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.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
#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.
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.
Monday, October 25, 2010
#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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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."
Friday, October 22, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Thing #3: Know-it-all phd students
Ok, I get it. You're working hard on your degree, and you want people to think you're smart even though you've opted to spend the next 5 years of your life, Master's in hand, making 17 grand a year.
But just because you've researched the Effects of Sub-Zero Weather on Igneous Rocks in the Land of Narnia, does NOT mean you're qualified to give an expert opinion on Portrayals of LGBT People in Mass Media, or Racist White Perceptions of People Who Wear Burglar Clothes.
I appreciate people who are working to further knowledge in their field, I really do. But when I get my phd, I fully give you permission to punch me in the face repeatedly if I decide that my research qualifies me to share my expert opinion on Every Single Topic Under the Sun Because I'm Earning a Phd And I Think I'm Better Than Everyone Else, But I Want to Share the Knowledge-Wealth and Enlighten Them.
But just because you've researched the Effects of Sub-Zero Weather on Igneous Rocks in the Land of Narnia, does NOT mean you're qualified to give an expert opinion on Portrayals of LGBT People in Mass Media, or Racist White Perceptions of People Who Wear Burglar Clothes.
I appreciate people who are working to further knowledge in their field, I really do. But when I get my phd, I fully give you permission to punch me in the face repeatedly if I decide that my research qualifies me to share my expert opinion on Every Single Topic Under the Sun Because I'm Earning a Phd And I Think I'm Better Than Everyone Else, But I Want to Share the Knowledge-Wealth and Enlighten Them.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Thing #2
#2: People who tell me I shouldn't walk alone at night
Ok, I get it. You're trying to protect me. And that'd be nice, if I wasn't an adult who made my own decisions. But unless I ask you to (or am wasted out of my mind), don't take care of me.
Do I know that someone could attack me while I walk the approximately 7 blocks from my office to my apartment? Of course. Do I want to live in fear to the point where I can't walk 7 blocks from work to home? Absolutely not.
While I appreciate the intentions of those who fear for my safety and tell me that I shouldn't walk alone as a little white girl at night, I appreciate my freedom to do so more. I completely, 100% respect the decision of those who chose not to walk alone at night for safety reasons, and in return, I'm going to need you to respect that I've made a different choice.
Ok, I get it. You're trying to protect me. And that'd be nice, if I wasn't an adult who made my own decisions. But unless I ask you to (or am wasted out of my mind), don't take care of me.
Do I know that someone could attack me while I walk the approximately 7 blocks from my office to my apartment? Of course. Do I want to live in fear to the point where I can't walk 7 blocks from work to home? Absolutely not.
While I appreciate the intentions of those who fear for my safety and tell me that I shouldn't walk alone as a little white girl at night, I appreciate my freedom to do so more. I completely, 100% respect the decision of those who chose not to walk alone at night for safety reasons, and in return, I'm going to need you to respect that I've made a different choice.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
10 Things that make Stephanie angry: Thing #1
Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be blogging about 10 things that make me angry. Because, what better things do you have to do than read confessions of an angry feminist?
You may find this task pessimistic or depressing. But actually, I find it a therapeutic way for me to work through my anger and find positive steps I can take to channel my anger into something that makes the world a better place, or at least, my world a better place (I hope). These “things” that make me angry are in no particular order, but rather happen to be the things that are on my mind on a given day. If they were in ranked order, this one would likely top the list.
#1: White people who don’t acknowledge their white privilege
Acknowledging that your whiteness gives you privileges that people of color just don’t have in our culture just makes sense. You can try to tell me that as a white man, people look at you the same way they look at black men or latino men: as a threat. Or that as a white woman, you aren’t perceived to be any richer, smarter, or more respectable than women of color. But that’s bullshit. I won’t buy it, and neither do you.
The thing about privilege is, we didn’t ask for it. Owning the fact that you have white privilege does not make you the perpetrator of systemic racial injustices, in fact, it’s a step towards dismantling the system. If you DON’T admit that your white skin gives you many privileges, I’m inclined to think that you are either 100% oblivious to everything that happens in the world around you and not very bright, that you’re in denial, or worse – that you actually know that you have white privilege but are unwilling to admit it because admitting it might mean that you feel some sort of obligation to challenge racial injustices.
