Sure, I'll talk about National Coming Out Day and represent all the other marginalized groups I'm pigeon-holed into.

That's a pretty long post title. You should know that a dire necessity exists in the lengthiness of that subject title. Hey, you know what? I have a story about it. Listen in! (I should warn you that listening to your computer monitor is probably hazardous to your mental health. Why don't you just read along and we'll all be safe and sane together!)

Slowly but surely I'm doing my job. Actually, it feels like my heart beats to the time of our school bell schedule. Translation: I nearly drop dead on the weekends. It's really too bad; I'm just that dedicated.

Aren't we all.

One of the projects I pretend to work on pertains to the Free and Reduced Lunch Program. From here on out, I shall refer to this is as FRLP, which is fun to pronounce as a word (fir-lip noun: hairy lip (on women); exterior of fir tree mouth, from middle english). I'm interested in the stigma of FRLP as manifested in the paper tickets poor and low income students exchange for lunch each day.



This is a FRLP ticket. Some people think it's a "drawing" when I show it to them. If you look carefully, you'll notice a bite mark on the top left corner of the ticket, and the mysterious "5" a the bottom right of this ticket should clue you into its authenticity.

I wanted real perspectives about this issue from real students. Can you blame me? They're the ones using the tickets and participating in the discgusting ritual that is high school. Oh, it's not so bad. I say "disgusting" as though it in some way resembled the experience of drinking spoiled milk or watching someone's teeth get knocked out of their head. It's not "disgusting" like that, but you must admit that high school is a painful situation for some. I wanted to know all about that pain, so I sat in on a Title I reading class and held "focus groups" with the students.

The first few classes went fine. I connected with a few students about poverty and the instances they've struggled through; the goals they set despite their situation; yadda yadda yadda. In one class, a student told me that people who live in poverty don't work hard and are in poverty because they probably don't take opportunities to get out of poverty. Normally, this type of comment would elicit unbridled rage and anger within my usually peaceful soul, but I restrained myself and tried to face his somewhat insular perspective with cold hard facts. I feel proud of the way I handled that, but we're not here to stroke my ego. I mean, I'm not here to stroke my ego.



According to google images, this is what "hard work" and "poverty" looks like. Maybe that kid was right. I can see the EBT card sticking out of one of their pockets. Oh wait, no, it's a Disney World credit card. Shucks. Thanks for the true depiction!

Anyway, third period rolled around and in walked five people. Only one seemed to possess speaking capabilities, which is fine. I wasn't there to force them into answering anything they didn't want to answer. With this group, though, it was tough getting them to tell me their name and grade. Before the bell rang, the only girl in the class struts in with her pink Doc Martens-like footwear, a faux cowgirl shirt (like, one from Old Navy?), and tight jeans. She sits down between two boys who don't seem to know her, yet she proceeds to prop her legs atop them. I could "sense" how they felt at the moment.

Well, Suzy Q (a fake name in the interest of confidentiality) looks at me and instinctively asks, "Are you here to talk for National Coming Out Day?"

My face dropped. I can't even imagine the look I gave her. I mumbled "... No?" and she proceeded, "Oh, I was just wondering since 'people' were coming into some of my friends' classes to talk about being gay and lesbian and bisexual and all that."

"Oh," I uttered. "Well, I could talk about that too. If you want?"

Suzy Q laughed and quickly turned to one of her "boyfriends"/makeshift furniture and exclaimed, "My friend Jonah/Claire/Apple/Seven said (s)he was glad to be here for me today because he told everyone that I was bisexual and it's funny that he said that. Because it's funny."

Teacher turns to Suzy Q and asks, "Well, it's National Coming Out Day today. Aren't you supposed to out yourself instead of having someone else out you?"

Funny, teacher, I wondered something similar.

The period crawled by. As I said, this wasn't a talkative bunch. Toward the end of the period, when we could hear the dead flies' gradual decomposition resound, Suzy Q said to me, "I didn't mean to offend you or anything before. About the Coming Out Day thing that I said."

I told her it was fine. What I meant by that was: I'm in a relationship, and this is proof that gaydar in fact exists.

In the following periods, students accused me of poverty-related voyeurism, told me I was "ridiculous" for doing the work I do, and basically suggested I leave Missoula and live on a reservation.

Nice kids, right? Right! That's why I love working at a school. For all of you out there who should be teachers: it isn't really that bad. Hey, if you aren't part of a marginalized group, you'll be fine. As a female, you may sense sexism from your Republican male students, but if you're white and straight, the kids should come around by December. If you're lucky.

It's funny because I always talk about how non-heteros in Montana have different signifiers than those folks in cities like New York. I guess my theory is wrong. Or maybe Suzy Q and I know each other from Catalyst, the local coffee shop that attracts lesbians and straight people who don't know that lesbians work/eat/drink there.

Ah, life is so fun. And please, everyone, before you forget: Do come out. If you aren't sure what to come out as, I hear "heterosexual" is a popular choice among folks these days.

Ha! That's hysterical!

Greetings from the West. Oh, you should have seen the sun set tonight. A wondrous array of colors: peaches and oranges and bananas? No, not quite.

(applause/laughter)

This post is not intended to be about me, per se, but I want to share with you something very important that's happening in my life. I'm helping high school students quit smoking (standing ovation, hurrah).

As a non-smoker who ex-smoked, I don't remember anyone at school taking an interest about my constant puffing. Maybe they didn't know. But they should have.



That's me smoking. And being blonde at Coney Island--now that's another story!

Anyway, it's a pleasure of mine to share knowledge and experience with these students. I'm grateful to have the opportunity, really.

(in unison: "aw!")

So, hysteria. That's what I'm thinking about. I've been hysterical all day about the prospect of having a hysterectomy when I'm only 23. Oh wait, no, that's not me, I just heard that story from someone else. She wasn't hysterical either. Funny, it's probably because she doesn't have HYSTERIA, you know, because it DOES NOT EXIST.

Ah, and then we return to the New York Times. The pulse of the universe. And we've all been victimized by the Times, but none more than women.

Okay, let's remember Times sexism together:

- Men are better at telling if someone else is angry, which is pretty obvious if you already think that all women are like Helen Keller (and she was a tremendous woman, don't get me wrong, but you know what I mean--deaf, ..., and blind). Ol' Hell--that's what we used to call her--she could never sense anger in another human being, unless Annie S. (or Sully) rearranged the furniture on her.

