Well, The Pearl IS Boring

I totally hated that book, but I love this post. I wish I had time to say more than that about it, but there, Sheila's probably already said all I was going to anyway.

Enjoy. My stupid homework took longer to do today than it usually does and now I've got to go to work, so this is probably all you get for the day. That's a pity. I had this post I wanted to write about the way we're being taught Spanish, and doesn't that sound fascinating? Yeah, you know, maybe it's just as well I'm out of time here.

UPDATE: While I'm raiding Sheila's site I may as well note that this, also, is fun: Create a word cloud from your weblog.

Dance Party Takes Away Waco

Hey kids! Welcome to the karaoke edition of Janet Reno's Dance Party.

The above is . . . something else. I don't think it could be improved even by being performed by Will Ferrell wearing that blue dress. No, not even with the help of former U.S. Secretary of Health and Human Services, Donna Shalala.

(Via It Comes in Pints?)

That Which Vexes

UPDATE: Also vexing: Another dumb study. Or rather, this would be vexing, if I could be bothered to give a fuck, but today, for some reason, I cannot. Huh, how 'bout that.

FURTHER VEXING: Whoever added "top-s..." with, I kid you not, the ellipsis in there like that and everything, to the mu.nu communal Moveable Type Blacklist. Here, fellow Munuvian--take this simple test before you make your next Blacklist entry:

I am a stone cold moron:

(__) TRUE
(__) FALSE

Now score yourself. It's easy: One true, no more Blacklist for you. Crikey. I get really irritable when I can't comment at my own weblog, did you know that, morons?

ALSO VEXALICIOUS: The dipshit physician's assistant who terminated the dictation by putting the phone on hold, in which state it remained for 57 minutes, making the total length of the sound file over 60 minutes long. Thank heavens I've got DSL or I'd still be downloading 57 minutes of holdy goodness. And I guess it was only almost, rather than entirely, uninteresting to learn that my hospital's hold program promises patients "a world of healing." Imagine it: A world of healing! The clouds are made of tube gauze! They float on gentle breezes against a Betadine-tinted sky!

Really, just kill me.

Sympathy for the Desk and Miscellaneous Peeve

Andrea loathes her behemoth of a desk. I loathe my desk also:

What you cannot see in the photo: That this desk is put together entirely with dowels and wood glue, is 100% pressboard, and weighs roughly 37 tons. In other words, it's neither easy to move nor to dismantle. I need a team of hulking woodsmen to come over and chop it for kindling. That's what I need.

You also can't see the wood crate into which I piled most of the detritus that covered the desk up until 2 weeks ago, when I broke down and dusted this place.

You can, however, see some of Moebius Stripper's awesome pottery to the right of the monitor, holding about 64 writing implements, 17 of which may actually write stuff when you need them to. (It is not that she deliberately fashions pre-chipped pottery, by the way--for the damaged lip of the pencil holder we can thank, I think, the U.S. Postal Service. Have you seen the way they just chuck things around?)

Also, the boyfriend photographed the highly-reluctant-to-be-photographed Sally again. I think he may have been mucking with the camera settings, because it's a little fuzzy. The important thing is that the cat is still furious with him over it.

And finally, an idle question for you: Do you get annoyed when someone makes the argument that because two things are "on a continuum" with each other, their differences are of so little import as to be easily dismissed entirely?* I can't be the only person annoyed by this, especially as the "on a continuum with" argument is basically non-mathese for "two points on the same line" and come on, nobody really understands what to do with those now, do they?

What I mean is, "gentle spring showers" are on a continuum with "Hurricane Katrina." But would you ever say, "Light rain, Hurricane Katrina, what's the diff?" Of course you wouldn't. Yet I read a sentence just today by someone I respect enormously, and that sentence was, "Bush, Hamas, what's the diff?" (I can't link it because it's since been deleted--I would like to say "because its author realized the asininity of that sentence," but in fact I don't know the real reason for it.) Anyway, this is why every time I get close to telling the Republican Party to just go shtup itself with a fistful of born-again Christian tracts I, well, don't. Because there is no more room for me on the left than there is on the right.

I can only take so much of this continuum business before I lose all patience. Listen to me: It is not enough that things be on a continuum with each other. What matters a bit more is the distance between them on that continuum. Otherwise you're stocking up on drinking water and cleaning out the freezer every time it looks like rain.

UPDATE: The post I cited has returned. I'd particularly like to know what Meryl thinks of this:

What’s creepy is that Hamas isn’t philosophically all that different from the Bush administration, in terms of both godbaggery and terrorosity. Godbags-in-chief manipulate their peasantry to accept oppression by rewarding unenlightened fundamentalism and punishing iconoclasm. Bush, Hamas, what’s the diff? Godbags are godbags. It’s only a matter of degree. The US oppresses and maims and kills more people in a day than Hamas has even dreamed of oppressing and maiming and killing.

That aside, when I said I respect the weblog author enormously, I wasn't kidding; she's a terrific writer even if I don't get down with 100% of her opinions. So don't head over there and be nasty--not that I really think you would, but you know how it is: If I don't say anything, and someone does go leave a nasty comment there, with my site as the referrer, I'm just gonna feel all kinds of crummy about it.

UPDATE II: Now the Israeli government has been placed on the continuum with Hamas. You know something? Whatthefuckever. This is a useful reminder to me (not that I ever really forget it): Just because someone knows something about some things doesn't mean they're competent to opine on everything. It's why you don't see much macroeconomics discussion on The Superficial, nor much fashion advice in the pages Scientific American.

Anyway, you see why I usually stick to telling you dumb stories about my dumb days. I'm only trying to write what I know here.

*Please note: There are times the continuum argument works, I think--most often when you are not using it to imply two issues require exactly the same amount of outrage to be leveled against them. I don't mind, for example, feminists noting that both the burqa and the bikini qualify as oppressive clothing, designed to confer second-class citizen status on their wearers, provided of course they keep in mind that no woman in a democracy is ever required to put on a bikini, whereas the burqa has not always been so optional.

