsh.

Still, I couldn't help but think that I'm not any more gifted when it comes to rejecting people.  Perhaps it's because my first boyfriend (in 8th grade) dumped me in a letter, and I subconsciously desire to achieve such horrendous ways of breaking up with people.   Or maybe it's because I lack general social skills, I don't know.  I feel badly about the ways that I've ended things with some people; I've never been mean to someone out of malice, but I'm sure my lack of willingness to be forward and blunt has come across as bitchy in the past. 

It's cool though.  I know my strengths and weaknesses, and while I  may not be a good breaker-upper, I am good at watching hot Swedish lesbians break the hearts of straight teenage boys.

Never trust children

I've been wearing one of my step-dad's tee shirts for the last two days, from a 2001 "Pig Roast" my entire immediate family attended... except for my youngest sister, who was not yet born.

My family finds it ironic that the vegan is the one walking around in a Pig Roast tee shirt, and I have to agree, but it's the most comfortable baggy tee-shirt I've been able to locate after my surgery.

As a child I was dragged to these annual pig roast events; I never had much interest in them as a vegetarian and just generally as someone who thinks seeing a dead pig is disgusting.   But the host of these parties made them family-friendly events (if you consider watching a pig spin like a rotisserie chicken in a large bonfire kid-friendly), and went out of his way to make it a fun shindig.  There were moon bounces, games, lots of other food, and one year - a  dunk tank.

The 2001 Pig Roast - the shirt which I'm currently wearing - was the year that I volunteered to be in the dunk tank for a few hours.   As a 14 or 15 year old, I constantly bitched about any event my parents dragged me to, and the whining was particularly bad if it involved watching an animal roast with an apple in its mouth.  I suspect that asking me to sit in the dunk tank was a way to curtail the whining a little; if I was under water, no one could hear me complain, plus I was far enough away from the pig bonfire that I wasn't quite as grossed out as usual. 

As the product of my mother's first marriage, I have always been signficantly older than the kids of my parents' friends.   Family/friend events growing up were not so much entertaining for me, as they were an opportunity for people to use me as a free babysitter.   I sat in the dunk tank on a chilly Saturday in October, as a bunch of kids under the age of 10 skipped the part where they were supposed to throw a ball and see if they could knock me in, in favor of just running up and pushing the button so that I'd fall into the water every time I had barely even taken a seat inside the dunk tank.

I considered this an easy baby-sitting job, as the children were all uninterested in leaving the area around the dunk tank, and while it was exhausting to constantly fall and have to climb back up on the bench, at least I didn't have to chase children around the large backyard.  Rachel, my middle sister, was 3 at the time, and already learning how to torment her big sister.  She was perhaps the worst perpetrator of "cheating" at dunking me.

Today the tables turned a little; as my mom left to run some errands she yelled as she walked out the door
"Rachel! Watch your big sister!  Make sure she walks around."

Engaged in an intense game of battleship with me, my sister mutters "Sure,"  then refocuses on sinking my submarine (she won, but only because once again, she cheated).   Positive that my sister would forget by the time we finished our game, I ignored the fact that my mom told my 11 year old sister to babysit me.  Mom and I have had a debate over the last several days as to whether I've been walking enough (as this activity is supposed to prevent me getting blod clots), and I guess she trusts Rachel to manipulate me into walking.

Understandable, as yesterday she successfully manipulated me into going for a walk around the house.

"Steph, come here I have to show you something!" Rachel called me up to her room, and I dragged myself off the couch after she refused to tell me what she wanted to show me, as I have a weakness for mystery.

I get into Rachel's room, and she exclaimed "Oh, I think it's in Jordan's room."  We walked over to our other sister's room together.

By the third room she dragged me to, I realized there was in fact nothing to show me and that she was manipulating me into going for a walk against my will.

Normally, this is the point where I would tackle and tickle her, or pick her up and hold her upside down, but that seemed unwise given my stitches and the fact that I'm not supposed to lift more than 5 pounds.

For now, I just have to accept that my 11 year old sister is good at manipulating me, and good at cheating.  I'd like to say she learned from the best... but I think she's better than me.

People can't drive

Last night one of my closest friends got in a car accident on her way to visit me, while I was on the phone with her.

I heard a loud banging noise, then the phone drop, Amanda exclaiming "crap!" and at some point picking up the phone to tell me she was in an accident and would call me back.  She texted me later to let me know that she had her parents come pick her up, and I was relieved to know that she was okay.   As was pointed out to me earlier today, "cars are replaceable, Amandas are not."

My mom came into my room this morning and woke me up, having seen Amanda's facebook status about air bags and texted her (yes, my mom has both a facebook and texting relationship with MY complicated facebook lover), telling me:

"She's okay.... don't freak out.... but Amanda was in an accident last night."
"Yea I know."
"You know?  How do you know?"
"She was on her way over here last night."
"Oh so it's your fault?"
"Thanks Mom, I didn't feel guilty enough as it is."
"So you talked to her last night after it happened?"
"Not exactly..."
"Oh my god! You were on the phone with her!"
"Yea..."
"So... it's actually your fault! I can't believe you called her while you knew she was driving!"

Eventually, I convinced my mom that I had called Amanda to ask her to make a quick stop on the way to my house, NOT to conspire with the jackass who parked his car, lights off at midnight, in the MIDDLE OF THE HIGHWAY (yeah, I imagine that would've been a hard accident to avoid regardless of whether she was on her phone).

I learned three things from this incident:

1. Amandas (and other friends) are irreplaceable.  They should not get into car accidents.
2.  Blaming people is annoying.  Unless they're parked in the middle of a highway, in which case they're idiots who deserve to be blamed for stuff.
3.  Amanda should get a job in Annapolis, so she doesn't even have to get on the highway to come over to my house and hang out.

I like sparkles

In no way did I expect to get pre or post-op gifts, but I've gotten a handful, though the most interesting one came today. 

My boss gave me a book a couple weeks ago, one that she found particularly inspirational and suggested I read it while recovering and bored.  My step-mom and Carolyn both gave me Victoria's Secret gift cards for the bra shopping I'll need to do soon, and Carolyn also gave me a delicious jar of homemade jam that serves as a great Percocet chaser.

Today Emily came to visit me, bearing a small gift bag with a bottle of body glitter inside.

Now, we all know I have an affinity for shiny, sparkly things.   Emily admitted that she found this in her room, and had purchased it who knows when for someone else, but found it and thought I'd like it.    She was right. 

What I found most entertaining was Emily's comment shortly after I opened the package with glitter.

"I think it's edible, too!"  Emily then took the body glitter from me and read the package to confirm that it indeed, is edible.

Edible body glitter is pretty awesome.  Now, perhaps it doesn't have the most utility in comparison to Victoria's secret gift cards or Jam, but it is indeed the most creative gift related to... things I could do with my body after surgery.  Am I to have someone lick it off my new, perkier boobs?   Lick it off someone else?  Decorate my home-made jam with it?  Dip my percocet in it?  The possibilities are endless.

I haven't decided yet.  But I do know... that Emily is awesome.

In other news, today my mom gave me medicine that expired 5 years ago, AND I showered for the first time since Sunday.   I feel both sick to my stomach, and really clean.

My surgery wasn't vegan.

Two days ago, in case you missed my continual facebook updates and people's comments about "the girls," I had breast reduction surgery.   I walked into the "pre-op" room, where I was instructed to change into a gown, anti-embolism stockings, cozy slipper socks, and... extremely ugly, baggy, "surgery panties," which were G-string style.   G strings... are not necessarily sexy.  The good news is I never soiled them.
Terrified that the anesthesia wouldn't work on me and I'd be awake through surgery, Grey's Anatomy style, I spoke with the anesthesiologist before my operation, who asked a series of questions about what I am allergic to, to make sure she didn't poison me to death.  

"Are you allergic to eggs?"  She asked.
"Um, no... but I don't consume them, I'm vegan," I responded.