- What else. Oh, Maureen Dowd. Enough said!

- The most feminine of Times sections, 'Fashion & Style,' consistently has the stupidest articles I've ever read. I suppose they consider certain "trends" they've "discovered" to be fashionable and bearing style. I don't. I'm not them, though.

- "Is Hysteria Real? Brain Images Say Yes" is today's prime example. I'm certain you and I could create a nice scavenger hunt as we search (lightly) throughout the Times for sexist suppositions.

This article about hysteria is in the Science section--hilarious! This would be better suited for Fash/Sty.

You see, the Times will fool you. You might begin reading an article, laugh a bit about the idiosyncracies the writer leverages for your attention. Oh yes, then you'll come across a line like this: "The word [hysteria] seems murky, more than a little misogynistic and all too indebted to the theorizing of the now-unfashionable Freud." You'll think, "Oh, NYT, that word is a little bit murky." You'll be glad they concede to the misogynistic overtone, and you'll switch off you're critical meter for the rest of the article.

Don't do it. Hysteria should be something better left for Women's Studies classes when we say, "Man, the APA really manipulates gender in the DSM, doesn't it? Let's all makeout." No, I'm kidding about the "manipulate" part; 'tis too strong a word.

This article claims that there have been symptoms of hysteria, and that these symptoms have never gone away since "The Yellow Wallpaper." Well, now there's brain imaging to prove that women are crazy .. because they're women. Really, all they had to do was check between our legs, and they'd know why we act the way we do.

See, let me unfold the logic I'm using: "Hysteria" is an affliction that can only affect females. Thus, it is supposedly defined by female-specific behaviors, which therefore turns the cycle a few degrees further--how do we define females, then? Depends on whether they're hysterical or not. Men are stable, women are unstable. Hysteria, as an idea in our culture, corroborates the assumed instability of women.

When the NYT throws around some half-assed experiement with a microwave, they make an impression on the world, unfortunately. Oh, so when women are getting their periods and feel really irritable and uneasy and irrepressible, and just acting down right different, it means they're hysterical, right? Wrong, of course, but there's always a "lay" trickle down of a word, and this is how it's gonna go down.

Of course, they mention that there is no univeral diagnostic criteria for hysteria among doctors. Does this even matter? NYT has already told me that hysteria still exists! NYT likens hysteria to a paralysis similar to that of a deer facing a semi-death truck. I'm embellishing that statement some. They remind us that women embody stress in our culture. It's nice that there isn't a diagnostic criteria for that, eh?

Here's my beef: What if it's something different? Are we settling with an antiquated misogynistic term because it's available to us? (Because we can?) Is it because this new brain imaging has something to do with Freud (and cocaine)? If we create a new neurological disorder, and do more research to see if by any chance this happens in men, can we have a new article? "We" = all women.

Thanks NYT. Thanks for caring and shitting all over us yet again.

I know the source for uncritical perspectives and sexist topic choice! And it ain't FOX!

Unapologetically neglectful.

Okay, so maybe I'm hoping you'll be just a little bit apologetic about my neglect. Seriously. I'm starting this new job, which I so happen to simultaneously adore and feel frustrated about--must be incredible, eh?

Yesterday, it snowed in Missoula. Here is a photo of snow and clouds, and wintry September wonderland.



Yes. What fun, what fun, you can't even imagine.

Hey, I'll give you a list of what I've been doing. Maybe we can start a feminist discourse and analyze my list and talk about gender and the intersections of cyberfeminism and my usual militant liberal feminism. Oh, wait, someone else is doing that already. DAMN! (I'm just kidding, friend. Oh, friend, you've always understood that I joke with you in this way because I adore you so; because you are the only person who can take that kind of (cyber)ribbing, lovely.)

1. Learning about Indians.

No, not the kind from India. No, not Sacajawea either, although there is a Sacajawea Park in MIssoula. It's by Orange Street Food Farm which is one of my favorite places in the entire world. I'm not sure if many Indians frequent this supermarket, but they should. I hear they've got good biscuits.

Okay, okay, I'm off-track already. Yeah, so that's a pretty big topic. Let's talk about it later.

2. Tutoring. Suddenly, I'm a Shakespeare tutor. This is a pretty sweet development. Be proud of me. I'm turning into a high school teacher. I told my "student" that I'd provide her with a "workbook" of sorts that summarize and point out key factors in each play she's reading. Yes, I'll be doing that with sonnets too. If you are ever thinking about teaching Shakespeare at a high school level, do contact me for this information. (Listen, I haven't made it yet, so don't get your hopes up.)



3. Walking with teachers from the school where I "work." Oh, so fun. We walked "up the Rattlesnake." Don't say it. I know it sounds dirty and weird, and potentially dangerous ( are there really rattlesnakes? ), but it was grand. We didn't see any bears or bobcats (shucks!) but we did see a beautiful lady deer. One walking partner asked the lady deer where her baby was. I, too, wondered about the baby deer.

4. Reading about poverty. You must be thinking, "God, here we go again with this poverty crap." No, it isn't crap. And you're a JERK for saying/thinking that. (We'll omit and forget about the fact that you never said anything hurtful about poverty.) I love Barbara Ehrenreich and wish to be her some day. Or be like her. I'm not interested in stealing identities, though I know some white girl who's pilfered the identity of a South American textile worker. Yeah, she's nogu. More on that in private.

5. Watching movies about poverty. I'd like to hold a workshop at school about poverty (Breakfast of Champions!: Waging a Living and Other Tidbits Chock Full of Poverty Facts). No, I won't call it that. You would call it that, but I won't. And I think I'll quit the paranoid schizophrenic persona and "find myself" through the rest of my list.

6. Regulating Jangle. Something else that sounds dirty. Jangle is the name I've given the dog who lives next door. He happens to "jangle" as he walks since his owners have fastened three collars around him. I think he's wearing a cross, Star of David, a horseshoe and dolphin, a few other charms, and finally a name tag that surely reads something other than Jangle (something with less pizazz). He's sweet. I don't regulate him, but I didn't want to type another word that began with "w."

