What did I do with my friday night you ask? Well, I played two hours of Dr. Mario, then ate dinner, read three chapters for class and wrote two short papers, then played more Dr. Mario until my eyes bled. But hey at least I did the homework right?
And this morning, what’s the first thing I did when I woke up? Ate a bowl of cereal. But then I played more Dr. Mario.
Such a fulfilling life I lead.
Brad told me last night that Dr. Mario is now available for download on the Wii. Um, I’m not sure if you know this about me, but I am a rockstar at Dr. Mario. Of course, I haven’t played in a really long time, but I used to be a rockstar and I’m pretty sure Dr. Mario is like riding a bike. Plus, I LOVE Dr. Mario. Probably as much as I love Tetris, which I love so much that I play my handheld game almost every day. I just idly pick it up and start playing all the time, sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it until suddenly I look around and I’m like hey, when did I start playing Tetris again? On Friday I started a game of Tetris on the handheld that I had to pause and resume Saturday morning. I ended up getting to level 290! That’s according to my calculations based on the points I scored because the game only keeps track up to level 109. Yeah hi. Rockstar.
Back to Dr. Mario. When Brad told me it was available on the Wii, I almost sputtered, “Oh my god you have to download that for me!” But I had a serious moment of pause because I have a genuine concern that if Dr. Mario came back into my life, I might never get anything productive done again. Dr. Mario AND Tetris available in my living room? I may never read a book or vacuum the floor or do my homework or bathe myself again.
After sharing this concern, Brad said he’s probably going to download it anyway. So people, this is where I need to learn serious restraint. Self-control. Limit the playing of the Dr. Mario. Hopefully I can do it. Hopefully I don’t one day sit down to write a paper and five hours later I suddenly look around and I’m like hey, when did I start playing Dr. Mario again?
Brad reaches over and pinches my thigh. Then he pinches my belly. Then my upper arm.
S: Hey, why are you grabbing all my fat?
B: I’m not, I’m just pinching your appendages.
S: Oh great, my stomach has gotten so fat it’s now an appendage?
It’s so fun to catch them traps like that isn’t it?
The other day I was out with someone, I’ll call her Mary, and she noticed an old friend of hers that she hadn’t spoken to in years. I’ll call her Sally. Why haven’t you spoken, I wondered. And she told me a story about the falling out they had. She and Sally had been out at a bar and Sally met a guy who she went home with. Later that night she called Mary, very distraught. This is how Mary told the story:
She said that he raped her, but he totally didn’t. They started having sex and she didn’t like it because he got kinda rough. But I mean, once you start, you’re kind of committed ya know?
Actually no, that’s not true. You can say no anytime you want, no matter how far you’ve gotten.
Yeah but she didn’t really say no. She just told him she didn’t like it. And you know, she didn’t get the sympathy from me she was expecting, so she stopped talking to me.
I kind of dropped it after that because I had made my point—you can say no at any time and it’s totally valid—and if she’s someone who doesn’t sympathize with that kind of situation, I wasn’t really sure what else to say. I totally can’t relate to that thinking. And she lost a friendship over this! I guess I just know who not to turn to if anything like that happens to me.
It scares me though, the whole rape culture, the whole mentality that victims can ever be blamed. If you’re committed as soon as you’re in the act, are you committed as soon as your pants are off? As soon as you start making out? As soon as you agree to go back to his place? As soon as you flirt with him at the bar? As soon as you tell him your name?
I know that sounds ridiculous, but there are so many ridiculous assumptions and beliefs out there regarding rape and sexual assault that really, it’s not that far-fetched. I read almost every day about a woman who was blamed for her rape. Or how many people believe that if a woman wears sexy clothing she can’t expect not to be raped. Or how the word “rape” is banned in the courtroom during an alleged rape case. Or that women shouldn’t be in dark parking lots alone at night because then it’s their fault if they’re attacked. Or how a woman’s sexual history affects her status as victim. Or how abortion in rape cases should only be permitted if the act is brutal and savage and committed on a young virgin who was saving herself for marriage. Everyone else? You didn’t get a choice in what happened to your body during the rape, and you don’t get a choice about what happens to your body now that you’re pregnant.