Apparently egg lecithin can help prevent blod clots, which I suppose is a good thing.  Obviously if I had said I was allergic to eggs (or that I refused medicine with eggs in it), the anesthesiologist would have given me some sort of alternative drug, as presumably even people who are allergic to eggs need surgery now and then.  But, I allowed the anesthesiologist to give me the egg medicine, thinking it was probably ideal that I go with her first choice recommendation for anesthesia.

You know how in movies/tv, people always get to count backwards from 100 when they're being put to sleep for surgery?  100...99....98.... then they're out.

I didn't get to do that.  And I have to say I'm a little disappointed, I wanted to see how long I could make it.

"Are you tired yet?" The anesthesiologist asked me as I laid flat on the table in my g-string surgery panties, underneath an ugly blanket.

"Um no... should I be?  Don't operate yet!"  Still have that episode of Grey's Anatomy on the brain.

"That's okay... sometimes it takes a few minutes."

The last thing I remember is the nurse, Connie, holding my hand while the anesthesiologist injected more drugs into my IV. 

"So how long have you lived in Ohio?" Connie asked.

"I don't know... I'm not good at math."  I guess that was my "counting backward," because the next thing I knew I was in a different room.  Alone, and wrapped in some bandages.

I had three immediate reactions when I woke up from surgery:

1.  Where the fuck am I?  Was I in an accident... am I dying?
2. Oh sweet, my boobs are smaller!  Joy.  (There may have even been some happy tears).
3. Oh my god, I'm a terrible vegan.

Connie walked back into the recovery room a few seconds after I woke up, telling me that I did great while feeding me drugs.   She helped me get into a wheelchair, wheeled me out to my mom's car, where I professed my love for her.

"You're the best nurse ever... I love you.  I know you think it's because I'm on drugs, but even before the drugs you were just the best.  Seriously, you're amazing.  Thanks for holding my hand." I told Connie.

On the way home, my mom had to assure me that I wasn't a terrible vegan.   It didn't mean a whole lot coming from her, as she thinks my veganism is stupid in the first place.  I have since recovered from my vegan guilt, and accomplished the following:

1.  Taken three days to write a blog post, because I got too sleepy to finish it each time I began writing.
2.  Eaten 3/4 of a jar of jam all by myself.
3.  Flashed Amanda my bandages and said "Say hello to these!"
4.  Insisted that I could walk by myself, and been caught by my step-dad as I nearly fell to the ground.
5.  Played "Snake" on facebook at least 300 times.

Once again, my percocet is kicking in, I'm losing my mental coherence, so I think it's quitting time for now. 

Happy Percocet Week!  I love percocet.

Say goodbye... to these.

If you're an Arrested Development watcher (like you should be), you probably remember Kitty.  Kitty is the secretary of the Bluth company, who at one point had an affair with George Bluth - who purchased her implants after she publicly flashed her breasts for a "Girls with low self-esteem" video, and embarrasingly, was cut out of the tape.

The next Spring break, armed (chested?) with larger knockers, Kitty finds a reason to flash someone practically every time she leaves a room, shouting "Say goodbye... to these!"


I wanted to share one of these clips on my blog, as the language and excitement that Kitty expresses are appropriate to my sentiments right now - though for an opposite type of change in my breasts.  But of course, this is the only time in life that youtube has failed me in my search for an entertaining video.

Today, I haphazardly packed for my flight home to Maryland an hour before leaving for the airport.   I threw 3 or 4 bras into my duffle bag, but quickly realized.... I don't need them.   I have one more day of wearing my current bra size, and then my stash of practical bras and sexy lingerie will both become useless to me.

After picking me up at the airport, my mom asked whether I was ready/excited/nervous for my surgery on Monday.   We talked about the importance of communicating with doctors and surgeons to be sure we're on the same page, and my mom referenced a news special where she learned the advice that if you get one of your limbs removed - and it's one you have two of -that you're supposed to write in sharpie on the one you want to keep "NOT THIS ONE."   This way, if the surgeon misreads which limb s/he is supposed to remove, s/he will be reminded upon undressing you.

"So what am I supposed to write on my breasts?  'Please reduce the other one too'?" I asked her.

My mom just laughed, and agreed that I probably want them to end up somewhat symmetrical.

I briefly contemplated having a flash-a-thon (at Amanda's brilliant suggestion) the day before my surgery and shouting "Say goodbye to these!!" as Amanda escorted me into various public places.  But, as I've agreed to babysit my sisters tomorrow and take them to a neighborhood Christmas party (perhaps the least I can do as my parents shelled out nearly 6 grand for my operation), I've opted not to engage in this activity.   Though, as my parents are working on remodeling our basement and have not yet enclosed the two stripper-like poles that my 11 year old gymnast sister has realized are "fun to dance on", I think me flashing strangers would be the least of their parenting problems.

Still, I've decided that I've outgrown my flashing days, and too few people would get the reference if I ran around town asking people to "Say goodbye to these!"

Perhaps I'll just write it on my breasts Monday morning.

It's peanut butter jelly time

I have this routine when I microwave food: get out plate, put food onto plate, insert into microwave and set the time, then sit on the couch and play on facebook until my food is ready and the microwave beeps at me.

Today I came home, decided what I wanted to eat, got out all the necessary supplies for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and put them on the counter.  I then sat in front of the tv, typing on my laptop, wondering several minutes later why the microwave had not yet beeped to tell me my meal was ready.

It turns out, I am in fact lazy and absent-minded enough to believe that my microwave will prepare any kind of meal for me if I just take the ingredients out of my fridge and cupboard.  

Which leads me to wonder...  will I one day have an automated sandwich maker on my kitchen counter?   Not the grill kind, the kind that actually has fake hands to spread sandwichy materials onto a piece of bread for me.  So that I can waste away my life on social networking sites.

Texts from Last Quarter

Recently my cell phone informed me that its memory was near full.   Apparently keeping over 2,000 texts in my inbox will do that.  During a time-wasting meeting masquerading as a "class,"  I deleted, one by one, over 400 texts from my phone.   Unable to find a way  to delete all my texts at once, I reasoned that I had nothing better to do during class, and started with the oldest texts in my phone from August and September. 

Some of my favorites include:

(678): Ooo your name is Steph

(240): Dear self, remember to date people tomorrow.

(316): Comme des enfants, couer de pirate
(this one is interesting as the number is not saved in my phone, and I have no idea who was french-texting me)
(949): I didn't know soda expired

(508): I just realized I've made out with half the people in this room.  Fml.

(949): I'm not interested in sleeping with women.

(949): Buutluvrmatt sent me another message.

(802):  Im not going out ne more I wanna stay with the tigers.

I really enjoy reading texts months after they were sent, as I no longer remember the context and can just imagine that my friends are all buckeyes (aka nuts).


In other news, I was misinformed that a certain prominent member of the Ohio State community died yesterday (will avoid using the name here as I do not want to again start rumors that he's dead), and I proceeded to inform several people that I work with.  Upon receiving a text today that he didn't actually die, it was someone else, I had the pleasure of going around my office to say "Great news.... he's still alive!!"

I then had to apologize to the people who went home after work last night, googled this person and read about his life in mourning.  Oops.  From now on, I don't announce deaths unless I personally witnessed them happen.

I don't get poetry... unless it's sexual

In re-reading a coursepacket from one of my awesome, undergrad, queer classes, I rediscovered this limmerick.  



A gay man who lived in Khartoum

Took a lesbian up to his room,

They argued all night

Over who had the right

To do what, and with what, to whom.

Our bodies, our selves, our lingerie

I have 12 days left until my breast reduction surgery, and I'm kind of freaking out.

This morning I had a pre-op appointment - had to get some bloodwork done to make sure I am healthy enough to be anesthesized (I think that's a word?).

Now, I'm all for helping people learn their jobs hands-on; I didn't complain when the optometry student conducted my vision exam or when the gynecology student stuck her fingers you-know-where.