I’ll admit this might be harsh; those of raised in a society that perpetuates the myth of meritocracy have a hard time seeing that yea, often we get ahead or get held back based on things we can’t control, like our skin color. Perhaps many white people who can’t bring themselves to acknowledge their white privilege are just operating under the assumption that meritocracy is right or true or how our society actually operates. I think the thing that makes me most angry about this is that I haven’t yet figured out how to convince people who don’t think that white privilege is real that it is. I know that I’m in an easier place to do this than I would be if my skin were not white; I’d argue that my white privilege is at play right now while writing this post, because regardless of whether you agree with me, you probably at the very least don’t think I only believe this to be self-serving.
If you’re white, and you don’t think you have any sort of white privilege, just walk around with your eyes open for a day or two - then let's talk.
You may find this task pessimistic or depressing. But actually, I find it a therapeutic way for me to work through my anger and find positive steps I can take to channel my anger into something that makes the world a better place, or at least, my world a better place (I hope). These “things” that make me angry are in no particular order, but rather happen to be the things that are on my mind on a given day. If they were in ranked order, this one would likely top the list.
#1: White people who don’t acknowledge their white privilege
Acknowledging that your whiteness gives you privileges that people of color just don’t have in our culture just makes sense. You can try to tell me that as a white man, people look at you the same way they look at black men or latino men: as a threat. Or that as a white woman, you aren’t perceived to be any richer, smarter, or more respectable than women of color. But that’s bullshit. I won’t buy it, and neither do you.
The thing about privilege is, we didn’t ask for it. Owning the fact that you have white privilege does not make you the perpetrator of systemic racial injustices, in fact, it’s a step towards dismantling the system. If you DON’T admit that your white skin gives you many privileges, I’m inclined to think that you are either 100% oblivious to everything that happens in the world around you and not very bright, that you’re in denial, or worse – that you actually know that you have white privilege but are unwilling to admit it because admitting it might mean that you feel some sort of obligation to challenge racial injustices.
I’ll admit this might be harsh; those of raised in a society that perpetuates the myth of meritocracy have a hard time seeing that yea, often we get ahead or get held back based on things we can’t control, like our skin color. Perhaps many white people who can’t bring themselves to acknowledge their white privilege are just operating under the assumption that meritocracy is right or true or how our society actually operates. I think the thing that makes me most angry about this is that I haven’t yet figured out how to convince people who don’t think that white privilege is real that it is. I know that I’m in an easier place to do this than I would be if my skin were not white; I’d argue that my white privilege is at play right now while writing this post, because regardless of whether you agree with me, you probably at the very least don’t think I only believe this to be self-serving.
If you’re white, and you don’t think you have any sort of white privilege, just walk around with your eyes open for a day or two - then let's talk.
Friday, October 15, 2010
How I came to own my first pair of skinny jeans
I dropped into a hair-cuttery type place in Annapolis Mall today, telling a woman that I need my hair trimmed but if she wanted to style it, she could do whatever she thinks will look good, I don't care. Knowing that whatever cut she has in mind will look better than what I can articulate, and also knowing I'll have to battle Ohio hair, it matters little to me at this point in my life what kind of cut someone actually performs on my hair.
What's Ohio hair, you ask? We'll get there. Ginger shampoos my hair, asking who I am and what I do in life, so I tell her I'm at Ohio State working in admissions, finishing up my 2nd year of grad school. Ginger tells me that she's been taking paralegal classes as well as Spanish classes. Her husband is Mexican, and Ginger cooks Mexican food with him, speaks Spanish with all his relatives, travels to Mexico once a year, and watches Spanish language soap operas. I mention that I'm jealous of her language skills, and while I traveled to Spain this summer, I felt like an American fool not being able to speak Spanish. We talk about Sangria and the importance of having language skills, and at this point I'm pretty much convinced -we're bff.
"You have great hair," Ginger tells me, "we'll just get a little body into it."
I thank Ginger for the compliment and wait for her to finish up my Ohio hair.
The key to Ohio hair has nothing to do with cut - it's all about piling in products and maximizing volume. The higher, the better. It might actually be general midwestern hair, but I'm not entirely sure as the only midwestern state I've actually lived in is Ohio. A consequence of having hair that's flatter than the 42 inch plasma tv in any upper middle class home is that hair dressers always overcompensate when styling my hair - rather than add a little bit of life to it, they engage in secret contests with one another, with a cash prize for whoever can make my hair touch the ceiling.
I've perfected un-Ohioing my hair, and as I walk out of Ginger's salon and back into Annapolis mall, I break a hair brush out of my purse and proceed to yank the volume out of my hair with it. I suppose I had it coming, since I told Ginger I live in Ohio, and besides, I'm used to this constant dissatisfaction with the absurd level of volume my hair has whenever I leave a salon.