7. Arranging flowers/vegetables. Don't act like you know what I'm talking about. I like to arrange flowers. I also like to arrange vegetables (not in vases, but in bowls). As I'm sure you're aware, I enjoy photography. Most days, I take pictures of vegetables. It is a new hobby. I've found I'm unsatisfied with landscape portraits, so vegetables it is!




8. Laughing. Hysterically. At everything. (Feel free to laugh at me smelling the dahlias. They aren't black, and that movie kinda sucked.)

9. Volunteering. That's what my "job" technically is. Today I also volunteered to lift heavy things and arrange second-hand "finds." This happened at a Peace Festival that I ended up not even attending. What kind of heavy things did I lift, you ask? Mostly chopped up wood. The tree surgeon went to town in somebody's back yard, methinks. And what second-hand "finds" did I arrange? Good question. Children's books and costumes (a tiger, a bee!), jewelry, peace hats. You own a peace hat, right? Doesn't everyone?

Yeah. So, basically, I've had little to no time for blogging. See, blogging would have been number 10 if I had more time. As you can see, I have 9 long-winded reasons to not blog.

Maybe some day, when I make my way to higher schooling, I will have more time to post on my blog. For now, the real world calls--like 10 times a day. it's really annoying!--but I've got call back and say something about stopping poverty from polluting the atmosphere of our society. And preventing a bobcat from eating Jangle. 'Round these parts, though, we're all wise enough to know a bobcat'd never eat a dog with a charm bracelet. The "city's" safe enough tonight.

Montana at last, at last Montana

I don't have internet. I'm supposed to be living at the poverty level, which might explain why I don't have internet. But that doesn't say a thing because I've just ordered internet, and it's costing me between $50-100 or maybe it's $1,000. One can never be sure about things like the internet, or prices, or why I don't qualify for food stamps.

You might not read this blog any more, and I don't blame you. I, of all people, should know a thing or two about keeping one's audience satisfied (and at arm's length). Apologies.

Today I'm thinking a lot about poverty. Yesterday I was thinking a lot about poverty too, and this will probably continue into tomorrow and the next day and next week. Essentially, I'm dedicating a year of my life to submerging myself mentally, emotionally, and physically in the topic of poverty.

Hmm, don't think he's from Montana, do you? He's poverty-stricken, and the first white person I found after I searched "poverty" in Google images was Matt Damon-four pages later. ?

It looks different here, poverty. It isn't dressed in some homeless getup, some dungarees and old white reeboks and too big sweaters or North Face jackets (lucky, lucky). And it doesn't show itself as gymnastically-talented hobos doin' a flip and extending a cup on the subway every now and then. It also isn't BLACK here and by BLACK I mean NON-WHITE. See, I'm just trying to keep in step with American race and ethnicity (or should I say cultural? Diversity?) rhetoric. That's to say poverty isn't COLORED here since we all know white is seldom considered a "race" or "ethnicity" (unless you think white is the only race, and then, well, there are some of that out here, too).

And the "lack of color" thing is definitely a problem. Because many impoverished are white, they seem to be overlooked or mistaken for someone of just low-income, or at the bottom rung of middle-class. "At first glance" reassurance is enough to write-off the very serious problem Montanans face.

Get this: Say you get a job here at Wal-Mart, okay it might be enough for you, but what about your kids? You have to get another service job, but wait--Are you making too much money to qualify for government programming now? Like food stamps and WIC? You are. You have to quit your new job, and then you can't save any money because if you do, you'll lose all your social aid, but if you don't, you'll never get out of this rut. You'll never go to college or vocational school to better your chances of getting another, higher-paying job. Your kids won't go to college either because they won't see the value in education, and will think, "I can get a job here that pays just or almost as much without a college degree." You won't get out, they won't either.

That kind of thing happens everywhere, but don't we usually assume some non-white person is going to wait on us at Wal-Mart? Or at McDonald's? Or some kid will? No, adults do that here, and they're predominantly white. You think, oh she must be alright and okay and getting by working at Missoula Wal-Mart, but she's just getting by and her kids probably have jobs too, or no one to watch or take care of them while she's at work, and they (3, let's say) all share the same room. You don't see the divide between you and her as easily because, to a certain extent, she is the same as you. So you don't think it's a problem, for anyone.

This is how they usually dress, just like Sacagawea in the good ol' days. The baby in the snow shoe is a common fashion trend 'round here. So is walking around with Aerosoles mocs.

Don't even get me started on the American Indians-these are the REALLY poor people of Montana, but I think it's safe to say that most of us think of Sacagawea and Crazy Horse, buffalo and tall horses, tipis and wigwam--but not blue jeans and punk rock, or long unbraided dark hair or first names like Luke and Steven that sound more American, more normal. In short, we forget they exist in houses and Levi's, and go to schools where white people go, where other financially-unable students attend. We write off their ways as culturally-based and thus impenetrable, so they have lower academic achievement than even white poverty kids because at least the white poverty kids are white, and that's a little bit more relatable. At least we can connect with them enough to make a difference.

Wow. I just feel there's so much to say. Next time, I'm going to write about college education and Montana-that ties in here, but this is already long and I need to research more about ... poverty.

I'm alive, I swear!

You'd think I abandoned writing, or going online, or checking my or other people's blogs/ljs/myspaces/facebooks four thousand times per day.

No, I didn't give up any of that. I've just been driving, lots.

Well friends, you won't be seeing me for some time ... unless you live in Montana (and western Montana, at that). At a sunny six AM July 9, I geared up and got lost ... but not lost at all, I had a wonderful atlas and driving companion. 2300 miles later we ended up in Missoula, Montana. It was QUITE the trip. We visited a place called the Corn Palace where we bought postcards and "authentic" popcorn. We traversed - super-speed-limiting - along an inter-state/gallactic highway that surely stretches forever, further west and then into the galaxy, paving stairways toward Mars. We visited the Badlands, found eerie beauty in the desert(ed) plains and unique rock formations, but shook this feeling once we entered Wall, SD - little beauty, mostly eerie, or just plain strange. But at Wall we bought magnets, which now decorate our refrigerator. We stayed in Sundance, WY, where the only supermarket in town closes at 8 pm, and got pulled over by a cop - we missed a stop sign, were let go with a warning ("When you're some place you don't know, be sure to pay attention to stop signs"), and the next day made our way to Devil's Tower. We ate good salads at the co-op and then got cheap Cold Stone ice cream from a little princess I know.