But, today my bloodwork was drawn by someone obviously learning the process, supervised by some guy who distracted me by asking questions about what I do in life.  Student proceeded to prep my right arm for needling without asking which arm I preferred, then jammed the needle into my vein in a not-so-delicate manner.  I'm not sure in the future I will support people learning to use needles on me, unless I take up a heroin habit.

Meanwhile, I answered the supervisor/distractor's questions about what "student affairs" is, when I really wanted to scream to get this horrible, violent student away from my arm and put her on phone-duty.

Distractor then asked me if I had arrangements for receiving my bloodwork results.

"Yep, this is just my pre-op bloodwork, my doctor is going to fax it to the surgeon."
"Pre op?" He asked, "you're having surgery?"
"Yea I'm having breast reduction surgery in a couple weeks."
"Whoa - I didn't need to know what kind of surgery.  That's your business."

My mistake for misinterpreting his question about my surgery for an interest in talking further about my surgery.  I suspect he wouldn't have had the same reaction if I told him I was having hip replacement surgery.

Boobs are kind of funny.  I feel like a creeper because I keep staring at stranger's boobs, trying to imagine what the size of mine will be like after my surgery - and to be fair to the strangers who catch me doing it, they don't know that I'm not just a creeper.  Obviously, it's not appropriate to ask them what size bras they wear, and apparently it's not even appropriate to tell a medical professional that I'm having the procedure done (note: "The Procedure" is what my dad calls it every time I talk to him, as he cannot physically utter the word "breast" to his daughter).

Last night my roommate turned on the Victoria's Secret Fashion show.  [Insert feminist critique here related to body image and beauty and sending unhealthy messages to young people/our entire culture], but that's not really my point.  I can watch a full hour of models parading around in bras, panties, and stilletos on a major television network, but I can't tell a medical professional what kind of surgery I'm having because it involves boobs?  He probably spent last night watching the same damn fashion show while jerking off.

I'm gonna need people to get a little more comfortable talking about breasts - both because I'm terrified of my surgery and need people to tell me it'll be okay, and because I think it's stupid not to be able to have conversations about our body parts at a Health center.

Oh and for the record - I have to go back for more bloodwork tomorrow because I got a call and learned that distractor/supervisor of student didn't realize that she didn't take enough tubes of blood.  Super.

Happy Needless Turkey Murder Day!

Despite my distaste for meat, holidays, and general traditionalism, I really do like Thanksgiving.  I think we can make the celebration about sharing a meal with family or friends (or I guess, giving Thanks) instead of a celebration of White Europeans pillaging the lands of Natives after sharing a meal with them in hopes of making them believe that they came in peace.

This is my second Thanksgiving away from my family, although the first that I've actually cooked and planned to share a meal with people other than my relatives.  Three years ago, I celebrated Thanksgiving in the Atlanta airport in a variety of bars (great selection of bars in that airport!), on my way to Vegas to celebrate my 21st birthday.  It was a looong plane ride from ATL to Vegas, as I believe my hangover started midflight.

This year I am sharing a meal with some friends in Columbus, and while I'm a little sad that I'm not seeing my family, I'm excited to celebrate a holiday in a somewhat nontraditional way - something my family doesn't allow too much room for.  Sure, we're still stuffing our faces today and likely being thankful for the people around us, but to my knowledge there won't be a turkey.

And, I never want to sound like a holier-than-thou non meat eater, on some level it seems a little ridiculous that sharing a meal with our family and friends requires the slaughtering of nearly every Turkey on the planet.  Anyone consider having pizza for thanksgiving?  Or even a burger - I'm not a huge advocate of meat but maybe we could spread the animal slaughtering and eat a few cows instead of wiping out the Turkey population for a single meal.

In middle school, my friend Andrea tried to institute, with little success, a day in May that was meant to counter the excessive November slaughtering of Turkeys.  I think it was called something straightforward like Don't Eat Turkey day, but I know for sure it was May 9th.   I was already a vegetarian at the time, and an avid supporter of Don't Eat Turkey day (to my recollection, Andrea was dealing with some meat-eaters guilt; she still consumed Turkey on Thanksgiving and wanted to make up for it by choosing a day where she refused to eat Turkey).  I'm sure neither of us understood at the time that Turkeys were bred specifically for consumption on Thanksgiving day, so avoiding eating them another day of the year didn't really save any Turkeys. 

This morning my mom emailed me a fake turkey recipe.  I'm not entirely sure what she thought I'd do with it the morning of Thanksgiving - as if I hadn't already planned and prepared for what I'd eat today, but it was nice to see she was thinking of me and possibly even recognizing that I could celebrate a holiday without meat (which, I've been doing for 12 years now, but apparently this only sinks in when I give up dairy and eggs too).

Anyway, in the words of Phoebe (from Friends), Happy Needless Turkey Murder Day!  I hope you find a way to celebrate it that's right for you.

Somewhere over the Rainbow... There's a Stephanie

Today I couldn't do a large part of my job because a certain customer-relationship management software refused to allow me access to some things I needed.

I called the company's support line, to let them know I needed them to fix... something and make it work.   Unable to find anything wrong on their end, the support person asks me if he can log in on my account to see if it works at his computer.

"Sure," I say, then quickly realize this means I'll have to give him my username and password over the phone.

This didn't bother me because of any security issues - though I have access to some sensitive information, support guy likely has more access to me so I'm not really worried about that.  No no, what I dreaded was giving him my password, which at the time (has since been reset) was a combination of the word "Rainbow" and some numbers.

He asks me for my password, and I spell it out in individual letters, avoiding saying the entire word Rainbow to the tech support guy.

"R-a-i-n-b-o-w" I spell out over the phone, and the support guy chuckles.  I guess that wasn't so subtle.

Something about being obsessed with rainbows makes people take me less seriously, I'm pretty sure.  I recall telling a friend once that I was "badass" because I have a tattoo, a tattoo that she quickly pointed out, is a rainbow peace sign.

I started to wonder today whether other self-described badass folks might also love rainbows, and I came across this site, which houses an electronic collection of "badass" rainbows (it is in fact, the first site you'll come across if you google "Badass Rainbow").  While some of the rainbows are more badass than others, I think the collection sufficiently proves that it is possible to be both badass and a lover of rainbows; in fact its mere existence assures me that people can love both badasses and rainbows, even though I don't find many of the pictures particularly entertaining.

By this point you've probably thought to yourself that I'm delusional; that it's possible for one to be badass and love rainbows, but not possible to consider Stephanie badass.

Sure, I turn on my Rainbow in my Room as a nightlight (a toy meant for children 5 and up, and a very well thought out gift from my friend Amanda) and stare at the rainbow projection on my wall until I can fall asleep every night.  But you know what I'm thinking about in these moments before my eyes shut and I dream about rainbows?   I think about what my next tattoo will be, and even if it's in rainbow colors it'll still be done with needles.  Or I think about leading a revolution and taking over the world to do things my way.  

As I prepare to turn 24 in 2 days - bet that's something you didn't know required preparation - I've done a good deal of reflecting on who I am and want to be in life.  Rainbow-lover, badass, grad student in her mid 20s who can't afford the internet at home so she's writing this at a coffee shop - whatever desriptors you'd use for me, they're probably accurate in one context or another.  I believe 24 is the 'official' start of my mid-20s, and I'm trying to figure out what exactly is it I accomplished in my early 20s, and what do I want from my mid 20s?  When I look back at my mid 20s, what descriptors will I use for myself?
In that spirit, Marco will be providing a guest-column on my blog tomorrow.  Thanks to the wisdom he's acquired in his several more years than me on the planet, Marco has already thought a great deal about his mid 20s, and graciously provided me with a piece he wrote entitled "Things I've Learned in my Mid 20s."  Perhaps these things will come a little easier to me, since I've already heard them from someone older and wiser, or perhaps not.  Either way, who doesn't like knowing what Marco has to say?  Read tomorrow.