So, I walk around the mall in search of peace sign accessories -you know, to maximize my individuality through consumption of mass produced items that make a mockery of my personal values by placing capitalistic values on them - when I see Ginger on her cell phone, obviously on a break from work.
Now, I've got a relationship with this woman. I spent 30 minutes of my life listening to her educational and career plans, bonding with her over our love for sangria, and yes, even talking to her about my intended breast reduction surgery in December. I've even made a commitment to seeing her again for a haircut next time I'm in Maryland in December, less so because I'm thrilled with her haircut and more because I am interested in her personal life. This is no stranger - this is a friend whose feelings I care about.
I can't let her see that my Ohio hair has flattened into hair that doesn't scrape the doorframe when I walk into a room, so I duck into the Charlotte Russe store, hiding behind a mannequin wearing skinny jeans and a sequined tank top.
Seeing the skinny jeans, I flash back to a conversation I had with my mom last night that went something like this:
"Are you wearing skinny jeans?" Me
"Yea, so?" Mom
"You can't wear skinny jeans!" Me
"Why not?" Mom
"You're in your forties. Deal with it!" Me
In reality I was thinking it's super annoying that my mom looks better in skinny jeans than I ever would, a fact not lost on my surgeon this morning who told my mom in a genuine tone that she couldn't believe she was my mom, she looked more like an older sister. She told me I should be happy I have those genes to grow into.
Genes? Fine. Skinny jeans? Not on my 44 year old Mom, thanks.
I couldn't help but wonder if it was fate that brought me and that Charlotte Russe mannequin together. My mom can pull off skinny jeans, I think to myself. Not having had time lately to do some much needed jeans shopping, I decide there's no harm in seeing if I really do share her genes, and I head over to the wall of denim jeans, ready to explore the world of skinny. The sign reads that jeans are on sale for $19.99, and I realize it really might be destiny.
Standing at the jeans wall, I notice I have three choices: extreme skinny, casual skinny, and everyday skinny. What to do? It's at this point I wish I have a fashion conscious friend with me to tell me what makes sense, and I experience momentary panic over which jeans are an appropriate first pair of skinny jeans.
Extreme skinny jeans? No no, too radical for my first foray into the world of skinny jeans. I'm definitely not ready for that. Somewhere in processing what extreme skinny jeans might be in comparison to classic skinny jeans, I remember that I can take more than one item into the dressing room and grab one of each. I try on the classic skinny jeans, figuring that's a good place to start, and while they fit only because Charlotte Russe actually has "short" sizes, I'm not sure how they actually look on me.
Shopping, when not for peace sign accessories, utterly terrifies me. In college, Carolyn was practically my personal shopper, being bluntly honest when a certain color looked terrible on me, or telling me to go for it and show off my legs in a slutty skirt. What would Carolyn say, I think, and remembering that I'm seeing her for dinner tomorrow, I reason that I could always try them on for her and return them if she disapproved. I text her for her quick opinion on skinny jeans, getting no response and I remember she went camping with her boyfriend for the evening.
Next, I take a picture on my phone of me in skinny jeans, texting it to my mom and asking her if I can pull them off. "Just go 4 it lol" she replies in text speak, and I realize for the first time that my mom may just be cooler than me.
When I tried on the everyday skinny jeans, I decided that my butt looks too flat, and to go big or go home - it's time for the extreme skinny jeans.
Hmm, I think. These actually look... damn good on me, I realize. When I shimmy out of them, my right leg gets stuck, and I hop on my left leg struggling to get the damn things off. After I bump into the stall door and hit my head in this process, I decide that my initial instinct was right, and I am nowhere near ready for extreme skinny jeans until I get my sea legs.
Classic -definitely go with the classic, I think. And make my way over to the cashier.
On the one hand, I love having so many choices when I shop. I can buy peace sign bracelets, necklaces, earrings, bags, shirts, and the list goes on. And while I am annoyed by the peace sign trend, having had a peace sign tattooed on my hip three years ago because it meant something to me, it's still nice to have things that just look like things I'd love to wear. And jeans? One of my least favorite things to shop for, but if I wish I can try three different kinds of skinny jeans, and who knows how many kinds of boot cut, straight leg, flare, or other kinds of jeans I've never even heard of.
On the other hand, material possessions are such a trap. Buying something to express my "style" that was probably sold to me through mass media even when it's a counter culture type item is still spending my money where people tell me to, and probably going to places that I don't approve of.