I am not always against noting that two things are on a continuum, but it is important to me that they be within, say, lunching distance of each other. If instead you have to drive several days to get from one thing to the other, if you're attempting to go from spring showers to Category 5 hurricanes in the blink of an eye, then, no, I'm not really a fan of the continuum. Sorry.

Only Umpteen More Weeks Like This One, Hooray

So did I mention that this class meets four days a week? And assigns homework every day? Oh, I know, I know: "Ilyka, it's one class. In beginning Spanish." You are right, of course, but that doesn't change the fact that I am exhausted, plus now I have to run to the store for a few things before logging into work for the night, and thus have no time to blog anything for you.

Participants in this discussion may want to offer their esteemed two cents here, depending on current irritation levels with that which is political. If you're not up for that then permit me to recommend instead this blog, whose author kindly emailed me a couple of amusing links, and also made some soothing remarks about how of course going back to school is stressful, there there don't fret. I love people who take time out of their days to do such things, and it is often just such people who keep me from trying to kill the entire internet. ¡Gracias, señor bueno!

Night, Unsilenced

It's just after midnight. The sky's too clouded over for stars, but the air is fresh and crisp. It's positively brisk. It's a still, clean, beautiful night.

Except for the dude pacing the walkways on his cell phone.

I'm going to indulge in a little generational stereotyping, because I survived it once upon a time and you will, too, young'uns: You kids these days are all, man and woman alike, fucking around on each other.

Seriously, woman: When your man volunteers to venture out into the cold night air to walk your itty-bitty pipsqueak guinea pig of a dog, why do you think he needs to take his phone with him? I'll tell you why he needs to take his phone with him: TO MACK ON A LADY. A lady who is not you. He has a phone and he must mack.

Poorly. Tackily. Cheesily, as macking can only be done when it is done with one arm attached to a leash, and the other end of that leash is attached to his girlfriend's completely embarrassing dog.

Also, loudly. Is it the sexy, now, to shout your courtship to the heavens? I must surmise that it is, because every person under 25 seems driven to do it.

Note I said person. The ladies, also, are fond of fleeing their homes on who-even-knows-what flimsy pretext of an excuse ("Shoot, I'm out of tampons--wait, I think I saw some blooming in the pampas grass earlier! Be right back!") to make the furtive calls to the fellas late at night. This is definitely a behavior that transcends gender. The kids these days, it is like they are all in training pants for their upcoming affairs and divorces. It's just terrible.

If things don't work out with the setup I've got now I'm going lesbian or joining a convent or--hey, wait, maybe I could even do both. But I'm not jumping back into these increasingly shark-infested waters for any amount of luscious booty. No sir. Not me.

Silent night,
Holy night,
All is--CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

Oh, yes, dude. Yes, I can. And verily, what a lucky thing it is that your girlfriend isn't as fond of night breezes as I am, or she'd be able to hear you, too.

Virtual Posole

For Margi, who has had an actual baby.

For the rest of you, the view from the porch:

School day tomorrow. Not happy. Remind me one of these days to ponder the question, "Why do people so easily believe that persons with sadist tendencies populate the ranks of law enforcement, yet so reluctantly believe that the same holds true for the teaching professions?" With all due respect to learned, professional educators everywhere . . . your field has its share of sadists. Here's praying I don't get one of 'em tomorrow.

UPDATE: Not so bad, really. My professor's a very nice woman from Colombia. Because we have such a shortage of Spanish speakers here, I guess. Anyway, that she's, well, a she, is kind of a big bonus in my eyes because the last time I took a Spanish class, it was taught by a Senor Campos and . . . have I ever told you about Senor Campos? Coach Campos, outside Spanish class? Okay, remind me to tell you about Senor Campos sometime--el cerdo asqueroso that he was (or is; I doubt I could be so lucky as to have him be dead). But the short version: Should you be suggesting to a 15-year-old girl who's behind on homework that maybe she needs a spanking? And that maybe you should be the one to deliver it? If you answer that affirmatively, HIE THEE FROM THIS BLOG IMMEDIATELY.

Insert Cuss Word of Choice Here

All right, I have HAD IT with you, Blogrolling! I only just put the main blogroll back today, because Blogrolling seemed to be on good behavior, whereas it had not been just a couple days ago. And, once again, it hath betrayed me.

I used to load Blogrolling last of anything, on advice (all right--scold) of Andrea. Then I went to this goofy pink-and-black template that I hacked offa Strange Banana, and I couldn't get it to work without loading all the left-most stuff first and all the right-most stuff--that is, my blog content--second. Thus did I give Blogrolling a license to mess with me. Again.

Anyway, blogroll's down. I'm going to handcode the damn thing. You won't be able to see what's been recently updated, but that's of little consequence, I think, in these days of RSS and XML and I don't know what all. Which is a long, fancy way of saying I doubt any of you really use the blogroll. And that's okay! I use very few of 'em myself.

A Numbers Game

Something I read on another blog recently got me thinking. It was a post that declared--and this was hardly the first time I've heard this decree--that you can't be truly a feminist if you're pro-life.

Calm your itching fingers a minute and let me just say that I think there's honestly some merit to that position. What you're asking when you ask whether abortion should be legal or not is, "who has the ultimate decision-making authority over whether a woman continues her pregnancy?" If it's legal, the answer is "the woman who's pregnant." If it's illegal, the answer is, "the state." If it's legal in some circumstances but not in others, the answer is still "the state." Yes, the fate of the fetus or unborn baby, if you prefer, is what you're arguing about, but the two sides in the argument are nonetheless the woman, and the state.

So I can see how some people conclude that if you permit the state to override the property rights--the most basic, intrinsic property rights--of a woman, that's not feminism.

That said, I still think decreeing pro-life women automatically unfeminist is a stupid, stupid position to take, because feminists simply don't have the numbers to make that one work.

How many people are strongly anti-abortion in this country? I have no idea the exact percentage and by gum, it's my day of rest and I am not spending it looking them up. Let's just grab a number, though, and say it's one-fourth of American women. I don't think that's too unreasonable an estimate, but if you do, feel free to suggest another.