Texts from Last Night's... Sexual Assault?

Yesterday during Counseling class, in between watching a 40 something year old video of a client telling her therapist she wanted to choke him (he would've deserved it, in my opinion) and job searching, I spent a little time reading Texts from Last Night.  I typically find this site highly entertaining (though I'm still bitter that my text about pole-dancing and arguing about the importance of feminism in the same bar, on the same night - was never posted despite Marco submitting it to the site).  Gloria, the client in the outdated Counseling video, got frustrated with and angry at her therapist, who literally squawked at her like a chicken and said she was too afraid to say what was really on her mind - until she blew up and said he treated her like he was better than her, like he knew everything and she knew nothing, and that it made her want to choke him.  While this exchange held my attention more than some previous videos I've been forced to sit through in Counseling class, I still find myself looking for an escape for 2 hours, something to keep my mind from what I'm actually sitting through.


Admittedly, I read texts from last night for some low-level humor - humor that I think qualifies as a silly escape from the real world.  I don't expect witty satire or humorous social commentary, I expect tales of waking up in a bath tub smothered in cheese, or wondering why there's a giraffe in the living room.  I'm perfectly aware that the site is a place to post foolish tales from the previous night told in text message format.  I enjoy clicking on the thumbs up or thumbs down to indicate whether I think it was a "good night" or a "bad night," and typically I do so without judgment of the texter in question.  Rarely do I read a text from last night that legitimately concerns me about our society, but evidently... it can happen.

I came across this text while surfing the site in class yesterday:

(425):
After grabbing my boob for a couple minutes he then decides to ask me if I was awake.


What upset me wasn't just the content of the text, but also the fact that the thumbs-ups for "Good night" outweighed the thumbs downs for "Bad night" by almost 1,000 votes.  Over 2,000 people thumbs-upped that it was a "Good night."  Call me crazy, but touching someone sexually while you're not sure if they're asleep or not is sexual assault in my eyes.  It's hard for me to think of that as a "Good night" for the person whose boob was grabbed by someone who didn't know whether this person was awake, and it's harder for me to make light of the grabber as someone who was just having a "Good night."  But apparently, there are at least 2,000 texts from last night readers who do not have such trouble distancing themselves from the issue of groping others while they may or may not be asleep.

I of course, immediately jumped into social problem-solving mode and contemplated ways that I could shame people into the realization that no, this isn't a "Good night."  I decided that if I clicked the thumbs down for bad night over 1,000 times, so that it caught up to and surpassed the good night votes, future readers of the text would see that the popular opinion was that this was a "Bad night" and they would agree (majority rules, right?).  I begin clicking as quietly as I can, still in the classroom and trying to be considerate as Gloria told her therapist how much she hated him (in 1963...).

I clicked over 200 times on the thumbs down, only to refresh and find that my 200 extra clicks were not counted - it was only counted once.  Apparently the site isn't designed for me to manipulate people into thinking mine is the majority opinion.  And frankly I don't know that it would've done any good to make it look on the site like more people were as disturbed by this text as I was; maybe it was just my attempt to think for a minute that people are as concerned about sexual assault as I am, or that they could be if they just thought others cared, too.  Or hey, maybe I'm underestimating the good nighters, who were motivated to vote good night by virtue of the fact that "he" did eventually decide to see if 425 was awake - maybe he realized he was doing something wrong and tried to correct it.   But, I have my doubts.

Gloria - fight back.  That fucker shouldn't get to disrespect you - he's been conditioned to because you're a woman and he thinks he's superior.  You said yourself he was treating you like a silly little girl.  Before you know it, he'll be laying next to you and grabbing your boob, without regard to whether you want him to, or are awake enough to consent.  He'll squawk at you like a chicken if you say you don't want it.

I'm really lucky (slash society is lucky) to have men in my life that are really good allies to women, aware of the effects of sexism and unwilling to tolerate behavior that contributes to our culture that condones rape and sexual assault in some subtle and some less subtle ways.   I love these men so much - too many people are not as bright and caring as them.

These boots were made for... combatting sexist oppression

Yesterday in diversity class, my professor led an activity in which we rattled off stereotypes about different social groups.  He handed out sheets of paper with a different identity label written on top, and I laughed as he passed out the papers and handed me the one that said "Gay."  I interpreted this as a sign from the Universe that it knows about my sinful ways.

I was instructed to write for a small group of my peers as we all listed stereotype after stereotype about gays.   After exhausting our knowledge of the stigmas attached to the identity of Gay, I asked my professor "Can I have the lesbians?"

The professor misunderstood my question (which was actually a hope that he enjoyed matchmaking and had hidden some lesbians in the classroom in anticipation of my request), and handed me a new paper that said "Lesbian."  Another group had already gotten us started with a few stereotypes, one of which included 'comfortable shoes.'   Now, while I don't identify as a lesbian, I share some things in common with them (like my interest in women, and evidently, my sensible shoe choices).   Today I was not as in touch with my inner lesbian as I usually am, and I put on heels, breaking my own #1 dressing rule - don't wear heels.

I hadn't worn this particular pair of heels since who knows when.  I discovered them recently as I made progress on unpacking from my move that was nearly 2 months ago.  They look sensible enough, I thought - business casual, closed toe shoes with a maybe 1.5 inch heel.  Not as unreasonable as some pairs of heels I still own from the days in which I hadn't yet done away with my short complex - I sported 3 or 4 inch heels without even flinching nearly every day in high school.  These 1.5 inch heels I braved today have a pink accent on a little black bow, thereby perfectly accenting the pink shirt I wore with a black skirt to work.  I can handle 1.5 inches, I decided, in the name of looking cute today (looking cute is a chore I rarely embrace, so when I'm in the mood to bother trying to look cute I roll with it).

 I quickly remembered why I have a no heels rule - when I wear heels I have the tendency to both hate the sound my shoes make when I walk down tiled or linoleum hallways, AND to curse myself all day as I acquire blisters on my toes.   So, when my 12 hour day ended at 10pm, I was excited to head home, take off my shoes, and promptly put them in a bag of shoes I plan to take to Goodwill as I work to reduce the evils of materialism and consumerism in my life - while refraining from being wasteful.  If someone else wants to succumb to the social pressure of wearing heels and cute shoes that hurt, far be it for me to force them to shell out the cash when I have plenty of uncomfortable (but cute) shoes that can help them accomplish all of their fashion goals while on a budget.

If wearing comfortable shoes is a practice I learned from lesbians - I'd like to thank that entire social group for the contribution they've made to my life.

On my drive home tonight, I realized I needed to make a quick stop at the grocery store.  I was out of coffee, and there's only one thing less tolerable to me than heels: not being caffeinated.  I hobble into the grocery store and towards the coffee beans, but am quickly stopped by a man.

"How do I know you?  You look so familiar." He tells me.
"I've... never seen you before in my life," I say, recognizing that he was probably just trying to find a reason to talk to me since I looked hot in my black + pink outfit with matching black + pink heels.
"Well I'll be honest," he says "I'm hitting on you."

Good for him, I value honesty.

"Are you married?" He asks me.
I stop to ponder for several seconds.  If I say I'm married, I'll be lying.  If I say I'm gay, I'll be lying.  If I say I'm bi but only looking to meet women right now- I'll be telling something closer to the truth - but it won't end the conversation right now so I can go home and sleep.

"Yes," I decide, I am married, though I'm fairly certain my 7 second pause before answering the question suggests I am lying.
"That's too bad.  Can't blame a guy for trying... a pretty little thing like you."
"I guess...." I roll my eyes, turn and start to walk away.

I can have patience with someone who is hitting on me and generally being nice and conversational, but I draw the line when someone calls me a "thing."

Later as I'm finishing up at the checkout line, the man ends up behind me.  I start to walk out of the grocery store with my stuff, when he calls

"Are you sure I can't get your number?"
"Yep," I say without turning around.
"I'll carry your groceries home for you!"
"No."
"I'll even cook you dinner!"
"No, I'm good."