It's enough to make me want to go live in a commune, grow my own food, make my own clothes of natural fibers, and at least be sure that I'm not contributing to child labor in a third world country - I can draw my own damn peace signs in the dirt or carve them into home-grown vegetables.
I announced to my family this evening that I want to start a vegetarian, maybe even vegan, hippie commune in the woods and live off the land, while being nice to it in return. My 8 year old sister Jordan told me she wants to help me start it - and we can call it "Veggie Land." This restores my faith that change in the world is possible.
Perhaps one day Jordan can teach me to spend my money in more effective ways than in expressing my love of peace through the purchase of peace sign emblems for every body part. Until then, I continue to make purchasing decisions based on whether an item is as colorful as the rainbow, carries a peace sign on it, or is something that my Mom can pull off so I should be able to, too.
What's Ohio hair, you ask? We'll get there. Ginger shampoos my hair, asking who I am and what I do in life, so I tell her I'm at Ohio State working in admissions, finishing up my 2nd year of grad school. Ginger tells me that she's been taking paralegal classes as well as Spanish classes. Her husband is Mexican, and Ginger cooks Mexican food with him, speaks Spanish with all his relatives, travels to Mexico once a year, and watches Spanish language soap operas. I mention that I'm jealous of her language skills, and while I traveled to Spain this summer, I felt like an American fool not being able to speak Spanish. We talk about Sangria and the importance of having language skills, and at this point I'm pretty much convinced -we're bff.
"You have great hair," Ginger tells me, "we'll just get a little body into it."
I thank Ginger for the compliment and wait for her to finish up my Ohio hair.
The key to Ohio hair has nothing to do with cut - it's all about piling in products and maximizing volume. The higher, the better. It might actually be general midwestern hair, but I'm not entirely sure as the only midwestern state I've actually lived in is Ohio. A consequence of having hair that's flatter than the 42 inch plasma tv in any upper middle class home is that hair dressers always overcompensate when styling my hair - rather than add a little bit of life to it, they engage in secret contests with one another, with a cash prize for whoever can make my hair touch the ceiling.
I've perfected un-Ohioing my hair, and as I walk out of Ginger's salon and back into Annapolis mall, I break a hair brush out of my purse and proceed to yank the volume out of my hair with it. I suppose I had it coming, since I told Ginger I live in Ohio, and besides, I'm used to this constant dissatisfaction with the absurd level of volume my hair has whenever I leave a salon.
So, I walk around the mall in search of peace sign accessories -you know, to maximize my individuality through consumption of mass produced items that make a mockery of my personal values by placing capitalistic values on them - when I see Ginger on her cell phone, obviously on a break from work.
Now, I've got a relationship with this woman. I spent 30 minutes of my life listening to her educational and career plans, bonding with her over our love for sangria, and yes, even talking to her about my intended breast reduction surgery in December. I've even made a commitment to seeing her again for a haircut next time I'm in Maryland in December, less so because I'm thrilled with her haircut and more because I am interested in her personal life. This is no stranger - this is a friend whose feelings I care about.
I can't let her see that my Ohio hair has flattened into hair that doesn't scrape the doorframe when I walk into a room, so I duck into the Charlotte Russe store, hiding behind a mannequin wearing skinny jeans and a sequined tank top.
Seeing the skinny jeans, I flash back to a conversation I had with my mom last night that went something like this:
"Are you wearing skinny jeans?" Me
"Yea, so?" Mom
"You can't wear skinny jeans!" Me
"Why not?" Mom
"You're in your forties. Deal with it!" Me
In reality I was thinking it's super annoying that my mom looks better in skinny jeans than I ever would, a fact not lost on my surgeon this morning who told my mom in a genuine tone that she couldn't believe she was my mom, she looked more like an older sister. She told me I should be happy I have those genes to grow into.
Genes? Fine. Skinny jeans? Not on my 44 year old Mom, thanks.
I couldn't help but wonder if it was fate that brought me and that Charlotte Russe mannequin together. My mom can pull off skinny jeans, I think to myself. Not having had time lately to do some much needed jeans shopping, I decide there's no harm in seeing if I really do share her genes, and I head over to the wall of denim jeans, ready to explore the world of skinny. The sign reads that jeans are on sale for $19.99, and I realize it really might be destiny.
Standing at the jeans wall, I notice I have three choices: extreme skinny, casual skinny, and everyday skinny. What to do? It's at this point I wish I have a fashion conscious friend with me to tell me what makes sense, and I experience momentary panic over which jeans are an appropriate first pair of skinny jeans.