It's been real, and incredible, and I love it here. And I know what you're thinking - "It hasn't snowed yet though."

Soon I'll write more about ... people here and lots of other things.

Say It With Me, NYTimes: Embodiment. Very Good!

Not surprisingly, I have a problem with an article in today's New York Times. Really, what else is new? Actually, I have many problems wtih today's Times, or TT as I will refer to it from here on out. I have problems with yesterday's Times and last week's, last year's, last summer's (do you remember that article about the bisexual male study? WTF?!), and forever and ever Amen.

A glimpse at TT with commentary:
1. Seems to me this newspaper thinks it's a blog. I don't read the paper-paper edition, but the article about TMZ.com is sure to be in there. Fascinating. Straphangers from Morningside Heights to Wall Street must be thoroughly enamored by the wondrous Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt coverage this paper shoves into about three to five precious articles each week. Garrison Keillor would be proud!
2. Oh yes. If I have to see one more A Prairie Home Companion ad on this Web site, I'll write about it on my blog. Wow. See how severe the situation is? I think someone at their Web site is sweet on Ms. Lohan, or Fire Crotch, as the breaker of news might name her about a month after that was cool (though it was never cool).
3. "For Some, Online Persona Undermines a Resume" is a really brilliant title. So brilliant, in fact, you don't even need to read the article to understand what it's about. Hey, I never thought that my future employers might have gone to college. Or might be recent graduates even. Hey, they might have Facebook accounts! And even if they didn't go to high school, I bet they still have MySpace if they've got their trusty Library Card and 15 minutes to cyberstalk while at the Public Library computer kiosks! THANKS FOR ILLUMINATING THAT NYTIMES.COM!
4. OK. There are many others - Hell! I could write about TT for hours! This next article is the one that helped me decide what to write about today. Thank you TT for so clearly articulating my disgust with such an "esteemed" publication.

Found in the Mental Health and Behavior section (or Health, online), it is called "Men are Better at Ferreting Out that Angry Face in the Crowd." I love the title, don't you? "Ferreting out" is a phrase I use all the time! Especially about situations such as this one, where someone is forced to determine, who, at their cocktail party, is angry or terrified. Again, thanks for keeping us on our toes TT!


I'll give you a brief brief synopsis, but, as usual, the article doesn't explain in enough detail the point/motivation for the study nor any particulars (are these men and women American? Yes, we assume they are. But they don't say it). Bear with me. Don't get angry, either. If I were a man, I'd be able to tell you were angry from a mile away! It's a survival strategy! Hey, that's a good enough synopsis for me. And you can read the article online, my friends.

This article is going to be in Current Biology, which just blows me away since it seems the article fails to explain connections between the psychology and how this is grounded in some tried and true biological difference(s) between men and women. In OTHER WORDS, if this study were in a psychology journal, that is one thing - the audience is filled with people who believe this bullshit. In a biological journal, on the other hand, the audience is geared toward reading articles with the assumption in mind that what they are reading is somehow biologically linked. That may sound simplistic, but it isn't. Maybe they should put the article in Hello! or JANE and see how people interpret it. Just think about that for a moment - but not too long, I have more to say.

When I first began reading this artlcle, I thought it was about picking out angry/terrified faces in a crowd. But no. It's really about the so-called cognitive differences between men and women, and pointing that out for the millionth time. At the end, they say that it's an evolutionary development that men and women respond at different rates to threatening faces. I guess, that's pretty duh, and I'm not sure why a study needs to be done about that. Oh, right, to remind us that women aren't good at directions, and that - duh - women need men.


See her? She's looking for Cherry Tree Rd., where her dying grandmother lives. She's trying really really hard to read a map. A few moments after this picture was taken, a nice, masculine man came along and helped her find her way. She asked the nice man if he could direct her to a CVS in the neighborhood, and he shrugged, and then walked away to help another confused young woman. She has her period and needs tampons. Do you know why he didn't know where CVS was? Because women only know where they are based on landmarks, whereas men actually know the roads. All this boils down to men having the abstract cognitive ability to envision context, location, and direction, whereas women just know where they are by the CVS and Wawas they might have stumbled across.

This is what the article suggests. I don't believe that. Hello? I am a woman (I'm checking right now) and I can follow directions and know where I'm going based on road maps and signs. I can also do MATH AND SCIENCE. If you take the logic of this article one step further, their arguments reinforce that age-old MYTH that men are better at math and science than women. Nowadays, in a quasi-feminist world, women excel at math and science. Forty years ago, only little boys would answer math questions in class, while the girls knew everything about pot roast. How did this change?

Well! Someone started this trend where they decided maybe girls should try math and science, and that maybe they could be good at it if they were given the opportunity. A kind of embodiment - women are using their cognitive abilities differently now, is that affecting their brain structure and neuronal pathways? Can we exceed the limits of other people's expectations when we take minority status? I cannot feasibly believe this study in TT actually has anything to do with real biology or biological evolution. It sounds like social evolution, or, more specifically, a cheap attempt to essentialize men and women's cognitive abilities. Yet again.

What do you think?

Fun with Names: Shorty, Curly, Moe, Happy & BG

I'm self-conscious.

OK. I said it. You are too. Save your denial for therapy, please. Together we can move forward to this post and then maybe we, as a team, can find out why I'm self-conscious.

I say that I'm self-conscious this time around because I found out that my friends read this, like, actually. And they think it's "hilarious." A brilliant one--who is, for some reason, getting a higher degree in women and gender studies (of all things)--told me she might write her thesis about blogging, feminism, all that, and that this blog-monster I'm feeding could be her subject. Now, I'm probably ruining my chances by calling her out.

Maybe this is a good thing.

I will tell you a few stories about my day. Today, I had the unfortunate honor of attending my friend's father's funeral. Unfortunate for obvious reasons; an honor because that's what it means for me to be part of her life.

NOTE: I am going to re-name my friends with labels I find more appropriate than their actual names. I'm preserving anonymity and having fun while I'm at it.

Story #1: Hard to Drive.
En route le funeral home, I picked up Shorty in Princeton. Shorty and I had a nice cup of cawfee at some Foer-phile cafe. While we were sharing her/our soy latte, she reminded me that "five people in NJ have an accent" and that I'm one of them. Good to know.