It depresses me. It really does. Sometimes I have to block it out, pretend it’s not real because otherwise it can consume me. I’d like to volunteer or work at a rape crisis center or a woman’s shelter, but I’m afraid that it will take over my life and my mental health. I haven’t been raped or attacked, but for some reason this issue is so close to me. I haven’t quite figured out how to deal with it and fight it without being consumed by it.
I’m having a problem with the current season of The Real World. I haven’t really watched RW in years, mostly because I didn’t get MTV, but somehow I got interested in the current season. It’s much the same: drinking, fighting, general debauchery. When did this show become less about finding out what happens when people start getting real and more about what happens when people drink too much and have orgies in the hot tub?
That’s not really my problem though. My problem is all the fucking misogyny! What’s with all the woman-hating and general degradation?
First there’s Greg who doesn’t use the word “girl” or “woman” but refers to all of us as “females” and says it in the most condescending way possible. And he doesn’t date, he associates. He doesn’t have girlfriends, he has “female associates.” I think he used the phrase “female I associate with” about eight times in last night’s episode. And he reprimanded his current “female associate” for daring to talk to the other females in the house. If she wants to talk to them, she can come to the house as their guest. If she’s there with him, there’s no associating with anyone else. All focus on him please.
Then there’s Sarah and Kim. Oh Kim, how badly you need a little feminism in your life. Day one in the house, Kim asks Brianna, another housemate who happens to be a stripper, to teach her to work the pole. I’m okay with that, but when you later turn around and throw her stripping in her face, calling her a whore and a slut, saying only lazy people strip and telling her to “go back to her pole”? Then I’ve got a problem. Every time a girl visits one of her male housemates, she opens up her artillery of sexist insults and starts calling names.
“I’m hotter than the whore in the glitter belt.”
“Stop bringing naked whores home.”
“Why are there dirty sluts in the hot tub?”
I want to cry a little every time she says something like that because how is that helping? Maybe it’s making her feel better, but those girls didn’t actually do anything to her. They’re just there, and maybe they’re pretty or sexy, and that’s just not okay with Kim apparently.
Sarah’s a little better, she doesn’t throw around the woman-hating words as much. But she does laugh at Kim for doing it, and she did agree with her on the whole only-lazy-people-strip thing. However, when she told her dad about all this, her dad told her to “give it to the lord” or something like that, maybe quoting the Bible a little, and convinced her that she should love Brianna even though she’s different than Sarah. Which, actually yeah, good advice. Why would you judge and hate and tease someone just because they have a different kind of life than you? If it takes your Bible quoting dad to teach you that, then fine. Just learn it. And she has, a little bit. So she’s a notch above Kim in my book for now at least.
Now here’s the kicker. It’s the men on the show (or some of them) that are standing up against some of the misogyny. They’re not perfect by any means, but when Kim and Sarah were saying that Brianna could have gotten a job at McDonald’s and she obviously looooves stripping because she’s a dirty slut, Dave argued that not everyone has had the choices they’ve had or the opportunities they’ve had. And that they shouldn’t judge her circumstances just because they’re not the same as theirs. And that the pay at a fast food joint isn’t the same as a strip joint, and sometimes there’s very little choice about where or how you make your money. Or something along those lines, there was a lot more yelling involved so it wasn’t quite so coherent. But I kind of wanted to hug Dave just a little for that.
Last night’s episode included a visit from Sarah’s boyfriend Ryan who, it was mentioned, was a Women’s Studies major. At some point Sarah and Greg (remember him from earlier? The one with “female associates”?) got into a yelling match over, oh I don’t know, Greg was talking too loud while she was trying to sleep or something. I’m not really sure what all was said during the exchange, but when it ended, before walking away, Ryan (who was silent up to this point) calmly said to Greg, “Two things. First of all, don’t call my girlfriend a bitch. Second of all, don’t refer to women in general as hos.” The end, thank you Ryan.
Those are just a few obvious examples of how this show is going so far, but this whole season is just not painting a very good picture of women. Either they’re slutty whores or they’re close-mindedly calling other women slutty whores. It’s not good. At the end of the show last night, I growled and said to Brad, “This show is so frustrating. So much misogyny!”