Extreme skinny jeans? No no, too radical for my first foray into the world of skinny jeans. I'm definitely not ready for that. Somewhere in processing what extreme skinny jeans might be in comparison to classic skinny jeans, I remember that I can take more than one item into the dressing room and grab one of each. I try on the classic skinny jeans, figuring that's a good place to start, and while they fit only because Charlotte Russe actually has "short" sizes, I'm not sure how they actually look on me.
Shopping, when not for peace sign accessories, utterly terrifies me. In college, Carolyn was practically my personal shopper, being bluntly honest when a certain color looked terrible on me, or telling me to go for it and show off my legs in a slutty skirt. What would Carolyn say, I think, and remembering that I'm seeing her for dinner tomorrow, I reason that I could always try them on for her and return them if she disapproved. I text her for her quick opinion on skinny jeans, getting no response and I remember she went camping with her boyfriend for the evening.
Next, I take a picture on my phone of me in skinny jeans, texting it to my mom and asking her if I can pull them off. "Just go 4 it lol" she replies in text speak, and I realize for the first time that my mom may just be cooler than me.
When I tried on the everyday skinny jeans, I decided that my butt looks too flat, and to go big or go home - it's time for the extreme skinny jeans.
Hmm, I think. These actually look... damn good on me, I realize. When I shimmy out of them, my right leg gets stuck, and I hop on my left leg struggling to get the damn things off. After I bump into the stall door and hit my head in this process, I decide that my initial instinct was right, and I am nowhere near ready for extreme skinny jeans until I get my sea legs.
Classic -definitely go with the classic, I think. And make my way over to the cashier.
On the one hand, I love having so many choices when I shop. I can buy peace sign bracelets, necklaces, earrings, bags, shirts, and the list goes on. And while I am annoyed by the peace sign trend, having had a peace sign tattooed on my hip three years ago because it meant something to me, it's still nice to have things that just look like things I'd love to wear. And jeans? One of my least favorite things to shop for, but if I wish I can try three different kinds of skinny jeans, and who knows how many kinds of boot cut, straight leg, flare, or other kinds of jeans I've never even heard of.
On the other hand, material possessions are such a trap. Buying something to express my "style" that was probably sold to me through mass media even when it's a counter culture type item is still spending my money where people tell me to, and probably going to places that I don't approve of.
It's enough to make me want to go live in a commune, grow my own food, make my own clothes of natural fibers, and at least be sure that I'm not contributing to child labor in a third world country - I can draw my own damn peace signs in the dirt or carve them into home-grown vegetables.
I announced to my family this evening that I want to start a vegetarian, maybe even vegan, hippie commune in the woods and live off the land, while being nice to it in return. My 8 year old sister Jordan told me she wants to help me start it - and we can call it "Veggie Land." This restores my faith that change in the world is possible.
Perhaps one day Jordan can teach me to spend my money in more effective ways than in expressing my love of peace through the purchase of peace sign emblems for every body part. Until then, I continue to make purchasing decisions based on whether an item is as colorful as the rainbow, carries a peace sign on it, or is something that my Mom can pull off so I should be able to, too.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
What happens in Vegas...is awesome.
I've decided to run away with Amanda (my complicated facebook lover) to Vegas, where we will start up our very own queer feminist burlesque show.
Anyone want to join? Every identity + sexual preference under the rainbow is welcome :) Slutty people especially encouraged to perform. If you're not a dancer, feel free to come watch and give us money or buy us drinks.
Anyone want to join? Every identity + sexual preference under the rainbow is welcome :) Slutty people especially encouraged to perform. If you're not a dancer, feel free to come watch and give us money or buy us drinks.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Back Problems? Here, have some viagra.
As you probably know, I've been trying to get my (parent's) health insurance company to cover breast reduction surgery for me. Evidently I am neither short nor thin enough for my bra size to be considered unusual (yes, the world is full of 5 foot tall, 105 pound women with DDs...), so the surgery is considered cosmetic unless I have enough "proof" from doctors it's medically necessary.
Recently I left a voicemail for my doctor, asking him to write a letter for the insurance company in support of my surgery. When he called back this evening while I was at dinner with Matt, I noticed the 614 area code, declaring "I don't want to talk to anyone in Ohio", and let it go to voicemail. This was lucky for the doctor, because I would've flipped the fuck out on him if I hadn't had some time to process this before speaking with him. After listening to the message, I stormed home pissed off thinking about all the things I could write on my blog to inform all my friends that... I'm pissed off.