At this point, several cashiers, a security guard, and a handful of customers are all watching me deflect his continued attempts to hit on me, as I walk out the door without turning my back, and his pleas get increasingly louder.   I do not need strangers to cause scenes with me in the grocery store.  My life is not a romantic comedy, and I am not going to change my mind based on his persistence, which frankly I find disrespectful (No means No, anyone??)

Comfortable shoes, I think, as I walk quickly to my car, hoping that I'll be out of the parking lot before persistent man walks out of the store (I was).   Comfortable shoes would allow me to walk quicker, and in less pain, and more importantly, it's easier to move and kick someone in the balls while wearing comfortable shoes.

I need sexy heels to appeal to straight men (a fairly low priority for me).  I need comfortable shoes to walk away from them quickly.  I need heels for making people look at me like a grown up because I'm short and female.   I need shoes that aren't sexy if I want to be taken seriously in a male-dominated workplace.  I need shoes that are sexy enough if I want to be valued in a straight male dominated culture.

Let's pretend for a minute that Nancy Sinatra was singing not about an individual, but about the 'system.' I hope she was right, System of oppression, power, and privilege.  One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.  Better hope I'm not wearing heels that day.

Ask and ye shall receive

Yesterday I complained that I had nothing to write about.

Today I found out that an English teacher at UMD was arrested for murder.  I hope for my karma's sake that the Universe didn't deliver this murder upon us just so I could have something to write about (seems unlikely, since this murder occurred on Saturday and I didn't find myself with writer's block until Wednesday).  Just to be clear, I do not hope for or advocate murders just so I have something to write about.  

At UMD, most juniors are required to take a 'Junior English' class (unless they got an A in their freshmen English class, which is nearly impossible to do unless you're sleeping with the teacher.)  I enrolled in a technical writing class with one of my best friends to fulfill this dreaded requirement, and much to our delight we ended up with a fun, liberal, pot-referencing lecturer who didn't take things too seriously.   This friend and I showed up high to nearly every english class period throughout the semester (I have since outgrown my penchant for arriving at class inebriated and now I prefer to bring my laptop and job search while I tune out professors).

One of our assignments involved giving instructions - it was a technical writing class, and people wrote various "How To" papers.   Needless to say, I can't remember what I wrote about, but I can remember having friends in other classes who came up with some bold How-To papers.  One friend, for example, did her assignment on "How to roll a blunt." 
Today I read this in the UMD school newspaper.   Having seen a handful of facebook statuses about a UMD English teacher being charged with murder, I felt compelled to investigate the school newspaper to be sure it wasn't Don.   No no, it was the English teacher who accepted papers and presentations on blunt-rolling, beer olympics, and how to shoot your boyfriend.  Actually, she wrote that last one herself, and her students all seem to acknowledge her tendency to "divert the class discussion to weaponry."  I read the various facebook statuses - informing me that Findlay was an awesome teacher, albeit one who was obsessed with sharing her stance on gun-control laws.   While I personally disagree with Findlay's stance on gun control (i.e. let's not have any), I can see where I might come around to her opinion were my home "well-armored" - and should I wish to own "tons" of weapons or shoot my boyfriend, I'd probably reconsider my own political views on guns and align myself more with Findlay's.

Writer's block

Today I sat in my useless waste of time Counseling class, laptop in front of me, with every intention of writing today's post.  I quickly realized that it wasn't a positive writing environment for me; I started a few times and ended up deleting every attempt because it sounded too depressing.  And yes, it's ironic that my Counseling class legitimately throws me into a severe depression for 2 hours every Wednesday (actual counseling, I've found does the opposite.  My intent here is not to hate on counseling as a practice, but the horrendous class I am subjected to each week).

To put into perspective my lack of ability to prioritize my classes this quarter, just know that today I scheduled a hair appointment fully well aware that it conflicted with my first class of the day.  I know that lacking self-motivation is my problem, and not that of my program's faculty, but it couldn't hurt for them to challenge me once in a while right?  Anyway, bitching about my grad program is exactly what I wanted to avoid writing about - mostly because it depresses me, and partly because I want my 3 regular readers and handful of occasional readers to continue reading my blog - something they may not do if it just becomes a daily expression of my lack of satisfaction with school.

Instead, I am soliciting topic ideas - so in the future when I am sitting in class looking for an activity to prevent me from running out of the room screaming while pulling my hair out, I'll have ideas to go to.  Thoughts, anyone?

Day 2: I'm Still Alive

Last night I dreamt I went to Taco Bell and ordered a bean and cheese burrito.  I quickly realized I couldn't eat cheese so I asked the cashier to change my order to a bean burrito.  Mildly disappointed that I couldn't eat cheese, but proud of myself for remembering before eating it, I had a short conversation with the cashier.  She argued with me about my order, unable to understand how I could order something without cheese.  Eventually she gave up and stopped caring that I wasn't going to eat cheese.

I woke up annoyed that I lived one day as a vegan before having a dream about ordering something I can't eat.   But then I realized my dream was not about the fact that I couldn't eat cheese - sure I forgot for a second that I don't eat it any more, but the issue was really someone asking me to justify my choices  to her.

I stood in line at the grocery store tonight, ready to purchase my avocados, soy milk, tofu, and a bottle of wine.  The customer in front of me purchased 12 frozen Banquet-brand meals (yes, I counted) - mostly of the Salisbury Steak and Cheesy Mac N' Beef variety.  I'm not suggesting that we judge this person for his consumption choices, after all, 1800 Banquet meals are prepared every minute.  If that many people are willing to eat Banquet frozen dinners every minute... well gee, how could that be disgusting?

It's just funny to me that people can be so quick to get... offended? by my dietary choices.  I was used to this at age 12, when I became a vegetarian, but as vegetarianism has become more socially acceptable, it's a stigma I've sort of forgotten about.  Now that I've chosen to eat vegan-ly, even on day 2 I can tell the stigma is back.  You eat tofu and avocados and soy milk, which contain nutrients?  But you won't eat Cheesy Mac N' Beef that has nearly twice the amount of sodium you need daily?  Freak.

Now, lest I sound judgy about my fellow humans who are meat-loving, Cheesy Mac N' Beef eating individuals, I should point out there is a large element of class that plays into our dietary choices.  The customer ahead of me in the check out line spent under $15 for his 12 meals.  That's kind of impressive.   And a feat not to be under valued if this person is concerned about money - and shopping at the Kroger at the corner of King and High, he probably is (though if one more person calls it Kro-ghetto in front of me.... I have half a mind to lock them in that Kroger until they've remedied their discomfort around poor people).   It's cheap to eat crap.  It's expensive to live well.  This is a problem to me, so I want to be clear that I understand money plays a big role in people's dietary choices.  

I spent far more than I would've preferred purchasing vegan friendly items today, but hey - that's why we invented credit cards right? Money aside, it would be impulsive and presumptive for me to say that going vegan has been easy (I'm not sure 2 days counts as a lifestyle change), but since when do I have an issue with being impulsive or presumptive?  Being vegan is easy.  I've eaten the same damn things yesterday and today that I'd normally eat - subtract a slice or two of processed, dyed Kraft American cheese, and add in mozarella soy cheese and some dark chocolate.  Lucky for me, I threw out the option of Banquet Cheesy Mac N' Beef over 12 years ago, so I haven't had the challenge of adjusting to live without that.

#5: Sparkly things

Last night I wore my red Dorothy shoes - which probably don't need any further descriptors.  I wore these as part of my devil Halloween costume on Friday and Saturday night - they were the perfect accent to my red dress and devil horns.  Sparkly things get attention, and I'll admit, sometimes I like attention.