Though we sensed its presence, Shorty and I could not find the funeral home. You know, non-NJ natives used to tell me that my precious state is hard to navigate, that the signs mislead, that all the drivers on the roads are bastards, etc. I've never disputed the temperament of my fellow NJ driver's license holders (I wonder if they have their marriage certificates handy? F*ck that!), but I've never agreed with the roadway complexities.

I retract my former statements on the matter: NJ roads make no sense. At all.

Imagine an intersection (like this one).


See how the road is clearly marked? A rare occasion. This intersection happens to be in Newark. Translation: shit better be labeled. Or else.

Unlike Newark, some of New Jersey still reminds me of the good ol' colonial days (not like Angelina's colonialism, silly!). Depicted here is the identical (or one darn similar to it!) intersection that fooled us.


Shorty and I missed the turn. Can you blame us? Where is Nottingham Way? we wondered. Is it before or after the stalled out buggy? How curious. Keeping in step with prescribed gender roles, we immediately pulled into a gas station and asked for directions. Aha! So Nottingham Way was closer than we thought, and we found the street sign. It was small (though the street was part of a four-five road intersection), and seemingly hidden by overgrown shrubs, too-tall grass, and/or a thick pole. Shorty and I made it to the funeral home, the cemetery, and the buffet safe and sound--a good thing since her Oat/Cardboard-flavored crackers were hardly holding over us (read: me).

Story #2: WhiteVan Drives Me Cra-ZaY.
On the way home, Shorty and another nice lady, Curly, joined my journey home. What a bunch! Curly's from Westfield which is only a hop, skip, and Coach bag away from my town, Screw-nion.

I'm not much familiar with Beautiful Girl's (BG) part of New Jersey, so I wasn't quite sure how to get back to Route 1. Moe, Happy's fiancee, offered to draft a route provided by his GPS, but that darn contraption told me to get on the Turnpike! Every self-respecting Jersey-jerk opts for non-toll roads over toll roads, so I was looking for another way, and then a beacon of light drove my way--in the form of a mini van, the Chrysler Voyager White Van, to be precise.


(BG) introduced/directed me toward the Ladies of the White Van (LOTWV, though I won't use this acronym, I thought you should witness my appreciation for acronyms). They knew the way, so we all said goodbye to Moe and Happy and pulled out behind WhiteVan.

Have you ever followed someone in a car? Don't do it. Find a map, ask a gas attendant (we have them in our state) and/or a homeless person, use your ol' Girl Scouts keychain-compass, move toward the North star-whatever you do, avoid following another car. I have to say, I hate when people follow me some place--it's like, why don't you get directions so I can speed on the way there? I become very self-conscious (theme of the century), and end up looking in my rearview mirror more than at the road ahead of me. So you're probably never going to drive with me now, right?

Getting back to the Legendary White Van. OK. We pulled out of the parking lot--no turning signal! Thanks WhiteVan--cutting off hostile-ready drivers is my favorite pastime! Then! WhiteVan sped ahead, sticking to the right lane, which made me think we were going to turn soon. Good thing I'm psychic because we did turn soon, and WhiteVan neglected the blinker yet again! We hit the highway and WhiteVan was all over the place! Now, WhiteVan had its right blinker on--but it never turned right! Once WhiteVan veered right onto a ramp, its left directional suddenly appeared--and wouldn't stop flashing! Didn't they hear the incessant clicking? Were they listening to Bon Jovi with the bass way up? Livin' on a prayer we were! Shorty, Curly, and I had many questions for WhiteVan but ultimatedly enjoyed chronicling WhiteVan's every move. Too bad I wasn't recording my car conversations for a change. I think you'd like this one.

Once I figured out where we was, I took off past WhiteVan whose occupants stretched a happy wave our way, and left LOTWV* in da dust. It was grand. And hilarious. You should have been there.

Some day, maybe you, too, will find a mysterious, slippery WhiteVan of your very own. Until then, I can only hope this story has inspired you to venture out into the great wide wilderness of poorly marked roads, and put up bigger, more legible and well-placed street signs.

God speed, my friends.

*So what, I used the acronym again. Big deal. Hello? It's way cooler sounding than LOTR, and just ... cooler. Rock on WhiteVan!

Ratology: Didn't take that in college.

There has been a mouse in my house.

A mouse so great it has eaten through yards of plastic tubing within our formerly operating GE dishwasher. This mouse must not be some ordinary mouse, but a gigantic, Disney World Mickey Mouse-sized rodent. One that is less friendly, but has opposable thumbs and wears white gloves (we hope). His droppings litter the floor behind our stove, something Mickey might try were he animated by a sick-minded bastard.


That's our Mickey petting Rudy. Again, at least he's wearing gloves.

Yes. Well, you may have heard of a "HAVAHEART" rodent trap. This is my preferred method. Initially, we procured a mouse one, but apparently this critter's fat ass shimmied out of it before getting trapped inside. My father went out and bought a HAVAHEART for squirrels and small raccoons. Thank goodness our small dog is overweight! He might get himself trapped in there.



This didn't work. We tried poison pots, as I like to call them, but my stepmother ended up calling an exterminator.



This is him except he was wearing his less fancy hat and was carrying a bucket instead of a microphone. Although he may have had a microphone. Let's call him Friendly.

Friendly came at a moment in time when I was the only person in the house available to open the door. How convenient! My father was in the shower. It was all superb timing.

When I opened the door for Friendly, he barged in with his non-English-speaking friend, "Smiley," and demanded where the rodent was potentially located. Surprised by his stern demeanor, I gestured toward the kitchen and told him we thought the critter was a mouse.

Boastful master of ratology that he was, Friendly interrogated, "How do you know it's a mouse?" To which I replied, "Well, I don't. The other people who usually live here seem to think it's a mouse. I haven't seen it."

Okay, Friendly got a little exasperated. Sensing my answers weren't enough for this kind gentleman, I told him that we put poison trays behind the oven, dishwasher, and under the sink.

"I see you have a cat here. And a dog. Don't you know that poison could kill them? I'm really not sure why you would do something like that," he snapped in a most unattractive condescending tone.