Women are 52% of the population in the U.S. So:

0.52 x 0.25 = 0.13

0.52 - 0.13 = 0.39

So we're down to not quite 40% of the U.S. population being on board with feminism. But wait! I know plenty of pro-choice women who are fairly adamant that they are not feminists. Because why? Because they have other objections to it--mostly pathetic objections based on the amazing strawfeminist, sure, but nonetheless, other objections. How many of these women are there? Again, I have no idea; but it's some number, some positive number, that you then subtract from that 39%, making an already small number, uh, smaller yet.

Of course, not just women are feminists. We could add back in some staunchly pro-feminist men and make the quantity increase again . . . maybe. I'll be blunt: I haven't run into too many pro-feminist men. Oh, they're out there; but are they enough to counteract the pro-choice (but antifeminist) women we subtracted above?

I don't know, honestly.

I don't see the sense, though, of lopping off however-many women right out of the gate like that. That doesn't seem to me an effective strategy for correcting basic inequities in, say, wages, health care, and justice. Why start from a position of disadvantage? Or is it that the rights of devoutly-religious and other pro-life women don't matter? It seems to me that with some feminists, that's just what it is: "You made your bed in patriarchy, cupcake--now lie in it."

I think that's a damn shame, myself . . . but I'd be interested to know what you think, even if you think I'm wrong.

(Remember the rules, please. Thank you.)

Perfect Sunday Reading

Sheila visits Los Angeles and, Sheila-like, immediately sets to having adventures. Start here for the first part and keep going. I love Sheila's travelogues--having adventures is a knack, a talent, a gift. People either have it or they don't. I don't really have that knack and even if I did, I doubt I could write about my experiences so evocatively.

She definitely has my sympathy on driving in L.A. I just have to ask: Los Angeles, what is wrong with you? When I was trapped in Culver City for 2-1/2 weeks on a job years ago, I put off renting a car of my own, even though it meant being subject to the schedule and whims of the one guy in our party who had rented one, for over a week. I just couldn't nerve myself to drive there. I've often said that Dallas drivers are (in no particular order) rude, stupid, and way too speedy--but Los Angeles drivers make the Dallas ones look genteel by contrast. L.A. drivers are Dallas drivers turned up to 11. Did I say 11? I meant 11 factorial.

I was talking with the boyfriend the other night about the one thing I've decided I'd do if I were insanely wealthy: I'd start a publishing house and not care if it lost money (but of course I like to think that it wouldn't), and I'd pay all the talented people I could find on the web to do just what they do already, but in print. I'd pay this guy to write goofy girl-sleuth parodies. I'd pay this woman to write scholarly articles on feminism. I'd pay this woman to write about Israel. And I'd say, "Here, Sheila--here's a million or two--go to the Caucusus. Have adventures. And tell us all about those crazy Armenians when you get back."

Wouldn't it be fun to have your own publishing company? I think it would be fantastic.

UPDATE: As is usual for me when I do up a post that singles out some people I read but not ALL the people I read, I have immediately been flattened by guilt. So just assume that you, too, are part of my imaginary publishing company. And you get to write about whatever you want to, whether that's the scourge known as fucking graphing calculators or science fiction and fantasy or moving tales of personal growth or whatever. Okay? You're all in on this deal, I swear. Now to become insanely wealthy!

This Will Not Be a Regular Feature

But seeing as it is still just-barely Friday, here: Have some cats.

Sally, the fattest, dumbest, but most manageable cat in the world. Sally demands a mere three things in life:

1. One, and only one, particular brand of dry cat food to eat. Luckily for me this brand is widely available.

2. A short trip outside at night to lick the sprinkler water off the sidewalk, despite being provided perfectly potable fresh water inside, which she is content to imbibe all other times of the day, that is, right up until the moment she hears those delicious SPRINKLERS come on. Mmm--runoff!

3. That I never come anywhere near her with this accursed camera again.

This, on the other hand, is the high-maintenance diabetic cat, Cocoa:

Do you think maybe he went diabetic because I named him after a sugary beverage? Nah, there's no science in it. I'm thinking he went diabetic because at his peak weight he was 28 pounds. Here he's going for the slimming effect of posing next to the bag my textbooks came home in. The New Mexico State University bookstore says "THANKS" to me for purchasing a new edition Spanish textbook for ninety-six dollars! Plus a nonrefundable-under-any-circumstances accompanying CD for twenty-five dollars! To which I say "You're sure welcome, you thieving bastards!" By semester's end, I may even know how to say it in Spanish!

I Like the Night Life, Baby

I continue my quest to make my town look vastly more exciting to live in than it actually is.

Next weekend: Teenagers cruising the mall parking lot! Woot! Except no, actually. The police have done a thorough job of chasing 'em all out and making sure they stay chased-out. They were about to take off after ME tonight when I missed my exit and had to circle around the mall again.

"Is she cruising? She looks a little old to be cruising--"

"Could be a pedophile, Chief."

"Sonofabitchin' bastard, Carl--I'll bet you're right!"

I Know Me Some American Sunbelt

Why I don't care too much about the Euro-sneer that most Americans ooh, don't even have passports:

(Create your own visited states map.)

Because I've been a U.S. citizen now for 36 years and look how much of that map I've still got blank. Embarrassing!

Incidentally, I don't know most people fill these in but in my case, I marked it visited if I'd spent at least a night there, and left it blank otherwise. I've been through Michigan a dozen times if I've been through it once, for example, but having never lingered there, I didn't feel right counting it.

(Via Rambling Rhodes.)

Remind Me Always to Bring the Camera

Things I would have photographed at school, had I only remembered to bring my camera:

A Little Bit Louder and a Little Bit Worse

Second verse, same as the first: Brave man speaks truth to power about all y'all bitches and How Hateful You Are:

In our enlightenment, let us from here on deny our mealymouthed fellow men the comfortable, safe haven of avoidance. This is the new, confrontational era of The Airing of Grievances. Therefore let us all now stand up, like men (all right, summon the inner Bruce Willis you fantasize having) and say, proudly, "I gotta lotta problems with you people!"

After years of stifling a genre-wide desire to scream that "Women's issues" really means "Women have issues", some men are leaving the closet (not that closet).