Although last night was actually Halloween, I wore my sparkly shoes not as part of a third opportunity to dress up, rather because I was wearing a red shirt, and my sparkly red shoes matched.  I had sort of forgotten about these shoes until I dug them out for my Halloween costume, but make no mistake I did not buy them for Halloween; I bought them years ago when I was out shopping somewhere, and they got my attention because... they're sparkly.

Last year one of my students informed me that glitter and sparkles were tacky.  Naturally I pulled the boss card and told him he was wrong.  Last night, two girls at Karaoke approached me (um, what better place to wear sparkly things then when you're on stage singing?) and told me they were laughing and making fun of my shoes.   I didn't take this too personally, as they clearly appreciated my shoes and were not seriously making fun of them, plus I can't really blame them for being jealous of my sense of style.  Rather, I said something witty and clicked my heels three times before migrating back to talk to my friends.

Sparkly things also inspire creativity.  TJ, in a moment of genius, suggested we make an independent, social-justice oriented film in which I, an enlightened white girl, wear my sparkly shoes while working to end racism.  Don't like something some racist said?  Click, click, click the heels.  They're gone.  I'm not sure if TJ realized how easy it is for me to latch onto fun ideas like this when he made the suggestion, but there's no way I'm letting it go.  My next project will be writing a screenplay.  Sure, the Wizard of Oz is great and all, but how about the Wizard of Justice?  Okay, okay.  Still working on the title.  Suggestions welcomed.

#4: My friends

It's safe to say - that I'm grateful for my friends, or I wouldn't choose to have them in my life.  If I weren't grateful for a particular friend, I wouldn't consider that person a friend - rather someone that I tolerate due to circumstances of our lives that collide. 

I don't know if this is just what happens when we're plopped down in a new city to work and go to school (perhaps some of my friends who legit went 'away' to college can answer this), but it's hard sometimes to branch out and create new relationships when we have 1. so much shit going on and 2. friends back home.  I think last year I sort of forgot to live in Columbus.  Even if I only went home once per quarter, that was still "home" and where my friends were.  In between I went through the motions - went to class, work, even out occasionally - but it was all just a sort of liminal space, somewhere to hang out in between the times I could be where I actually wanted to be.

I'm grateful that my dumbass self eventually figured out I needed to have a life and people here too.  I mean, by default in my grad program, I sort of automatically had friends, but I don't know about friendships.  That takes more work, I think, and perhaps a commitment to living a life in Ohio (never thought that would happen...).  

Not to say that I could ever, ever live without people from home.  I had the fortune of a long g-chat conversation catch up session with Carolyn, my best friend from college, a couple days ago, and I'd be lying if I said it hadn't made me consider dropping out of school just to be home with the people I love.  Carolyn, though she probably doesn't know it yet, convinced me to go vegan in this conversation.   I had been toying with the idea for the better part of a year, but unwilling to commit because... I hate committing.

Carolyn and I chatted about bell hooks, one writer that we both appreciate, as we have a mutual interest in economics and capitalism and how that relates to different kinds of social issues.   Suffice it to say bell hooks is a genius on these subjects; some of my other favorite feminist authors fail to connect the dots between the economy and social issues.  Carolyn and I had a long chat about individualism and consumerism, and I decided when reflecting on this conversation that part of my struggle with committing to veganism is that I have this consumerist individualist mentality that I should just buy whatever I want all the time.  Nevermind that I've been philosophically committed to the idea of not using animal products for a long time, at the end of the day, I'm an American - and I do what I want when I want without regard to the environment, or poor starving people throughout the world, (or my nearly unmanageable credit card bills).

As we critiqued the individualistic values of our culture, I think about how lucky I am to have not just Carolyn, but all of my socially aware friends that I can have intellectual conversations with.  For instance, as I watched the latest episode of Desperate Housewives with TJ in his office on Friday, we began to chat about the new black housewife and how she was legitimized by her level of class and "whiteness" - how the same character would never make it on the show if she were poor, or wore burglar clothes.   Even the recent storyline of Susan selling the image of herself in lingerie while cleaning - she's obviously ashamed of it, but thinks she should just do what she needs to do to make enough  money to be back with her upper middle class friends on Wisteria Lane.  Susan would be read entirely differently, in my opinion, were she a racial minority - now it's funny and cute that she'll do whatever she needs to be part of the class she wants to be a part of again (white people are entitled to that, right?), but were she black or latino trying to climb her way back into a privileged economic class, her ways would be downright wrong - culturally we'd expect her to work 4 or 5 jobs to make her mortgage payment rather than *gasp* show her tits.  On a side note: I hope Terri Hatcher's character jumps off a bridge and dies.  I hate Susan.  But that's neither here nor there.

Oh right! My friends.  I love them.  Last night I had a chat with Matt that resulted in me crying, as I always cry and began to share some emotional baggage with him.  Now, he can tell you what he will about not having feelings and stuff - but I'm just going to call him out on it - he loves his friends.  And he's not the only one - nearly all of my friends have seen me cry, and as someone who becomes immensely uncomfortable and awkward around crying people, I can appreciate the amount of effort and tolerance it must take to be my friend sometimes.  

Last night at the bar, I commanded Jenn to do a lap around the bar and find me a girl.  She came back several minutes later, reporting that no one was good enough for me. Regardless of whether this was true - I was thinking about how nice it is to have friends that have standards on my behalf.  Most people have heard the quote that friends are the family you choose - and it's so true.  I've thought about this concept many times in my life, as despite my many bad choices in other arenas of my life, I am quite good at choosing worthwhile people to be my friends.  For the first time yesterday though, I found myself thinking not just about how I chose them, but also how they chose me.  And I'm grateful to my friends for that - lord knows I am not an easy person to deal with all the time.

#3: My bed

In the most literal sense, I'm grateful for my bed as a place of comfort and rest.  Like, when I take a midterm that is a complete and utter waste of my time, it's nice to come back and lay in my cozy bed and just think about life, retreat into intravertedness for a while.  Today I had such an occassion, as the Counseling midterm I took only took me 30 minutes to complete, so I had free time before the next thing I had to do, time that I used to go home and lay in my bed.    This midterm was beyond a joke, and in fact, I actually referenced Shrek on it as a challenge made by another cohort-mate who undoubtedly, didn't think I would seriously do it. 

And who knows, maybe I'm just lacking the self motivation to take my grad program seriously, but the echoes of my peers suggest that we have a legitimate problem with the lack of intellectual stimulation provoked in our classes.   My brain cells may be dying in class, but at least I can come home, lay in my cozy bed, and pick up a book involving ideas and thought.

In another sense, my bed is also where I learn alot about myself.  No, I don't mean in the sexual sense, though I certainly encourage the dirty thoughts if you're thinking them.

I mean dreams.  Sometimes in the busy pace of life, I forget to stop and think about myself.  I rely on my dreams to give me some indication of how 'self' is doing, and spend probably more hours than is healthy googling dream interpretations for different words like "shoes" and "teeth."   I keep a notepad by my bed to write down any dreams or interesting thoughts I want to come back to in my waking state; I forget things quickly but a few jotted words or phrases can jog my memory.

This morning, for instance, having knocked my notepad onto the floor in the middle of the night, I woke up to the following text reminder of my dream - as apparently my phone was the quickest way to document something at 3am:

Friends sampling 5 cookies.  Mad at self bc I already bought whole cookie.  Didn't know about sample size cookies.  Cost was too high to buy 5 samples bc already spent money on whole.  Bought 3 sample cookies.

Much to my surprise, the consensus on dream interpretation sites about my purchasing and consumption of cookies is that I am letting trivial matters annoy me and interfere with my life.  I would've thought it meant I was just gluttonous, which I am particularly when it comes to sweets.  Evidently though, I only let 3 cookies annoy me, while my friends let up to 5 cookies annoy them - so I suppose that's a good thing for me. 

Racking my brain for things that have annoyed me lately, the only conclusion I can come to is that my graduate program isn't adding up to my intellectual growth, and I'm annoyed that it wastes several hours of my time in classes each week.  And maybe my dream is trying to tell me to take responsibility for that - who knows, maybe writing about Shrek on my midterm for my own entertainment didn't actually enhance my learning or growth.