I was silenced. He then asked if there were any droppings. "Yes, there were droppings. They were behind the stove. They were cleaned up on Wednesday."

"WHY WOULD YOU CLEAN THEM UP?" Friendly asked. "HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT KIND OF RODENT IT IS?"

Actually, I almost started crying at this point as I did not understand what I was doing there (do I really live there?) and why this man was yelling at me. I did not have a degree in ratology as he did.

About the rat droppings, I tried to explain, "Sir, at the time the droppings were removed, we had not hired you. You were called the next day, on Thursday. You were hired by someone in the household who did not think the poison pots were enough. She was not involved with the cleaning of rat droppings."

Friendly's stare bore into my soul and he exclaimed, "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!??!?!?!?!"

During this train wreck of a conversation Friendly and I were havin', Smiley was staring into space. Charming.

To be honest, I was terrified of Friendly. I went into the bedroom and told my father that the exterminator was here and that he was an asshole, so he hurried up and went to talk to him.

As soon as Friendly sees daddi-o, he says, "Hi, sir, how are you today?" And I almost vomited. Friendly addressed my father with a completely different tone of voice, yet he was still condescending.

At least my father was pissed off at the guy for talking to me that way. My stepmother eventually told him off, but I think that was more about the dog potentially eating the rat poison Friendly and Smiley distributed throughout the house.

Looking back, I guess I should have handled the situation differently from the get-go (even though I was more than accommodating). Maybe I should have said, "Oh sir, oh Mr. Exterminator, would you like me to fix you something to eat? Or how about a blow job while my father's in the shower?"

Maybe that would have changed his tune?

Is that the feminist etiquette of the new millennium?

Nobody likes the F-word. So F-that.

Words are powerful.
Ooh, Aah, what remarkable wisdom! How profound!

Okay, enough. That's not even accurate. Words are powerful, but their representations are what carry real weight. For example, people seem to think "feminism/t" exclusively means "radical, nose-ring wearing, lesbian, political, man-hating GRRRRRL" when in actuality, that isn't how Webster or the toilet paper of the Ivy League, Oxford, defines it. See, I don't want to get into what I really think feminism means, because, presently, that isn't what's at stake. Stay with me here.

We're talking about representation, remember?

Without getting into too much of a history of feminisms, I'd like to point out that there are many forms of this "u(e)ber-activism." Radical feminism, for one, emerged in the midst of the women's lib movement of the 1970s, but so did lesbian feminism.

That's for damn sure.

Liberal feminism is what pro-choice folks abide by, yet the only thing anyone can ever ask about any form of feminism is: So, they were the bra-burners, right? No. No, they weren't. Anyone who thinks feminists go around burning lingerie at Victoria's Secret, or once took off their bras and started bonfires on suburban streets in protest of helping their kids with math homework, well, I'm going to come over and set fire to your underwear draw(er).

Now, that I've made myself clear. This word--feminism--is scary and potentially alienating.

Last night, I had a nice discussion with one of my dear friends about getting a new license in New Jersey. I recalled the difficulty my grandmother, who has had a New Jersey driver's license since 1850, faced in renewing her license. New Jersey, ever savvy in anti-terrorist "safety" precautions, has implemented a six-point check, system, violation of privacy--whatever you want to call it--en route obtaining a new, digital, high-tech license.

Prior to 2003 (when this system was implemented), getting a license was damn easy! Anyone with a fake SSCard and birth certificate could walk away with one (or two, on a good day)! That's how I did it, anyway. But the immigrants and terrorists have been heading straight for the Garden State, and so we have to protect NJ residents. Even if it means people like my grandmother, who is from New Jersey, in her mid-70s, and loses most important documents she's ever had, find themselves unable to RETAIN their licenses. Minor detail.

Last week, I think I mentioned that I helped my grandmother with this "project." Her license had expired in late April, but she was unable to track down a birth certificate, and so had to acquire a number of other documents in order to get her birth certificate alone. A mess, you don't want to hear about it. When she had finally collected all the documents necessary to validate her identification, the bigwig (indeed, big) at the NJDMV HQ in Springfield told her she needed her marriage license in order to get her driver's license. Why, some might protest, would she need her marriage license? On the NJDMV ever-informative leaflet, it says, "REQUIREMENTS: At least one Primary Document; At Least One Secondary Document; Social Security Number (not even the card?); Proof of Address." But apparently those are the requirements for men (and children, and immigrants, probably) to get their licenses.

In a red-outlined box titled "IMPORTANT INFORMATION," a careful PMS-ing reader learns that if she has been married, she must prove she is who she is. This is where the conversation with my friend picked up. I casually remarked that this was sexist, however subtle, and she told me she thought it was just to ensure everyone is who they say they is. I mean, are.

But wouldn't your credit card have your married last name on it? Wouldn't your OLD LICENSE have your married last name on it? If it was OKAY for you to drive as a married person before your current license expired, WHY is it a problem now?

Let's say I was born in Delaware. Happily, I married in Delaware. My husband and I decided to not be feminists, so I took his last name. We decided New Jersey has more crime, so it'd be a nice place to live, and moved to Union, NJ. Okay. My husband gets his NJ license, no problem! Shows them a few forms of ID, he's set. I go to get my license, thinking I should have as little problem as good hubby, but I find that I need my marriage license. Why would I need my marriage license? New Jersey has only known me by my married last name; whyever would I need to prove this change in name--that happened in Delaware?

I presented this scenario to my friend, but she wasn't convinced. She said she didn't have time to think about these things, these political matters. I was blown away.

Political? What?!

I sat there wondering, Why should the government keep tabs on women's marital status? And she sat there wondering, Why should I care? It is how it is. (We all know I am somewhat of a mind-reader.)

Before she got out of the car, I told her that other people were working on being political so she didn't have to, but that standing in solidarity with a cause, even a bit, can help. On my way home, I realized I wasn't clear enough and I didn't really address what I should have:

You're never running away from "feminism" or "politics;" it's only awareness you're refusing to find and foster.

Women are afraid of feminism. (Duh?) I don't see myself as necessarily political or feminist. As I told someone special last night, "I am too fair-minded to be a feminist." But being AWARE of sexist policies is something entirely different.