I got on my health insurance co's website, looking for some clue as to what in the fucking hell I need to do to get what I need, as I have yet to have a doctor help me figure it out. I tried to find information to compare the cost of physical therapy and breast reduction surgery, but what I came across first stunned me. On their site, the insurance co. lists a whole bunch of things they don't cover - not a surprise. I learned for the first time though that they won't cover "Routine or periodic gynecological exams or diagnostic services related to these exams."
You have got to be shitting me. They don't cover an annual gyno exam? You cover up to $720 of Viagra pills in a year, but not a SINGLE annual gyno exam?? Nevermind screening women for cervical cancer, we better be sure men can have fucking (hehe) erections.
I mean, what do I have to do to get the health care I need out of the system I pay into? Oh that's right. Have a penis attached to my body. And I can't get one of those either because....my insurance won't cover it.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Awkward Situation #43567: Watching Porn in a Group
Last night I dragged Sara and Christina, who are visiting from home (yay!), to a queer feminist porn viewing.
Now, I've watched queer feminist porn before. I'm completely fascinated by it actually. I don't think it's legit when feminists criticize porn as a whole without considering that there's a major difference between mainstream porn that centers around hetero male pleasure, and other kinds of more egalitarian porn that legitimize sexual desires of women, queer people, etc. The porn itself was not really my cup of tea (maybe one day I'll make some that is more my thing...). What I enjoyed most was answering Sara's questions about queer sex (seriously, I love her desire to learn) and just knowing that there are socially conscious people out there who don't all think porn is the devil.
My (second) senior year at Maryland, there was a big to-do about porn, that you can read about if you'd like to here. It ended in a student-led protest event, screening 30 minutes of a porn film on campus, a screening that our VP for Student Affairs attended.
Last night I sort of felt like my life came full circle - 2 years ago I watched porn with the VP for Student Affairs, and yesterday I bumped into one of my student staff members at a queer feminist porn viewing. I really miss the UMD queer community, and I thought this would be a good chance to remind myself that not all social justice minded people out there are seeking assimilation into a flawed mainstream culture that's obsessed with sexual imagery and obsessed with telling us it's wrong. Or it's right, if you have the "right" gender and sexuality to legitimize your sexual desires. I wanted to be around people who can consider that varied representations of sexuality are important. What I hadn't considered is that showing up at an undergrad run porn event could mean - well, running into my staff and watching porn together.
I have to admit that my awkwardness is kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy - I could've (and should have) treated the situation as if it were totally comfortable, made conversation with this student, and treated it like an every day occurrence. Of course, my awkward instincts kick in and I comment on how it's an awkward place to run into her. Which also made me wonder how the VP in aforementioned situation felt watching porn with a bunch of (awesome) activist students.
Now, I've watched queer feminist porn before. I'm completely fascinated by it actually. I don't think it's legit when feminists criticize porn as a whole without considering that there's a major difference between mainstream porn that centers around hetero male pleasure, and other kinds of more egalitarian porn that legitimize sexual desires of women, queer people, etc. The porn itself was not really my cup of tea (maybe one day I'll make some that is more my thing...). What I enjoyed most was answering Sara's questions about queer sex (seriously, I love her desire to learn) and just knowing that there are socially conscious people out there who don't all think porn is the devil.
My (second) senior year at Maryland, there was a big to-do about porn, that you can read about if you'd like to here. It ended in a student-led protest event, screening 30 minutes of a porn film on campus, a screening that our VP for Student Affairs attended.
Last night I sort of felt like my life came full circle - 2 years ago I watched porn with the VP for Student Affairs, and yesterday I bumped into one of my student staff members at a queer feminist porn viewing. I really miss the UMD queer community, and I thought this would be a good chance to remind myself that not all social justice minded people out there are seeking assimilation into a flawed mainstream culture that's obsessed with sexual imagery and obsessed with telling us it's wrong. Or it's right, if you have the "right" gender and sexuality to legitimize your sexual desires. I wanted to be around people who can consider that varied representations of sexuality are important. What I hadn't considered is that showing up at an undergrad run porn event could mean - well, running into my staff and watching porn together.
I have to admit that my awkwardness is kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy - I could've (and should have) treated the situation as if it were totally comfortable, made conversation with this student, and treated it like an every day occurrence. Of course, my awkward instincts kick in and I comment on how it's an awkward place to run into her. Which also made me wonder how the VP in aforementioned situation felt watching porn with a bunch of (awesome) activist students.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
What I learned at the dentist office
The last time I went into the dentist office was my first time in 7 or 8 years - since the last time I actually had dental insurance. I was utterly terrified, but I don't particularly want to wind up like my 45 year old father who already has dentures because he let his teeth rot. I'd rather go to the gynecologist, or walk on fire, or join the Tea Party than let someone stick sharp metal objects in my mouth, but I suppose I'd rather go to the dentist's and suffer for a day than pull my teeth out of a jar every day by age 45.