Via a wicked-delicious email from Beth (feel better, Beth! [Beth has pneumonia, see. Go toast her health or something.]). And no, fellas, I don't know what all that business about an inner Bruce Willis that you're supposed to fantasize about having is, either. Draw your own conclusions there, I guess.

I'd get all wound up about this, I really would, except I've heard this particular nag so many times it slides right past the ol' eyeballs without touching base in the brain anymore. That's Problem 1.

Problem 2: Can anyone give me one rational reason why I should care that bitter, pissed-off men of a certain age remain unmarried? Aren't we all supposed to be just a tiny bit pleased about that? Doesn't it mean social Darwinism is, well, working? Of course men like this have trouble finding partners. News flash: Dating is supposed to be difficult for assholes. It's nature's way of saying she's heard just about enough from you, Mr. Crankypants.

No, I just can't see getting upset about that. I think I'm supposed to be upset because these perpetually indignant men are removing--removing!--themselves from the dating game, Do You Hear That, Ladies? But I can't imagine the universe in which this results in anything more than amused giggles from single women. Something about not letting a door hit your posterior on the way out comes to mind here.

I'm really starting to think that the whole stereotype of Miss Lonelyhearts sitting around in her sweatpants, munching chocolate and burning through tissues while watching Lifetime movies (did you see that one? With Meredith Baxter-Birney? It was so sad!) and drunk-dialing her girlfriends to ask Why? Why is she still not married? Is there something wrong with her? Is she that terrible? Virginia just got married, and Virginia is 160 pounds if she's an ounce, so how is that fair?--Anyway, that whole modern old maid creature, I think she's a myth. I always have thought so, but just lately I'm thinking she's a myth born out of a little phenomenon called P-R-O-J-E-C-T-I-O-N. You just substitute grilled meats for the chocolates and football for the Lifetime movies and beer for the tissues, et voila.

My point, which I guess I lost several paragraphs ago, if ever I did have it firmly in hand in the first place, is that I don't spend a lot of time on the Mr. Snitches of the world anymore, because seriously, who bloody cares. I'm more interested in the tacit "You go, guy!" moves exhibited by a certain Instapundit. Memo to Totally, Completely, 100% Happily Married Libertarian Men: When you prattle on about how happily espoused you are, but then link all these loser goofballs who aren't, a cynical bitch like myself is apt to remember her mother's admonition: Don't Listen to What People Say--Watch What They Do. And then a cynical bitch like myself tends to conclude that someone is possibly full of shit and oh, how happy she is, I might add, when she learns via more private avenues of communication like IM or email that indeed, some libertarian men who are not Glenn Reynolds, but who also bear their marital bliss before them as a shield against accusations of misogyny, are, in fact, stuffed to the parietal with doo-doo about the happiness content of that marriage. I am not naming names here, but of course you may feel free to speculate who it is. I have a feeling you won't find that difficult to do at all.

Enough of these numbskulls; let nature take its course. Oh, hey, it already is! Neat!

If a Body Meet a Body Filling up on Pie

Helen has a light-bulb moment with body dysmorphia. Great stuff:

I feel best about myself if I am skipping meals, I buy clothes so large that I am drowning in them. The comments from my boss and additional comments made by a neighbor haunt me.

But fuck them.

I'm not perfect. I'm not gorgeous or a size 4. I'd like to lose some weight and I hope to make that happen. But I need to stop beating myself up that I am less than I should be simply because I am not 100% proud of my body.

This is a subject I understand intellectually, but not at all intuitively; body dysmorphia is something I just haven't got. Some of the reasons I think I escaped it have to do with my psychological makeup; I don't know if you've noticed, but I've got a thin steel wire of "fuck them" laced through my bones, and that's always been how I've reacted to other people putting expectations of any sort on me--often to my detriment ("They say booze is bad for you? Fuck them"), though in the case of body image I think that attitude is mostly a good thing.

Other factors were external. I first read about anorexia nervosa and bulimia in 1981, in this book. I was horrified and mystified; that anyone would choose what seemed to me to be a particularly slow and gruesome method of suicide was not something I could get my head around. Besides, I couldn't then (and cannot now) conceive of food being gross, disgusting, or repulsive. Food wasn't that at all. Food was Sunday dinner pot roasts and hot buttered rolls. Food was Ziplocked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bags of chips and pretzels, and coolers of sodas ferried by my grandparents to La Guardia or JFK to pick up my brother and I, so we'd have something to eat on the 2-hour drive back. Food was . . . food was awesome! Food was fabulous! How could anyone hate food? What did food ever do to them?

But this was 1981. There were no "pro-ana" sites on the web (what web?). There were no girls in my junior high classes frantically dieting off their baby fat. Actresses in the 1970s hadn't been suffering from the gymorexia they all sport now. Some of them were damn skinny, don't get me wrong. But it was a natural, I-just-happen-to-be-a-beanpole-genetically sort of skinny, for the most part; or it was the result of cocaine abuse, and viewed with disgust. So "disgust" was about my reaction to anorexia nervosa. Dieting away your menstrual period?--All together now: Ewwww.

The early 80s were also the heyday of Paulina Porizkova. I first read an interview with her in a People magazine. The interview was conducted in a restaurant; Paulina asked the waiter to bring her the most fattening thing on the menu. She then scarfed down a slice of cheesecake as she explained that modeling was a stupid, boring, but lucrative career, and that she did nothing--no yoga, no aerobics, certainly no dieting--to look the way she did. She was just a happy genetic accident. Or, she speculated, maybe she burned calories through all her "nervous energy."

Modeling needs more Porizkovas. I'd been an avid ooher-and-aaher over fashion models until that interview. I knew the names of the leading fashion models of each decade going back to the 1940s--but that interview was the end of it for me. Deep down, I knew Paulina was telling the truth: Models were freaks of nature. They did nothing to earn their fame except be born lucky, and grow up without suffering disfiguring accidents. It was like looking up to lottery winners, except even more stupid than that, because while I could buy a winning ticket tomorrow, theoretically, and be elevated to lottery-winner status, there was nothing I could do to make myself 5'11", 115 pounds, and unbelievably gorgeous.