Or maybe my dream is trying to tell me that I've already broken one whole cookie annoyance down into smaller, more minor cookie annoyances.  Maybe it's all bullshit and someone puts up this stuff just to see who's stupid enough to buy into it; a conclusion I came to when I started reading about distinctions between dreams of chocolate chip cookies and dreams of oatmeal cookies.  I don't really know what it all means.

But I do know that I love my bed.

#2: My students

I'm taking a brief break from my native language of Sarcasm on this post, and practicing my talking-like-a-normal-human skills.

I love my students.  So much.  They're in this cool place where they still respect authority more than they should, so much that the things that I say to them are regarded as "legitimate."  And while I certainly want to encourage their willingness to challenge things, I'm also in a position where I can just tell them that something is right or wrong - and they believe me!

I know, it sounds like I'm power tripping.  And I won't lie, I enjoy the occasional power trip, which I blame on my Napoleon complex.  But in all seriousness, those of us who are regarded as authorities can have an amazing impact on those people who for some reason, respect us.

I had a long chat with one of my favorite students tonight, a socially and politically aware Senior who struggles sometimes to interact with many of her peers who aren't as bright or invested in humanity.  I counseled her and de-bunked the myths taught to her by her academic advisor.  Um, who the fuck are you to tell a person with dreams of changing the world that she shouldn't waste her time in an Education Master's program? And, I've tried to bring this student back to reality more than once - telling her she can't carry the burden of the world on her shoulders, she can't fix everything by herself, etc. etc. - because I don't want to see her burnout quickly.

But I realized tonight what's more effective - treating her as a peer in our mutual aspirations of promoting social justice, and using each other as sounding boards/safe places to vent.   We all need an outlet (says my therapist), and I think my student and I both discovered tonight that even having each other to vent to re-energizes us to take on the world.  And, hearing someone intelligent - and as jaded as me gather up the emotional energy to go back out and keep challenging things - restores my faith in humanity a little bit.

In my Women in Higher Ed class in the spring we talked about the importance of mentors and role models.  And it's true - without having adequate representation of a group in leadership positions, it's hard to imagine oneself as able to become that leader.   And so, tonight I renewed my commitment to be a mentor for students who are invested in social justice, who so easily can be disillusioned by the seemingly insurmountable tasks ahead of them.



    

Things I'm Grateful For; #1: My breasts and their healing powers

# 1: My boobs

A friend recently told me that gay men have "gay privilege," in that they can touch boobs without being a creepy pervert.

Now, while I have a limited supply of gay guy friends who... actually want to touch my boobs, the ones who have the good sense to use this "gay privilege" to their advantage can cure themselves of pesky societal systemic oppressions!

Yes that's right: I'm asserting that my breasts cure gay oppression, by presenting gays with an opportunity to use their gay privilege to combat systemic injustices.   And who knows, maybe it'll work for other things too.  Get judged for wearing burglar clothes, or brown skin?  Touch my boobs.  Get paid less than your male counterparts, or simply want to move up that Corporate assimilationist ladder to join the Straight White Men who are deprived of the privilege of touching my boobs?  Well, no worries - because YOU can touch my boobs and heal society of these systemic justices holding you back.

Lord knows what happens if I let people touch other things.

Thing #5: No Homo

I had the pleasure of having a long chat with Taris last night, largely around issues of social identities and awareness.  Since our cohort is taking our (one) Diversity class this quarter, these issues have come to the forefront of our lives - and even for those of us who think about them all the time already, we have the common experience of the class that we need to process with each other.

Taris said something to me last night that really made me think.  I asserted that we all have to pick and choose our battles - there's not enough pieces of me to engage in every battle that I'd really like to.  But as Taris pointed out, those of us who are really passionate about challenging the status quo - racism, sexism, homophobia, etc. - we can't turn it off.

It seems like our primal instincts kick in when we hear something ignorant or even overtly discriminatory, and in that moment we have one of three choices to make: walk away, educate, or tackle some ignorant fucker to the ground.  In that sense we have a "choice," but I think Taris is right that for those of us who are invested, we never really make the choice to walk away when we think we should be making a difference.

I have a tendency towards socially educating others in bars, arguably not the best setting for producing social change.  Two nights ago (the night of Creepy Charles) I put a white gay man in his place when he said he didn't understand why there were "ghetto" gay guys at the bar, referring to a few young black men a few tables over, dressed in baggy clothes - also known as "burglar" clothes, if you're in my Diversity class.  I played dumb, as if I didn't know who or what he was referring to, asking "What do you mean by ghetto?"

This tactic proves useful when people know what they're saying is asinine, because it forces them to say in plain words exactly what prejudice they're articulating.   Often the person will retract their statement, or change the subject, and while that does not allow for a further conversation on the issue at hand, the person has been shamed into considering their statements more carefully in the future, as they feel like a racist, classist asshole - and they know it's wrong.  Yes that's right, I believe in educating people through shame.  I stand by it as a legitimate tactic.

Last night, true to Taris' assertion that "we can't turn it off," I intended to socially educate a bartender, who complimented another man and immediately followed this compliment with "Not to be homoerotic or anything."  Remembering when "no homo" became a popular qualifier to any statement made by a straight male to another straight male at my undergrad institution (and I'm sure in many other places), I'm annoyed by the bartender's need to point out that whatever he said wasn't meant to be gay.

Stepping on the bottom rung of a barstool to add a little height advantage, I leaned over "Fat Tom," a local frequenter of this bar that Jenn evidently befriended before Taris and I arrived, reacting to this "not homoerotic" comment. 

"No, let's talk about- "I start to lecture the bartender, before Jenn and Taris each grab me by an arm and pull me off the barstool.

With my friends trying to keep me from getting into some sort of bar-argument, I know I've lost my chance to educate this bartender on his homophobic comment.  Since Jenn thinks he's hot, I settle for merely asserting that "you can't flirt with him, he's a homophobe," to make sure his behavior isn't rewarded by female attention.

Fat Tom, overhearing my comment, asks

"Ginger, did you just call me a homophobe!" (Fat Tom thinks my name is Ginger, as this is the name he guessed for me and deciding it was more interesting than Stephanie, I assured him that yes, my name IS Ginger)

"No, I called the bartender a homophobe" I tell Fat Tom.

"Jason?  No, no I know him, he's cool.  I'm like the most antiracist, antisexist, antihomophobic person you'll meet - I wouldn't be his friend is he was a homophobe."

Satisfied that at least Fat Tom considers himself an ally to groups other than his own, but not convinced that the bartender has considered the intent v. impact of his words (a subject that Maria writes about well), I tell Fat Tom that if Jason is not a homophobe, he shouldn't say things that make him sound like one.  Fat Tom and I continue a short conversation about how the world shouldn't be so damn homophobic, and I decide that I really like him.

I have some sort of religious need to educate others when I hear comments that piss me off (I had forgotten how much the 'no homo' type comments make me angry!!) and I can't really remember the last time I just walked away when someone said something I found to be wrong or ignorant.

I've felt really disillusioned with my social agenda lately, as if I suddenly awoke in an ignorant world that I zoned out from for a while.  Lately, finding good outlets has helped me recover my willingness to be positive around issues of social justice -I need spaces where I don't have to work so damn hard because people are already socially educated. I'm lucky to have some very socially aware, intelligent people in my life that I can have conversations about racism or homophobia with - even at a bar on a Friday night.  And sometimes, that outlet even comes in the form of a stranger who refers to himself as Fat Tom.

On the note of having positive "outlets," I've decided to shorten my 10 Things that make Stephanie angry series to just 5 things.   Stay tuned for "5 Things that Stephanie is grateful for." 

