working toward understanding
one another. making few promises
along the way.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

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?

Friday, June 09, 2006

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!

Monday, June 05, 2006

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?

Friday, June 02, 2006

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?