I am writing this on the slim (ha!) chance that some young woman wondering whether the pressure to be thin is getting worse or better finds it, because as far as I'm concerned it is getting worse. Young women have it much worse than my generation did, and that is partly the fault of the women before them.

Yes, I said women. You know how much I love to blame the patriarchy for things, and I do blame the patriarchy here, I do. But I've also got to give us all thumps on the head for not pushing back more against the destructive cultural tide at work in body dysmorphia.

In the mid-80s, anorexia was seen, rightly, as a horror--now it's celebrated, and women are among the most fervent celebrants. Who reads web pages like this? Who makes up most of this woman's audience? Who buys magazines with this woman on the cover? That ain't men, ladies. That's US. We need to take some ownership here.

And I'll go out on a real bitchy limb here for a minute and say something that's been on my mind for some time now: I'm a little disappointed in the younger generation of feminists. You're like feminism-lite. You're . . . wimpy. You've brought so much extraneous crap into the mix--you're so worried about classism and ageism and racism and making sure every little i is dotted and every little t is crossed--and you are SO thoroughly wedded to one political party that you alienate women who might otherwise be sympathetic to feminism; thus the basic things, the very fundamental things like, "Maybe it's sick and wrong that our society encourages women to starve themselves," get buried, lost, deferred.

You have way too little "fuck them" in your bones. You worry too much about what antifeminists think of you. You worry too much about what you look like and whether you're popular. You worry too much about trying to educate. You're so busy trying to educate that you have no fight. You write articles about beauty products that are bullshit AND THEN YOU BUY THOSE VERY PRODUCTS. I am not blaming men for that. I am not blaming patriarchy for that. That was you reaching into your purse and paying perfectly good money for perfectly worthless crap. No one, no system, made you do that.

At the risk of being labeled anti-intellectual, let me propose something. Let me propose that body dysmorphia is not rocket science. Let me propose that there is one very simple solution, not to each individual case of body dysmorphia, no, but to society's tacit encouragement of the phenomenon as a whole--and that is to say without reservation or exception, "Fuck them," and mean it from the bottom of your hearts and your wallets.

There is no end of difficult, complex problems in the world--famine, pestilence, disease, war, crime, corruption, and oppression being just a few of them. But by cracky, teaching our daughters and sisters and friends how to flip the finger to skeletal celebrities and the people who encourage us to emulate them is not one of those problems.

All you've got to do is be willing to do it.

Grumpity Grump Grump Grump

I think, rather than complain about things--because even I'm tired of my complaining; I don't have that hard a life, for crying out loud--I'll just post a picture.

ALTHOUGH . . . maybe you can tell me this: If, hypothetically, you and your husband have your sister over for a visit, and you and your husband decide to go work out on a cold winter's evening, and you and your husband have a 20-month-old daughter . . . does deciding that all four of you should visit the workout room seem like the optimal scenario to you? Because it doesn't to me, really. I'm thinking the sister stays at home with the toddler and babysits, or the mother and the sister go and the husband babysits, or . . . I mean, there are several other configurations, all involving the absence of anyone under the age of ten from the workout room. From at least a safety standpoint, wouldn't that be better? If there were no little people in the workout room? But don't mind me. It has been suggested in some quarters that I am just a bitter old bitch who is becoming increasingly fond of the pejorative "spawn" to describe other people's adorable, brilliant little children.

Anyway. Let me just say how sorry I am that Martin Luther King, Jr., was killed, not only because he was a visionary leader and a great humanitarian etc. etc., but because now we have yet another day, besides Saturday and Sunday, on which my entire town can and does converge on Wal-mart. If you want some idea of the pandemonium there, try this:

Two teenagers completely blocked the end of an aisle with their carts while they chatted (I assume these are the only two teenagers in my town without cell phones), and I thought, "Oh no we are NOT blocking up the entire aisle just to have a conversation," and then I said exactly that, out loud, at sufficient volume that the woman next to me turned and replied, deadpan, "Well, no--we're not," to which I responded, "But then, we were brought up right," and we both had a laugh while the teenagers continued their conversation, utterly oblivious as all young people are to the complaining of Those Who Are Grown. Normally I would celebrate this as proof that all's right with the the world--I would be far more disturbed if the teenagers had ceased talking and issued heartfelt, abject apologies--but this did come at the end of 50 minutes in the damn Wal-mart and an hour for the Wal-mart experience is about my limit. Any longer than that in there and I don't know what I'd do, exactly, but I know I could not be held responsible for it.

But you understand? I said something rude (and scoldy!) out loud. The last time I did this was over four years ago, and even then I waited until the offender was out of earshot. I am a big old coward about this sort of thing, so just imagine the extent to which I was pushed today that I dared to open my mouth at all.

Oh!--Before anyone calls me a racist let me point out that I make the exact same complaints about humanity every Monday holiday. I don't like President's Day any better, but I don't think that's because I harbor any bigotry towards people with wooden teeth or Marfan syndrome (which yes I know Lincoln may or may not have had; please let's remember that no one likes a know-it-all before commenting, thank you, come again). To hell with your three-day weekends, America. Especially to hell with the way employees at certain institutions, I'm not saying universities necessarily, tend to take the preceding Friday off so they can have four-day weekends, and thus for four solid days no one can accomplish a single fucking thing. Yes, to hell with this fat, lazy country. I am moving here. (With thanks to Andrea for that particular time-waster.)

Wait, I promised you a crummy picture, didn't I? Well, here; click for bigger, or simply snicker from afar. I'll get over my sunset fixation eventually, but for now it continues.

Back to work! What? You didn't think I had a three-day weekend, did you? SOME OF US WERE WORKING, AMERICA.

. . . Dictating a Preoperative History and Physical on Pharoomaferfloomph

Lovely, I guess I get to transcribe preops tonight. I can't stand these. Is there some med school tradition that requires future surgeons to learn how to mumble everything?

You would think speaking clearly and precisely would be more important in the business of cutting people open, wouldn't you? But you would be oh, so very wrong. Do I want to know what they sound like in the operating room? When they're further muffled by masks? I don't think that I do.