I went in today to get a cavity filled (and no, not the fun kind), which I figured wasn't so bad - 1 cavity in 7 or so years. I picked up a copy of People magazine in the lobby, figuring I can find something in there that will occupy my thoughts once I'm actually in the dentist's chair, to distract me.
I open up to the cover story about Sandra Bullock, and read about how she's moved to Austin in the wake of her divorce, to raise her new baby. "She looks beautiful and happy. She looks like a fabulous Mom," I read, and I wonder what it is about being beautiful and happy that makes someone seem like a fabulous Mom.
Flipping to the next article, I read a headline about Kendra from Girls Next Door (fuck me for not putting the magazine down then). Holding a picture of her baby, the headline reads something about how, "Kendra now finds herself thanks to Marriage and Motherhood."
The dentist is ready to torture me with a filling. "Are you ready?," she asks "Oh Kendra! Her baby is so cute," she comments, looking over my shoulder at the magazine article. "Isn't she getting divorced?"
"I have no idea," I tell her. "I didn't read this because I couldn't get past the headline... but judging that marriage is half of what helped her find herself... she's probably not getting divorced? It's sad to me that she didn't find herself.... FOR herself."
"Oh sure, that baby sure is cute," the dentist replies. I'm not convinced she actually listened to my critique.
Looking good and having good looking kids - yep that's the stuff that makes someone a good mother. I'm left wondering what it is that makes someone a good father, and I wouldn't know because People magazine never told me. It's obviously far more important that women get married, have kids, and look good doing it. A friend of mine was told this weekend that she is going to make a beautiful housewife. I'm not sure whether the assumption that someone is going to get married, or going to have kids, or going to stay at home as a housewife with assumed kids bothers me the most. But as long as they look good doing it, I guess it doesn't really matter.
I went in today to get a cavity filled (and no, not the fun kind), which I figured wasn't so bad - 1 cavity in 7 or so years. I picked up a copy of People magazine in the lobby, figuring I can find something in there that will occupy my thoughts once I'm actually in the dentist's chair, to distract me.
I open up to the cover story about Sandra Bullock, and read about how she's moved to Austin in the wake of her divorce, to raise her new baby. "She looks beautiful and happy. She looks like a fabulous Mom," I read, and I wonder what it is about being beautiful and happy that makes someone seem like a fabulous Mom.
Flipping to the next article, I read a headline about Kendra from Girls Next Door (fuck me for not putting the magazine down then). Holding a picture of her baby, the headline reads something about how, "Kendra now finds herself thanks to Marriage and Motherhood."
The dentist is ready to torture me with a filling. "Are you ready?," she asks "Oh Kendra! Her baby is so cute," she comments, looking over my shoulder at the magazine article. "Isn't she getting divorced?"
"I have no idea," I tell her. "I didn't read this because I couldn't get past the headline... but judging that marriage is half of what helped her find herself... she's probably not getting divorced? It's sad to me that she didn't find herself.... FOR herself."
"Oh sure, that baby sure is cute," the dentist replies. I'm not convinced she actually listened to my critique.
Looking good and having good looking kids - yep that's the stuff that makes someone a good mother. I'm left wondering what it is that makes someone a good father, and I wouldn't know because People magazine never told me. It's obviously far more important that women get married, have kids, and look good doing it. A friend of mine was told this weekend that she is going to make a beautiful housewife. I'm not sure whether the assumption that someone is going to get married, or going to have kids, or going to stay at home as a housewife with assumed kids bothers me the most. But as long as they look good doing it, I guess it doesn't really matter.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Tips for the Westboro Baptist Church
The Westboro Baptist Church visited OSU's campus today - which was great, because I needed a reminder that God hates me and that my gay tendencies are sinful and wrong. I just have a few tips for improving their organization, to do God's work and get the word out there in the most effective way possible:
1. Spell things correctly
On their website, the WBC lists their picketing events, which is super helpful in case I ever need to know where to go to be reminded that God hates me. They hosted an event in "Silver Springs" Maryland today - which is actually "Silver Spring" -no S on the end. It's fine for me because I'm familiar with the area, but what if I had been looking for this protest, to remind myself of how much God hates me, and I hadn't known that? I'd be google mapping the wrong place, and I might miss out on all the fun.
