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.