Nurse! Hand me that klaquoolfulogama!

I don't know why I bothered learning a single word of medicalese when all I really need to know how to type is the series of five underscores that indicates I have no idea what in creation this surgeon just said. Cripes. It takes a shit job like this to drive a school-o-phobe like me back to college.

Speaking of, I don't get to register until Tuesday (classes start later that week), because of oh-who-the-fuck-cares-what reason, which means next Tuesday I get to go through this all over again, only this time with lots and lots and LOTS of people half my age to go through it with me. You know what I wish? I wish I had a silver-haired wig and thick pretend glasses. I would show up to registration in the wig, the glasses, a housecoat, and my slippers. I mean, if I'm going to be old, I might as well be freaky, scary, do-you-think-she-wears-diapers, or-just-a-catheter-and-leg-bag old. I might as well be OLD old.

Um. So, that's uh, where I'm at right now. How are you?

Thank You!

Remind me, next time I'm in one of those black periods during which I have no faith in humanity at all, that I have the best commenters in the world.

I'll follow that post up, but it may be awhile. Today is The Day, The Day I Swore to Myself I Would Register for School (and no, I can't just do it online. Believe me, I did check.). The damn semester starts next week, so no more screwing around. It is also the last week of the pay period, work-wise. Lots going on around here, little of it any actual fun.

If I get a chance I'll also tell you about the time when I was 15 and Very Concerned About Our Planet; Also, Cruelty to Animals, Not to Mention Heart Disease, and tried to become a vegetarian, only to be sabotaged at every turn by my father, the meat-eating maniac and something of a wizard with the grill. The short version is that I learned I do not really like most meat and could live happily never touching chicken, pork, or hamburger again. Steak, however . . . a medium-rare New York strip or filet mignon, oh, those are hard things to give up once you've acquired a taste for them.

Luckily I'm not in much position to afford these treats very often anymore, and so there's probably nothing really stopping me from committing to vegetarianism other than (1) laziness and (2) this low-carb diet I'm on (which I don't want to hear a word against, incidentally, because this method of eating worked for me for eight straight years previously, is working for me again now, and my goodness, but I'm tired of being voluptuous in places I shouldn't be. So please, no lectures on that front, my kidney function is fine, and I swear I am not living on bunless burgers, in fact actually most of my protein is coming from eggs and cheese so I am within striking distance of being lacto-ovo; there, are you happy?).

Anyway--good stuff from all of you, thank you very much again, and more later if I am not spun into an anxiety attack by dealing with this school business; even more later if I am spun into an anxiety attack but choose to cope with it through the power of booze (but in that case I don't promise anything I write will make sense).

I'll Just Turn This One Over to You

Not to say that I don't have my own opinions about the matter, but I think here I'm more interested in finding out what the rest of you think:

. . . if you cannot deal with the fact that an animal has to die so you can eat its flesh, then, you shouldn’t be eating that animal in the first place. It isn’t necessary for most humans to eat meat anymore–human knowledge of nutrition and the global marketplace have made vegetarian diets more pleasant, palatable and nutritionally sound than ever before.

So, if you don’t -need- to eat meat for its nutritive value, and it squicks you out to think of eating an animal, then why not just stop eating meat, and while you are at it, stop whining about it?

Hey, and vegetarians? Don't feel excluded. Your opinions are particularly welcome here.

Picked this up at the Accidental Hedonist, where there are some foodblogging awards in progress. (Vote Food Whore! That's my endorsement, anyway.)

Via these same awards I also found this blog, 18th Century Cuisine. Very curious about that one, and I'm looking forward to reading more of it.

What I've Been Doing Instead of Updating This Blog

Mostly getting lost in Tim Blair's quotes of 2005. Australian lefties are so much farther around the bend than American ones. I can't get enough of it--the Cretan guy, Margo Kingston, Media Watch--it's like a three-ring circus of dumbness and duplicity down there.

Please Just Accept That I Had to Do This

I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore.

Why does Ted Casablanca have a job? Why does it involve "writing" things? Wasn't Morse code invented to prevent just such a catastrophe? Why do I ever visit E! Online when, deep down, I know better?

Sorry, Been Busy

I seem to have developed a fondness for patting trolls on their pointy little heads. I know you're shocked.

Well, it makes them feel appreciated. And, damnit, shouldn't everyone get to feel appreciated a few times in life?

Besides, it still beats the tar out of guest-blogging.

UPDATE: And NOTHING beats a gift from Hubris. Behold the ultimate misogynist's law school application. You are so definitely going to want to click for bigger:

Note: I advised Hubris to offer this to Feministe, after he was unable to upload it here using a guest login. If Jill or Lauren end up posting it, I'll take this one down. But in the meantime? It's just too good.

AND FINALLY: On a more serious note, possibly the best summary I've seen of the whole thing:

. . . unfortunately, not all little boys do mature. Some of them just get bigger. And they’re sitll bullies, but now they’re in bigger bodies, and with a viciousness that’s been honed over the years. Jill of Feministe encountered such men, at an online board frequented by fellow students at her law school. Sick stuff - guys posting for months to threads about her - comments about her appearance (because, you know, feminists have got to be ugly, even when they’re young and strikingly good-looking), “Jill sighting” posts and mentions of “tag teaming” her around campus, and some people found Jill threads that mentioned rape and a desire to “hate fuck” her. Creepy stuff.

I know admonitions to "read the whole thing" grow tiresome online, but really: Read the whole thing.

God Wants You to Shop at Nordstrom's

And Brooks Brothers. Well, that's what I'm getting out of this extremely stupid article.

I'm not against some of the man's points about redneck culture not being very cultured at all, but here is a short list of what I am against:

1. This insistence on declaring a subset of conservatism and applying a cutesy name to it, like, say, "Metrocon:"

See also: Crunchy Cons.

Do you notice how the proponents of these subsets are always really vain guys who want to place themselves into these subsets because they think they're better than plain old regular conservatives? "Unlike those ordinary conservatives, I buy my arugula from the farmer's market." "Unlike those ordinary conservatives, I do not wear Old Spice."