When I told my friend I thought this marriage license policy was sexist, she asked, "Well shouldn't you be upset with the sexist society?" Correct, grasshopper. This policy I protest so proudly is symptomatic of the sexist society we live in; so, my question is: Does that mean we should accept it? Even if it's just symptomatic?

To me, treatment of symptoms, of representations of words, of sexist/racist/ageist/classist policies is where we must begin, even in our small ways. When we're aware of the symptoms of sexism et. al, we view our world differently and make decisions according to what's really in our best interest (as women, as non-white, middle-class males).

This leaves me with the question (my special friend and I mulled over): Is it my responsibility, as an aware (I hope) person, to educate or raise awareness in my peers?

I say yes, but then, who am I to say I am aware?

Ooh, Aah, wisdom? Profound?

Pregnant Women Worry Me+Updates

First, I will begin by updating you on a few matters:
1. Today is Memorial Day. Happy Memorial Day. We should exchange presents on Memorial Day. Like small flags and medals of superlative honor or something. Is that dismissive?
2. I find Fleet Week to be an incredible occurrence. At once, women from all boroughs flock to the piers and pick up a few men in white. It's as if there's a city-wide vibration that channels all XXs(/some gentlemen too?) as the ship docks , and out from the woodwork they roam toward the water like zombies--arms extended, eyes rolled back in head, sans regard to pedestrian traffic laws. It's pretty amazing, and, I venture to guess, a dream come true for tired match.com users. Talk about easy.
3. I heart NJDMV.
...


4. Did you know that a cat this big is able to effectively attack and intimidate a dog like Rudy?


Enough about unimportant matters, pressing forward.

WARNING What you're about to read is nothing new. I am not professing to have unlocked the secretive mythology of American pop culture. I am merely pointing out my concerns in regard to pregnant women, celebrity and civilian.

I will inform you up front that I shall not dignify this post with pictures of the familiars: Angelina Jolie, Tori Spelling, Sandra Bullock, Gwen Stefani, my goodness the list goes on and on and on. In fact, I'm not going to post any pictures, which means you might lose interest, but, really, I'd rather look more like Atlantic Monthly than Us Weekly right about now.

*Newsflash* it's trendy to be pregnant! So, get goin! I once read this piece by this really articulate HIV+ man who was talking about unprotected sex and how gay men are always vilified for practicing "unsafe sex." He says something on the order of, "Well, why doesn't anyone say anything to pregnant women about that?" Oh, but, I get it. When a woman is pregnant, she gives life, therefore her actions (when they aren't abortion actions) fall in line with whatever secular beliefs America boasts. Oh, but wait! Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie aren't married, and even if they were, the expiration date for celebrity marriages is sooner than that of the quart of milk you've got in the fridge. Point: We (uh, American society and culture) usually condone pregnancy when the couple is able to support the child and care for it. Oh, but wait! White people, celebrities, other people of social and racial privilege can just slide right past that judgment. They have a kind of "Get out of Judgment Free" card that was given to them at birth (and me too, what the hell? I'm not separating myself from this here).

So here we are with a trend that goes against what our very very secular beliefs suggest. Okay, so, maybe 10 years ago celebrity culture was about having sex with everyone on the red carpet. Okay, so maybe it's still that way today but now we've got this seemingly narrow caveat that involves children. Hmm, I'd like to think that maybe celebrity culture embraces parenting, but it doesn't; it's just represented that way. Anyway, these celebrities, our American idols, pretty much govern what's hip and what isn't. The effects are especially noticeable in places like New York City. SO it seems that the 1970s women's liberation movement did, like, nothing in comparison to what all these saucy celebrities of familiar idolatry are doing for female empowerment. If Angelina can go and move to Africa and have two kids who were stolen, I mean, aren't white, and have a kid with some guy who is suddenly hideous, I CAN TOO!!!!!!

You might not be hearing from me for a while. I might be out looking for a few Asian children to adopt (GO MEG RYAN!!!!!) and getting pregnant. By anyone who is able. Like a sailor.

Cool!

Have a nice holiday!

real desperate housewives probably just take prozac and call it a day

usually, i'm fortunate enough to be cut off from reality. i mean, television. the only television show i ever found myself watching in high school was seinfeld, and now i have the dvds. basically, good marketing, technology (the ol' standard), and special features have just taken all the meaning out of tv.

last night, however, i decided i should watch desperate housewives.
after all, this is a show that most white middle-class american women are hooked on. why wouldn't they be? they're watching themselves. perhaps i should include myself in the "they" i throw around, but, um, i doubt housewivery, in its sweet suburbia grandeur, is what i'm in for. i'd first request a pirate's life for me (and that says a lot - you know, i can get very sea sick).

back to dh: i meant to say that the tense, non-sensical plot line of the first season acted as a large flame to draw in moths, to keep them engaged until the fire went out. i'm thinking dh got hit with a big bucket of water about 20 episodes ago, but viewers are holding out for bree to just get her act together again. apparently, season two has many "plot twists," which is a convenient way of saying "these are behaviors and activities no woman or man would ever commit, but we're up against reruns of who's the boss? and i think the danza man and his italian-american charm is winning 'em over again. we must do something."

actually, dh is up against the sopranos, which means the whole tri-state area is probably more interested in investigating their hard-core heritage on hdtv rather than committing an hour to some hysteria- or pmdd-afflicted lady drama. after all, "wisteria" (lane) and "hysteria" rhyme, if you talk funny.

yes, i am fond of representation in media. it is quite fascinating. while i was spending my sunday evenings staring at the wall this past television-calendar year, wisteria lane welcomed a new family. of course, they were black. it's clear that wisteria lane "needed a little color" perhaps in order to "even things out." that's ridiculous. (of course this is laden with sarcasm. i hope you see this.) alfre woodard - a tremendous actress - is the mother of two college-age (?) boys, one of which has a kind of handicap, or something. someone else is locked in the basement. this is what i gleaned from commercials, okay? give me a break! the point is everyone in the neighborhood thinks alfre woodard's household is ... strange, or different. they are "mysterious" which is code for "not like everyone/anyone else who lives on this block."

i'm not sure why they even cast a black family. to sincerely believe this innovation, viewers must be under the guise that non-white people are allowed to LIVE and not just mow lawns or clean gabrielle's house/fuck her husband. but this is not true. everyone else is white. what's more amazing is how the black family becomes self-sufficient/alienated (however you'd like to view it) from the rest of the community. incredible. go abc! gotta love it.