Thing #4: People who abuse my phone number

Last night I was out with my friend Matt, as well as a couple of adorable young gay men I met out a few weeks ago, who I have continued a texting relationship with.  After drinking my first long island, I went outside to answer a phone call, a 614 number that I don't recognize but assume is probably a gay man I met out at Union or Level.

It's not unusual for me to give my phone number out like candy - and the number of gay men in my phone with made up last names as descriptors of who they are so I can remember them, probably adds up to more than the number of nights I've gone out.

For example, Randy Soca - a gay dentist from SOuthern CAlifornia, who bought me drinks at karaoke night once.  He told me if I ever visited his area I should call and stay with him.

Shawn Feminist - a boy I met at Exile, a Columbus bear bar.  Shawn backed me up in an argument I had about feminism with another boy there.

The list goes on.  One thing that I DON'T generally do (er...anymore) is handout my number to straight guys, particularly when I'm more focused on meeting women.  So last night, when I answered my phone for a stranger, I assumed it was someone fun that I met out one night who wanted to see if I was out that night.

Unfortunately for me, it was Charles.  Who is Charles, you ask?   Well, that's what I tried to figure out during this conversation:

"Hello"
"Stephanie?"
"Yes...who is this?"
"It's Charles."
"Oh ok, hi Charles.  Who are you?"
"We met out at a bar recently."
"How long ago?"
"Like, a month ago."
"What bar?"
"I don't know... some bar on High street."
"Union?  Or Level maybe?"
"I've never heard of either of those bars."

At this point I realize it's unlikely that Charles is a fun gay men that I met out at a gay bar, and I rack my brain trying to remember the last time I gave my number out to a boy who was actually trying to sleep with me.   I'll admit - my terrible sober memory is not exactly enhanced when I drink, so it's possible that I gave out my number without remembering.  But knowing that I haven't been to any bars that are not explicitly gay bars in a while, and the only time I can think of I was sober - I'm pretty sure I'd remember giving out my number to some straight boy.  Still, he has my number, and thinking that it's unlikely one of my friends started handing out my cell to strangers on the street, trying to get me laid, I continue talking with Charles and trying to place who the hell this person is.

"They're gay bars.  I didn't meet you at a gay bar?"
"Oh.  Oh, you're gay?"
"No I'm bi."
"Really..."

This is the point where I realize, if I DID give my number to Charles, it was a gross misjudgment on my part.  Occasionally while drinking, I legitimately believe that it is 100% possible for me to be friends with anyone in the world, and that people are not trying to get in my pants.  Having sworn off men a little over a month ago, I'm baffled by the fact that this person says he met me out a month ago when he got my number.  For your information - I have since UN-sworn off men, but I'm positive that I haven't given my number to any straight boys since I made that decision last week.  The chatting goes on:

"Yes but I don't want to have a threesome with you.  So, you cant remember where we met?"
"Not exactly, just out somewhere."
"Do you remember what I look like?"
"I mean, I know you're short."
"What was I wearing?"
"I don't remember, but you looked good."
"What did we talk about when we met?"
"Why are you giving me the third degree?"
"Because I don't know who you are, and you have my phone number."
"It sounds like you're out right now, why don't I come by and if you don't remember me, I'll leave."
"I mean sure, I'm out at a gay bar.  If you want to come by, that's fine."
"You sure you're not gay?"
"Yes, but I really appreciate your concern for whether I'm aware of my sexual preferences."
"You're bi?"
"Yes.  But I'm not going to have a threesome with you."

I then proceeded to give him directions to the bar I was at, not an easy task considering I was one long island in and have never once needed to know the address of Union.


If you're thinking now that it would've been a good idea for me to hang up around the time Charles sounded intrigued by bisexuality (not that I'm against threesomes per se, but it's not what I'm looking for in life right now) - then I'd have to agree with you.  But, the night is young and who knows, maybe Charles is hot?

10 minutes later, Charles calls me.   Thanks to the sound advice of Matt and one of his friends whose name I can't remember, I don't answer my phone.  I text Charles and tell him to come inside, and he texts me back and says he'll be there in a minute, and he's wearing a brown jacket.   I position myself near the window but hidden by my friends, watching for an awkward straight man to enter the gay bar.  In preparation, I turn my phone off and put it in my pocket, not wanting Charles to be able to immediately identify me as the person he was communicating with.

A familiar-looking, but not attractive man in a brown jacket, perhaps in his late 30's walks into Union.

"Oh no, you are NOT talking to him," Matt tells me, and while I appreciate the echoes of the two other people sitting with us that he is not cute, I still have sound enough judgment to realize this for myself.

The next part of the story I'm going to tell you, I'll admit, I wasn't proud of when I woke up this morning.  Other factors have since changed this, so I need you to take my word here that I'm not a terrible person until the rest of the story comes together and you realize that for yourself.

My friends and I watch Charles walk around the bar looking for me, we watch him call me and text me until he takes an empty seat at the bar.  Charles looks around, trying to identify this mysterious short girl that he met a month or so ago.  Since I'm sitting down, my short stature is not immediately identifiable, and at the suggestion of a friend, I have balled up my jacket and am sitting on it to give me a little extra height.

Realizing that I am standing Charles up, I feel a twinge of guilt for not just saying "No" on the phone when he wanted to meet me at the bar.  But I still can't place who this guy is, and 90% sure that I did not give him my number, I'm too sketched out to just politely walk over, introduce myself as Stephanie, and reject him.  Even if I had decided to, I suspect my friends would have stopped me.  As Matt pointed out, this was at least an entertaining night at the bar.   Having finished 1 and a half Long Islands (they're 3 dollars at Union on Thursdays...), I reason that while standing people up is mean, we might as well enjoy a laugh or two at the creepy situation.

Charles begin walking around the bar again, and I wonder if he's going to ask every girl for her name.  So, I tell my friends that my new name is "Liz," and make up a fake life to go along with my fake name. I was one of Matt's RAs last year but I graduated with my BA in psychology.  I took a year off before applying to graduate school, and am currently working at the Target in Olentangy Plaza until I can find something that pays better.  I do a little bit of chatting with people I know while trying to avoid eye contact with Charles, but I continue to try to place who this familiar face is if I know I didn't give him my number.

Eventually Charles made friends with a group of girls, chatted with them for a while, and in Charles' moment of distraction, Matt practically throws me in front of his conveniently tall stature and ushers me out of the bar.

Waking up this morning with a slew of texts and missed calls from Charles, I again feel a twinge of guilt for standing someone up.  I contemplate texting him and saying Sorry, I dropped my phone in a Long Island and had to get a new one this morning.  But no, I decide, it's better to avoid talking to him ever again if all I would do is tell him Sorry, but I'm still not interested.

I hop in the shower (dangerous, I know), and luckily for me, this is where I do my best thinking.  Reflecting on my recent terrible job of online dating and deciding whether I want to date people or not, as well as telling someone to come find me at the bar and then hiding from him, I wonder whether I'm a terrible person.

An image of Charles flashes into my head, and aligns with a memory of just over a month ago.  I have a flashback of Charles moving my bedframe into my apartment, and I realize that Charles is one of the men sent by a moving company I hired when I moved into my new apartment.

I did NOT meet Charles at a bar, nor did I give him my number.  This fucker took my cell phone number from work a month ago, and doesn't even have the decency to remember stealing it.  Charles texted me the day after I moved into my apartment, saying "Hey it was nice meeting you yesterday, let me know when the partys at lolz."

I never responded to this text, or bothered saving Charles number.  Annoyed as all hell that this guy took the liberty of taking my phone number from work, I had considered calling his boss to complain, but I eventually reasoned that not talking to him would work just as well without getting him in trouble.

I guess it's a good thing Charles doesn't remember where he got my number, and thinks I gave it to him willingly at a bar.  If he were to place how we actually met, he might realize that he knows where I live.  A sense of relief washes over me as I realize I was completely justified in being creeped out by this jackass, and just maybe, I'm not a completely insensitive bitch.