No one ever says, "Yeah, I like to think of myself as a Dumbhick Conservative," or "I'm really more of a JerkyCon, myself."

The subset always flatters the guy who identifies it. It's pure vanity.

2. The author's complaint that there used to be more metrocons, back in the good old days:

There's William F. Buckley, the pluperfect conservative metrosexual. Buckley, whose National Review turned 50 last year, is the picture of style, erudition, dignity, and grooming. He's more Polo than Gillette, goes to the symphony, and would look lost at a rodeo. Buckley is representative of the older conservative order, people like Jeane Kirkpatrick, Norman Podhoretz and Irving Kristol who can speak about Beethoven and Brahms more than Alan Jackson and Jeff Foxworthy. They read the New Criterion -- a kind of Bible of the metrocon -- and buy Christmas presents at Brooks Brothers instead of Wal-Mart. There hasn't really come up a younger generation of metrocons to take over.

I would argue that what made Buckley vital to the conservative movement had nothing to do with any of this, and at some point his "style, erudition, [and] dignity" actually risked doing the growth of that movement some harm. Americans are, as the author notes himself, passionately anti-snob, and they can't stand to feel talked down to, and I will admit right now that for years I didn't have the slightest use for anything William F. Buckley wrote or said because he was nothing but an obscenely wealthy, pompous old goat to me, and that was sufficient to make his ideas unworthy of my consideration.

I would further argue that two guys whose personas appear more approachable--even though they are both well-educated, well-mannered, and well-groomed--have done as much to boost the conservative movement in recent years as stuffy ol' WFB. And they didn't do it with the Word of the Day; they did it with humor and an I'm-just-a-regular-guy demeanor.

3. The obsession with the material:

If there is one message I would like to club through the heads of this so-called younger generation--actually now in its 30s and 40s--that the author identifies himself with, it is this:

"YOUR STUFF" does not equal "YOU."

Your Brooks Brothers suits do not add to your worth as a person. Your organic vegetables do not add to your worth as a person. Your Blackberry does not add to your worth as a person. Your expensive cologne does not add to your worth as a person.

It is all just stuff. You will take exactly none of it with you and p.s., Mr. Judge, as you both profess yourself a Christian and consider your purchase of a bottle of Truefitt and Hill a necessary part of your spiritual growth, I thought I might remind you that Jesus made it very clear once how he felt about that sort of thing.

Also, I have searched my Biblical index and I cannot find reference to Nordstrom's anywhere. Not even in the Apocrypha.

No. I am not giving this guy a cookie for his stunningly brilliant observation that rednecks are annoying. I might have, but he couldn't stop there, could he? No, he had to go on and on about how buying fabulous things and going fabulous places and appreciating fabulous art made him spiritually a better person.

And then, on top of that, he had to come up with that moronic label. I swear everyone's David Brooks anymore. It makes me tired.

(Via Ace of Spades.)

The Weird Stuff Thing

Well, I kind of owe Margi for hitting her with the "Seven Things" one, see. This is how meme-tagging never. Freakin'. Ends.

I wish it would, because I've actually done this one before. I screwed up and listed six of them, even. So I've given everyone a BONUS weird fact about myself.

There, that was easy. Hah!

Small Band, Big Cup: A PSA for the Women

If, like me, you are a goofy bra size, this is what you must do:

You must read this post.

Then, you must go here and spend too much money on bras. Bras THAT FIT.

Because, I'm telling you, you will be so freakin' happy if you do.

By US standard sizing, I'm a 34F (and sometimes G, depending on style and manufacturer). Most (but not all) bra manufacturers call this a "34DDD." A damn triple D--I can't look at my own bra size without flashing back to my grades in high school.

Who sells this size? Nobody sells this size! So for most of my life, I've been squishing into 36DD bras that don't fit. For most of my life I've been walking around with quadriboob.

Never again. I love these people, do you hear me? I am sorry to go all Jerry Maguire like that, but I love these people. My boobs love these people.

If you're in similar circumstances, you should absolutely check it out. It is awesome.

UPDATE: Oh, that's what I remind myself of. Only with less bourbon.

Actual Search Hit

"How to get back at a man when he tells you sexist jokes."

Hmm . . . is there really any need to strike back? He's clearly an idiot, and that's kind of its own worst punishment right there.

But if you insist, I would suggest having him watch this.

The End of the Argument

Never tell me again that women bloggers who post pictures of themselves don't risk more personally-directed nastiness on the internet:

Like Lauren, Jill, Trish, Amanda, and other feminist bloggers, I've been attacked by "trolls" who've said some fairly nasty things about me. But though I have close to a hundred pictures of me in my photo albums, none of my critics ever go after my weight or my looks. None of the MRAs have called me "ugly" or "fat" or anything similar. A year ago, this picture elicited ridicule -- but not scorn for my body. This silence about my appearance is not a compliment to me as an individual, but rather a function of male privilege.

The emphasis is in the original.

Oh, hey, I just thought of another thing I don't want to hear: A woman whose own picture has never been targeted like this, exclaiming happily that her fortunate state must mean such vileness is the exception, not the rule, and isn't the internet a lovely, happy place, and aren't conservative men such wonderful gentlemen?

That woman needs to take a minute to consider that maybe she just got lucky. And then she might try a little experiment: Try posting something controversial, try posting something that goes against the conventional wisdom, and see how long that exception privilege endures.

My guess is it won't be very long at all.

Nighty-Night

Such a day! Enough. Do please try not to make too much fun of the picture; I'll get better with practice.

. . . I think.

[Clicking makes bigger.]

Home is Where I Can Say "Fuck" If I Want To

I am not meant to blog anywhere but here.

I am not meant to blog for anyone else for any reason, under any circumstances.

Listen up, people, because this is important:

NEVER LET ME GET ANY BRIGHT IDEAS LIKE THIS AGAIN.

Man. Sorry for the all-caps . . . if I could triple-underline it, though, I would. Please, just--just remind me of that. If I ever post, "I will be doing some guest-blogging at . . ." consider that your cue to email me with a stern "No, you will NOT. Because you will hate it, and it will hate you right back. Don't be a fucking moron."