i bring this up because last night matthew (one of alfre's sons) was getting into a bit of trouble. there's nothing to spoil, by the way. as usual, the plot crawled on at the pace of 10 stupid things said by susan/5 angry faces from lynette/a handful of "i'm not crazy" lines from bree/2-3 times carlos had sex with the maid. you missed nothing!

back to matthew.
a plot line clearly conceived under the influence comes into play where matthew killed some asian chick he was dating a long time ago. that was nice representation there too. she was irritating, clingy, and then she was trying to blackmail him. aren't we all. so he killed her, which is not unusual for characters on this show. i like how men kill women on dh. and i especially love how they're showing black men as violent, with big sticks rather than short pistols. it's this completely unrealistic fantasy! golly gee i love tv! anyway, matthew was leaving with bree's daughter (who's probably bisexual - i made that up), and bree discovers that matthew killed the asian girl like 10 years ago when it happened, which seems like a really probable scenario. somehow matthew finds a gun (it probably belongs to one of his white neighbors) and is pointing it at bree (who must be wholesome, she loves soy!).

she says something like, "You're a killer. I want to get my daughter to see who you really are" - sorry for the bad quoting skills. i don't even want to get into the potential racism of that statement/context. in fact, i'm certain i've lost most of you by now anyway.

so! then the black man ends up not killing her, but gets killed by a sniper of sort outside. i still have no fucking clue who shot him. but i'm sure wisteria lane is glad to have alienated, ostracized, and ultimately forced out the only people of color on the block. they can get so rowdy! so dangerous! (sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm.)

basically, what i've been trying to say this whole time is this:

everyone run out and get desperate housewives on dvd today!

stop, listen, what's that sound ... wheezing, typically.

i made this blog to type on it and i've neglected reporting anything at all. maybe i'll give you a brief synopsis of what i've been doing the past few days. it's more than hilarious, so brace yourself. that means "hold onto the desk before you erupt." i'm glad i've made myself clear; we shall proceed.

first, i graduated.



yes, you're right, it is exciting.

second, i moved out of my dorm.

no picture here because you'd cry at the very sight of this process.

third, i'm going to stop numbering what i'm doing. it isn't making this easier for you to read, nor for me to right. i mean write.

we get to new jersey, and there's the rub. (not too much, please, i'm writing about very serious matters here. i must maintain my concentration.) just because new jersey signifies horribly untrue falsities to many people does not mean it's all bad. when you read my first sentence of this not-a-paragraph, you probably sighed, "of course, new jersey!" or with less exclamation perhaps; you may have been sad or dismayed at the time, i can only account for a few reactional possibilities. let's get this straight, new jersey is NOT and never will be the arm pit of america. i think we bestowed that honor unto staten island. anyway, i'd like to know who's so lucky to be the head or shoulders of america. probably connecticut, on both counts.

pressing forward.

i'm confusing (with pronouns) because i don't want to be anonymous but others may want to be. it's highly sought after, that anonymous business.

my companion's flight was supposed to be around 5:40 pm from laguardia airport. that is in QUEENS, for the less edumacated. i thought it was in brooklyn last time around, which makes it pretty amazing that i ever made it to the actual airport this time. oh, but it was an amazing race. much more than that television (now defunct? that's a nice phrase!) program. much much more.

let me illustrate the trip with some fine (and pilfered) fotos. and i hope you're holding onto the table.



we drove on a thickly trafficked turnpike, but it was raining already. that picture is misleading. i should have been photographing this momentous journey as it happened. we feared hydroplaning and sitting slick-feathered geese to be culprits of accidents ahead. but there wasn't just a storm, there was a twister!



whoa! that's in newark bay, which we had passed by the time we made it to that toll as above depicted. maybe we should have been closer to the twister: would have saved time getting to the airport, i bet.



ah the wonderful airport. around 2.5 hours later, we were looking to follow a map like this one. i parked in lot 5 for 32 minutes (far right) and walked with companion to the delta terminal which is just north of lot 4, if you can see that clearly on the map. this is crucial, my friend. once we entered "delta terminal," we learned that my companion's first flight out of new york to minneapolis (her layover) would be delayed by two hours -- what insanity! then! the nice northwest lady informed us (or just her, i wasn't going anywhere but nj from there) that my companion's connecting flight would most probably LEAVE WITHOUT HER! the audacity! that connecting flight was the last one she could take that night to her final destination. so she booked a flight for the next morning. this meant we drove back to nj together in the tornado (refer to picture above) and on the turnpike (see above, again) so that we could return to parking lot 5 and delta terminal in the morning. bravo.

the story does not end here!

on the way home, there was traffic, yeah, and i'm sure this is very exciting. 300000 words later i'm sitting in new jersey recapping this for the 2 people who know about this blog. excellent!

i am digressing. pardon me.

at last, we were exiting the turnpike. i don't know if you've ever personally been, but once you enter the turnpike, you need to take a ticket that indicates the toll you'll have to pay once you exit the turnpike. i know, what a treat!

here is the ticket.



how cute. you'd think i'd want to hold onto it forever. i did. but then the wind came, probably from the twister that was heading to lot 5 (one should hope).

as i approached the toll booth/vortex to hand over my $1 and ticket, i stretched out my arm and in an instant the ticket was gone. i would have preferred the dollar to have flown. i was under the impression that you had to pay the highest toll on the ticket in the event that you lost your ticket or decided to keep it as a souvenir (which is what the person who took that picture of the ticket did). apparently, this njturnpike toll attendant thought $4.95 was enough. maybe this had never happened to her before either. i'm glad it was a mutual first time experience, then. wonderful.

my companion and i made it home safely, and then went back out to ... queens? to the airport.

today i was supposed to go to another graduation for my dear dear friend, but i just couldn't do it.

sorry bird, i love you. and you're not done with school anyway, so i guess i'll go to your real, special graduation when that happens.

i'm going back to bed.

first time out.

this is scary.

here, i want to show you something.


that's me. i'm not always confused ... looking.

won't you be my virtual neighbor?

you're answer to that is probably a resounding no, which means you've moved on to the next blog featuring funny faces. surf all you like.

i'll be here.

waiting.