And yes I’m going to keep watching. Not because I support those views but because despite the editing that creates the overall picture, these are actually real people. I want to see if they change, if there’s any hope. I want to see if Kim and Sarah can learn to live with a stripper and actually be her friend, not just pretend to be her friend while demeaning her and her lifestyle behind her back and to her face when it’s convenient. I want to see if Greg can learn that women aren’t just “associates” for his pleasure and use. That they’re real people, and even if they may be flawed and maybe they even hate on other women themselves sometimes, they’re not “females: opposite of and less than males” (I swear that’s what it sounds like when he says it).
Is anyone else is watching? Have you noticed this? It’s not just me is it?
I have another dentist story. I went yesterday for my six month cleaning, and the hygienist totally ripped at my gums. Normally I don’t mind the dentist because I have decent teeth and few problems, but something was going on yesterday. Plaque or tartar or something. She even offered to give me some topical anesthetic because I kept cringing. I declined because I’m tough, but dang. Ow! They hurt the rest of the night, and I couldn’t even eat my pasta dinner until it cooled down. Hot food hurts.
Also, I spit on myself a couple times. She kept putting the sucky tube thingy right on the tip of my tongue, blocking the hole, so instead of the water being sucked into the tube, it would spray out the side of my mouth. After the second time, she goes, “Don’t put your tongue on it, just close your mouth around it like a straw.”
Really? Cuz after 27 years I still haven’t figured out how to use the sucky tube at the dentist. Oh wait, maybe it’s because I don’t know how to use a straw. I’m supposed to close my mouth around it? Not stick my tongue in the hole? Damn, no wonder.
Of course by the time she reprimanded me, my mouth was jacked open with instruments so all I could do was say, “Eh hegh heh eh geh.”
When she took the tools out though, I clarified: “I think I keep spitting on myself because the ‘straw’ is at the edge of my tongue. It’s forcing the water out my mouth.” She humored me with a polite smile but basically ignored me. However, when she tried to use the sucky tube the next time, she realized where she was placing it. “Oh I guess I do keep putting it there. No wonder you keep spitting. Ha.”
Yeah. Well actually it’s because I’m an infant in an adult body. Not your fault at all.
I hate how much time I spent on homework this weekend. Far too much.
Friday I worked until 12, then I read six chapters and wrote six short papers for class. I took time to eat dinner, get ice cream with Brad and do a few other tasks, but I didn’t finish the last paper until 10:30 that night. Ugh. So yeah, that was my Friday.
Saturday I worked 10:30 to 3, then my sister Kelli and I drove up to my sister Emily’s new house to help her move in. Andrea (other sister) and Mom were aleady up there. On of my sisters kinda sorta backed into a truck when she was trying to move my dad’s truck, which we had borrowed. Um oops. So that caused a little drama for awhile, but we managed to help Em and Drew (her boyfriend) unpack before settling in to watch a movie. Oh did I say watch a movie? I meant walk around and talk loudly while a movie was playing because that’s what almost everyone did. So annoying. Despite the lack of furniture, we all stayed the night - couple in the bed, couple on the couch, couple on the floor.
I had to leave soon after getting up on Sunday. More homework, what else? This week I have to do this short presentation in class, but because of the requirements of the presentation, it took me ALL DAY to prepare it! It was so ridiculous and I hate it. It’s basically all I did Sunday besides laundry, grocery shopping and a desperately needed nap. Have I mentioned I’m ready for this class to be done?
Also, last night two of my sisters and mom dropped by to drop off one of these. As you can see, they are on major sale, and with my sister’s employee discount… 40 bucks! For a chair I have been coveting since last summer. Seems like everyone in my family has two or three, and they’re so perfect for chillin’ or reading in the sun. I can’t wait to put it on my deck. I like to sit out there and do my class reading whenever it’s nice enough, but currently I sit awkardly in a camping chair. From now on? I just might fall asleep instead of reading. Wait, maybe the chair wasn’t such a great idea…
The other day FOAM talked about a time the crotch of her pants ripped while stretching for a rousing round of bowling. That inspired me to tell my pants-ripping story because who doesn’t love a crushingly embarrasing story?
It was the semester I had taken off between transferring colleges. I had returned from working four months at Yellowstone and I was making money as a temp. My current temp position was in the records department of a hospital—they were going through a major filing system change, and it was my job to go down to the records room, load up a cart with patient files, bring them upstairs and unload them for others to relabel. I was really putting my talents to use, huh?