You can even put an asterisk in it. You can tell me not to be a f*cking moron. Or an effing moron. Really, I don't care. And I promise I won't tell anyone that you came this close to saying a naughty word.

Thank you. Your continued support is, as always, deeply appreciated.

And I mean that from the bottom of my fucking heart.

Sadly No Relation to Chris Makepeace

I really do not have the words for what you are about to see when you click this.

MrSpkr does, though.

I think, so far, my favorite part is the title attribute of that page:

"World Peace is one Word - WorldPeace Peace Page - Peace Now." So! Do you suppose they like peace?

I honestly can't read that without (1) noting that no, it isn't, it's two words, I'm sorry, I didn't make it that way, and (2) wanting to burst into a few rounds of peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot, which by the way the owner of this page should stop smoking immediately. I don't mean to harsh his mellow, but this is just embarrassing.

Things to Do with Barbie When You're Bored

I took very good care of my Barbies until I got to be about 15.

Then, I took them all out to the big trash can, piled them up, and tried to set them on fire. It didn't really work; I was too chicken to use lighter fluid, plastic only scorches, and the hair flamed out too quickly to really get a good blaze going.

I thought I was being all kinds of punk rock. It turns out I was just being normal:

Barbie’s house burned down, she flew off a cliff, (couch), in her van after the brakes failed, she drowned in her pool, she recreated the hilarious (albeit painful) ski jump accident we all saw at the opening of every “Wide World of Sports” program and sometimes Barbie would have the shit beat out of her or get shoved down the stairs by Miss America Barbie, the dark haired competitor.

I dropped her out my bedroom window, (on the second floor), just to see what would happen. I popped her legs and arms off, dyed her hair, cut her hair, decapitated her and she was left with a lot of marks made from a black marker to resemble bruises from her various mishaps.

Inspired by yet another stupid study, of course.

Eighty-Sixed in 2006

So, January. That time of year. People usually either do resolutions, or lists of things they don't want to see anymore in the new year. Which, if you think about it, are also resolutions--for other people to implement.

"Naw, I don't really feel the need to change anything about myself. I'm pretty much perfect. How about you change some shit."

People like to take stock when one year ends and another begins. This in turn inspires other people to get all pissy about that.

"New Year's resolutions are so stupid! It's not like any of them will have been kept after February! If you really wanted to change you'd change right now, instead of waiting until January!" Blah, blah, blah, as though seeing someone do up a list of goals for the year had really hurt them.

You know what people who say that are really saying? They're saying they're not capable of following through on their own goals and projects. The last person to stick out in my mind as a big complainer about resolutions never finished anything. Fifty-seven projects and nothing done.

Mind you, I never finish anything myself. I just don't see any reason to begrudge others for trying to set goals. I don't care that they all pick the same time to do it, either. You'd only look goofy doing up a list of resolutions in August.

Anyway, if you're not resolution-minded you may enjoy making resolutions for others instead. I know I do! Here are some things I want gone in the new year:

"Do you want some cheese with that whine?" No. I don't. Stop it. I feel like I've been hearing that one for 60 years and I'm not even that old yet.

"Hat tip: " I keep waiting for this one to go away, and it keeps not happening. I'm probably eventually going to have to fold on this one, but for right now I'm holding out for one more year.

Custom ringtones: This is fake individuality at its finest right here. It reminds me of something Dave Foley once said: "I don't like fashion rebellion. It takes too much energy away from real rebellion." (I do have a link for that, but it's to this page that's like a horror, all black background with text in every color of the rainbow, and some of it's probably even blinking, but I didn't look that closely to say for sure. Don't make me send you there; just trust me that he said it.)

I know you think it's really precious to make your cell phone play your favoritest song ever, but just wait until I have to give in and get one, because I'm setting it to play Andy Gibb songs and I'm never putting it on vibrate. You'll all be sorry then, won't you?

The red-headed slut: Because it's just time. This is like every college kid's favorite shot now and have you noticed that college kids can seldom hold their liquor in public? I have. I'm tired of stepping into the restroom only to find the first two stalls covered in upchucked Jagermeister.

Hippies: Another one I've been waiting for since, uh, birth. Perhaps if we could just eliminate the ones with a hard-on for Castro? Maybe if we try taking it in stages, we can finally do this thing.

The we-don't-need-feminism-in-America, we-need-it-in-the-Middle-East argument: Congratulations, antifeminist cretins. You have forced me to go all Paul Anka on your asses:

Let me ask you this: A pilot is in a plane, and he's landing. He not only looks at his instruments, but he looks at the fucking runway, to make sure it's there.

Believe it or not, women can look at the instruments and the runway. Our eyes work almost as good as real people's. Don't pull this "writing about domestic issues means you don't care about international ones" shit. I'm talking mostly to that Muslihoon guy everyone's been giving blowjobs to lately, because he loves this one, but really anybody who trots this out is being dishonest, stupid, or both.

Of course women in the Middle East have it worse, on average, than Western women do. No one's saying they don't. Do you like it when someone disrespects your pet domestic issues with "don't you know there's a war on?" Like somehow paying attention to one thing diminishes the other? OKAY, THEN. Quit playing retarded.

If I'm Not Around Much This Week

. . . that will be because I'm concentrating on fulfillling two obligations: One, guest-blogging at Absinthe & Cookies; two, writing my obligatory Dead Pool posts (note: Those will be under the name "Della Morte." Can I ever get enough of bad pun handles? No, I cannot.).

And while I'm working on those two things I may even drop in over here once in awhile, because I feel guilty for having asked Beth for a login, then never having done a damn thing with it. I may as well make this a sort of guest-blogging week.

It's time for me to write crummy posts at other places, is what I'm saying. Feel free to visit any of 'em and leave me a comment. I like company, especially in strange places.

Too Bad I'm Not Famous

'Cause I feel half dead already, and I could have made a decent Dead Pool candidate.

Please Type Quietly

Because my fucking head, you have no idea.

UPDATE: Cruelty.