2. Don't name your picketing tour after a rock bandYour Godsmack tour? Yea, yea, I get it. God wants to smack us, because we're horrible people. I get it. But inevitably, if you say Godsmack to me, I'm going to think of the rock band. Don't name your picketing our after a rock band. That's just confusing.
3. Don't spread yourself too thin
When there are 8 of you standing on the street corner reminding us all of our sinful ways, and 200 counter-protestors holding up signs about love and difference (ok, and one God Hates Michigan sign... you gotta love these Buckeyes) it's really hard to know which side to pick. For those of us who need to be told what to believe, we're pretty much going to go with the majority. I think your side would feel more convincing if there were like -hundreds of you. And I know - you-ve got alot of places to be at once - there are alot of fags to hate, and alot of educational environments to disrupt - but why not commit to the most important one, and bring all the WBC members to one place? You'll look much more legit. 
4. Timing is Everything
A college campus? From 10-10:30am? You've got to be kidding me. Most of us are still sleeping off our hangover from last night, and I know those alcoholic college kids are part of what you're protesting, but it kind of seems like a wash if they're all missing your signs - they may never learn that their ways are wrong. And, for the rest of us that had to get up at ungodly hours to be productive with our lives, well - we spiked our coffee with kahlua. Try to catch us sober next time. Maybe 2-2:30pm.
5. Invest in some singing lessons
I don't need to comment further on this one, right?
Ok - I can't help it that sarcasm is my first language. It just flows naturally to me. But I'm going to try to speak in rational-well-adjusted-adult English for a quick sec. These fuckers had two children with them holding up God Hates Fags signs. And while part of me was laughing at people making fools of themselves on the street corner, I can't seem to find my sense of humor when it comes to putting hateful signs into the hands of a 10 year old. I couldn't even bring myself to take a picture of them.
I find it moving to see a swarm of college kids with their witty counter-protest signs, I really do. It reminds me that while people might not be as radical in their political beliefs as I personally would hope for, most of us can recognize that the WBC is...well, fun to mock. You hold up a sign that "You Eat Your Babies" in reference to fags, I'm going to laugh (and be a little confused, as I thought fags couldn't have babies). But I pretty much reach my limit when I see small children with these morons. I can't find any humor in it.
I love this Jesus kid. Love him.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Fear the Turtle? Why yes, I do.
This morning I was walking down High Street when I saw what I was sure was a rabid rat. I've never seen a possum before, and as passerby started commenting on the injured possum and I realized I am lacking in animal identification skills.
It looks like a rat, no? Lucky for you, I took the picture at an angle such that you can't see this poor guy's broken, bloody leg. A family noticed the little guy sitting on the street, mouth wide open and staring sadly at everyone who walked by. Realizing that he couldn't move, the Dad of the family found a couple of sticks nearby and used them to pick the possum up and move him to the sidewalk. I of course, still think that it's a rat who is going to give me rabies and am keeping my distance, which I'm able to do thanks to the impressive zoom lens on my camera.
A sorority girl walks by (I recognized some sort of Greek letters on her shirt) and decides to call 911 to get someone to come help the possum. This'll be good I thought, I at least need to stay here long enough to watch this girl get bitched out by a 911 dispatcher. As expected, girl hangs up and informs her boyfriend that the 911 dispatcher was really angry. I decide to leave: the possum's sad eyes are too much for me - what am I going to do, put him in my purse, take him home, and nurse him back to health?
This is precisely what my family recently decided to do for Tommy, a baby terrapin turtle they found trapped in their storm drain a few days ago and decided to keep until he gets big enough to be released into the wild. If you're familiar with the University of Maryland, you know that our Fear the Turtle slogan is not a joke; turtles may not sound scary, but terrapins will bite the shit out of you, though apparently not until they get a little older.
I learned from my mom that because Terrapins are endangered you're actually required to go through a certification course in order to be legally allowed to keep one as a pet. Let's all take a minute to think about the lack of any requirements for people raising children, and then take a minute to think about the fact that you have to be certified to take care of a turtle......
Processed that yet? Ok, good.
I'm glad there are nicer people than me in the world who care about sick, injured, and/or abandoned animals. I didn't become a vegetarian because I care about animals - I did it because I am thoroughly, 100% grossed out by them. Occasionally though, nature gets the better of me, and even if I can't make myself get near a sad animal that needs help, I come home and listen to this to remind myself that we are all connected - people that I like, people that I don't like, animals that I'm completely disgusted by, and nature in general.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)