Anyway, one day I’m in the stacks trying to find a particular patient’s file, and I’m wearing these pants that were ollllldd. Like from freshman year of high school. I was poor and I was doing physical work, yet I was expected to dress business causual, so I was forced to haul out every and anything I had that met the criteria. Pants too sizes too small? As long as they’re not denim! So the patient’s file was on the very bottom shelf, and there’s not much room to move in the stacks—they’re the space-saving kind that you have to electronically move to get into. In order to get to the bottom shelf, I was contorting my limbs and stretching those too-small, too-old pants in ways they weren’t meant to be stretched.
Rip!
Right down the front. From near the top of the front-right pocket to half-way down my inner thigh. Clear panty shot, no mistaking. I froze because what the hell else do you do when you suddenly have a hole the size of a child’s head in the front of your pants? You freeze and pray that god will magically transport you from this place.
There wasn’t much I could do. I was a temp who was hardly valued. Leaving work in the middle of the day means someone else has your job tomorrow. I was also young and lame and didn’t realize that others might sympathize with my situation and help me out. I just thought everyone would find me a pathetic, fat pants-ripper. So I took off my cardigan (thank god for cardigans in a crisis!) and wrapped it around the FRONT of my waist. I tried to put it a little off-center, like oh oops look at that. I meant to tie it around my waist like a normal person, but I’m all helter-skelter, working hard at my job and it must have shifted. Oh well, back to file schlepping!
Then I walked around all day using my cart of files as a shield and avoiding eye contact with everyone. Nobody ever said anything to me, which I took to mean that my shifty cardigan was believable. Now I realize it was more likely a food-in-the-teeth situation. Everyone was too embarrassed for me to speak up. Poor girl, look at that gaping hole in her pants. Does she really think that sweater is doing anything to disguise it? Maybe if she wasn’t trying to wear pants that belong to her 12 year old sister she wouldn’t be showing off her bright red underwear.
So classy.
I got home that night and threw those pants away. Today I think I could deal better with such a malfunction, but back then I was so utterly embarrassed. Not only did I get rid of those pants, I threw away all the pants I was holding onto from high school. Die tiny high school pants!
You may have heard that Obama was in Grand Rapids last night. I got to meet him. No I didn’t, that was a total lie. But Brad and I did go to the rally. I’m a Clinton supporter (as you may know), but I also like Obama. I never got swept up in the mania – I’m not really a get-swept-up kinda girl – but there hasn’t been much action in Michigan during this long crazy race (remember, we broke the rules and were shunned). So I thought I’d go down and check it out. Be part of history and all that.
You may be thinking that I’m going to tell you I’m now a convert, I’m on the Obama bandwagon. But no, the rally didn’t do anything to change my mind. I’m still with Hillary until there’s only one Democratic candidate, and then I’ll fully back him or her. But anyway. We got into the arena after having our belongings searched by the Secret Service, and even found decent seats. The only people who got good seats were the event volunteers who got to sit in the sign-wielding crowd behind the podium, and the couple hundred people who waited in line for ten hours and got to stand on the floor. Everyone else was either on the other side of the arena from the podium or behind the press stage. So basically Obama was a tiny blip in the distance—he could have been anyone really—but that didn’t matter much to me.
It was just really cool to look around and see 12,000 people of all ages and races who all believed in ending the ridiculous shit and getting down to the business of making things better. There was a lot of chanting (I did not participate) and clapping (I did a little) and even a couple rounds of the wave (can’t pass up a good wave).
My youngest sister called and decided to join us. We met a nice girl on our walk to the arena who waited in line and then sat with us, and even bought us soft pretzels and popcorn because we had no cash. Mom called and said she saw us on tv when they panned the crowd pre-Obama. She mentioned that there was reportedly going to be a “really important democrat” there to announce his endorsement. Brad got on the Blackberry and confirmed that we’d not only be “meeting” Obama, but John Edwards too.
They both said the usual stuff—better this, better that, we want change, yes we can—nothing new. Lots of standing and clapping and chanting. Even some fainting. Obama came to the rescue when he casually interrupted his speech to ask for the EMTs and threw his bottle of water into the crowd. What would he do if his throat went dry from all the inspirational speaking?! Didn’t matter, he’s willing to sacrifice for the common people. He’s Obama.
For real though, it was pretty cool to be there. Except, despite all the energy and uplifting speeches, Brad and I couldn’t stop yawning. We admitted later that we could have fallen asleep in the middle if given a pillow. Surely that’s sacrilege, almost dozing at an Obama rally. But I think by the time the crowd started their third round of O-BA-MA chants, it started to get a little repetitive. I was glad to be part of something memorable, but by the time he wrapped it up at 7:20, I was satisfied. And home in time for the Top Model finale.
*I hadn’t heard this phrase before last night. Why didn’t I think of that?
Edited to add: I didn’t get a single good picture, so I didn’t even bother uploading them before writing this post. I did get a couple shots of the protesters out front though. They had signs that said things like, “My pastor isn’t a racist” and “Aborted babies: where is their hope?” Like suddenly I’m in line and see your sign and I want to be a Republican.
This morning when my alarm went off, I would have given anything to shut it up and roll over into more sleep. But then I realized: “Hey it’s Friday, and I only have to work half a day!” This isn’t true every Friday, but today, half a day. Awesome, I can totally get up and work half a day. I even did a jig in the bathroom and sang a made-up tune in my head.
Today’s only a half day.
Today’s only a half day.
Then. Suddenly. I had a sick realization. Today is only Thursday. And not only does that mean a whole long day at work, but it means three and a half hours of class tonight as well. Half day my ass. Today is a day and a half.
It’s a good thing I didn’t realize that before I got out of bed. I never would have made it.
Everyone wrote about Mother’s Day yesterday…I guess I’m a little behind. Brad says that he’s not a big fan of Mother’s Day because he thinks mothers should be treated special all year. I agree, they should, but I also think moms deserve a day all to themselves. To be recognized and honored and spoiled.
I don’t have a big essay to write about my mom, however. I could, but instead, consider this: when my mom was my age (27), she had five children ranging in age from 8 years to a few months old. She was soon to become a divorced single mother, getting by on child support checks and part-time jobs. She had less than a year of college education. She struggled to heat the house, she accepted meals and clothes from the church, she occasionally cried silently behind closed doors.
And we never knew any of it.
If my mom can do all that at my age and still be sane today, she’s amazing. If she can do all that and still be as strong as she is, as loving and supportive of her five children as she is, and as happy about life as she is today…she’s the best mom in the world.
Yesterday the card from her five kids said, “Mom to the rescue” because yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Love you Mom!
I’ve always kind of thought of myself as unmemorable. Not distinct enough to lodge in anyone’s memory without having a significant interaction first. I almost always remember when I’ve met someone before, even if it was only for a second, and even if I can’t come up with their name. I always remember having met them. But I often pretend like I don’t remember to avoid seeming too eager. Because frankly, they usually don’t remember that they ever laid eyes on me. Unmemorable.
One time when I was about 11, I was at a friend of my mom’s house for some reason. Mom was visiting and I was tagging along I guess, and while they were chatting and I was getting bored, in walked this girl a couple years older than me (who turned out to be the friend’s niece). I recognized her immediately from the halls of school. I braced myself for the awkwardness that would come when the adults introduced us and asked if we knew each other. I’d remember her, she wouldn’t remember ever having seen me. I admitted that yes, I had seen her around school, and when the adults looked at her to see if she too recognized me, the girl smiled politely and nodded her head. I knew she was lying, she didn’t remember me. Unmemorable.
So it came as no surprise last night in class that the professor went around the room and recited everyone’s name from memory. Except mine. He had just met most of us two nights before in our first class, so I was impressed as he flew through the class with no mistakes. But somehow I knew, I could just tell that he wasn’t going to remember me. On Tuesday we had even had a conversation about my last name because he pronounced it right on the first try (nobody does!) and he wondered if I was related to a Ron he knew with the same last name (I’m not). But on Thursday, before he even got to me, I started to feel ashamed. I knew he’d slip up on me, and I knew that people would notice that I’m the only forgettable one.
Sure enough, he rattled off name after name without a problem, then he looked at me and paused. He scowled a little, pensively. Gosh I can’t remember your name, he said. Were you here on Tuesday? Am I really that forgettable? I teased, embarrassed. Is it Laurie? He wasn’t even close. I don’t even look like a Laurie. Shannon [Blank], I said, not related to Ron [Blank], remember? Oh that’s right, for some reason I didn’t remember you.
Unmemorable.
I don’t want a career or a baby. Is that so wrong?
Okay that’s not entirely true. I will probably want a baby someday, and I’ll probably always have a career. But I’m not really passionate about either, and that truth doesn’t seem to fit anywhere in our society’s ideas of women. You choose a career or you choose motherhood; you give up having a family so you can become a CEO or you give up the pursuit of the top so you can you have a family. There doesn’t seem to be anything in between.
And yet, I’m somewhere in between. So I wonder… what does that make me?
If you’ve already seen it, you may have guessed that I watched “Baby Mama” over the weekend. A movie in which a thirty-something woman decides that after years of climbing the corporate ladder, she’s ready to be a mommy. This isn’t just a woman was going along in life and forgot to have a child—she intentionally did not pursue motherhood because she wanted to be a rockstar at her job. And she is! At the time of her maternal realization, she is also promoted to vice president of something or other (details allude me). But this is clearly a woman who made a choice between kids and career.
Which is the dichotomy that is almost always set up for women in the media. Movies, television, the news, even blogs. You always see something about “More women giving up careers to stay home with kids” or “Family and work: can you have it all?”
Why does it have to be one or the other? What if I don’t want either? Or what if I just don’t want either that badly?
I have a career, and I’m even working on a master’s degree so I can continue that career. But I can’t say that I have ambitions to be a big fancy anything. I don’t work because I love working, I work because I have to. And since I have to, I make sure I do a damn good job—I’m good at what I do, and I’ve excelled at every job I’ve had. Since I have to keep working for, well, ever really, I’ll continue to make sure I’m good at what I do. But don’t expect me to make sacrifices in my life for my job. Ever. No I will not give up my allotted vacation days so I can demonstrate my dedication!
Likewise, I suppose I’ll have a baby someday too. Am I dying to be a mother? Does my uterus cry out every time I see a newborn? No and no. As a matter of fact, I keep assuming the maternal urge will hit me eventually, but so far, nothing. Motherhood is in my plans, but I have no idea when and I’m certainly in no hurry. So having babies is not my ultimate goal, to say the least.
So, to refresh: I’m not a superdriven career woman and I’m not a mother-in-the-making. What am I?
It’s not so much that I’m on a crusade to change these perceptions, but just that it’s starting to wear on me. I know that I should be okay with not fitting into either mold, but the constant reminder that I should be is starting to convince me that maybe I’m just lazy. Maybe I should get off my ass and climb the ladder. Or get off my ass and make some babies. I’m not doing anything, I’m just sitting here reading lots of good books and traveling whenever I can afford it and spending time with my family (of the sibling and parent nature…not the husband and kids kind). WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!
You see my point I’m sure. What is so wrong about wanting my life to be about interesting things: people, places, books, etc? Nothing. There’s nothing wrong and I know it. Yet I feel all this pressure, like, okay woman you’re 27 and you’re nowhere near becoming a mommy. That must mean you want to be a big shot career woman, but uh, nope. You don’t seem too interested in getting to the top very fast. So what exactly is it that you’re doing that’s worthwhile?
Um… I just started a book club. I went to New York last month. Does that count?
Sometimes I wonder if this whole grad school thing is just a result of that pressure. Like in order to keep going and getting better jobs, it makes sense to get some more education. And since I’m not doing anything very domestic, maybe I should try to be better at working for a living. So here I am, back in school. I’m not even sure what I want to do with this degree!
The worst thing is that as I get older, this is only going to get worse. I’ll be expected, more and more, to either procreate or tack a fancy title after my name. Or both. And all I’ll have done is read a few hundred books and taken a couple dozen trips. Is that so wrong?
I just looked over the syllabus for my first-session summer course. Um, holy crap. Finding time to blog just got A LOT harder.
I start tomorrow. Cry!
Yeah, so last night while we were making stir fry… Brad dropped the spatula on the grey kitchen rug. I don’t know what his deal is with dropping messy kitchen utensils lately! But at least this time it wasn’t such a huge disaster: nothing on the beige carpet and nothing on his pants. Just a couple stir-fry-sauce-covered water chestnuts and onions to pick up.
