Meme game.

That Talker's pretty swift. She's thanked me for something on her web via this "meme" (which, I'll have you know, is not really a word). Reflecting on the past year, speculating: what am I thankful for? Oh so many things!

Here, you think about this too. It's good to consider what we appreciate in our lives, what we give thanks for on days when there isn't a turkey on the table.

(I won't number them because this is not a hierarchy. If I could write these in a circle, I would. I am thankful for all these things relationally.)

Bird - she is one of the best friends I will ever have. I'm certain of it. I always hope to have her in my life.

Amy - another fantastic friend who understands me. Thank you for always listening and remembering.

My ex because I would have never ever EVER gone to Montana if it hadn't been for you. I am a changed person because of Montana, so, even though our relationship did not work out, I will always be grateful and indebted to you for helping me leave New York when it was essential I did just that. Also, thank you for helping me think I could attend graduate school and succeed with writing. And thank you for trying to love me when you did.

AmeriCorps - because I was able to become a part of the lives of so many amazing people. Without AmeriCorps, I may have never realized some of my deepest, most important passions.

Hellgate High School - the WHOLE school. Students, staff, everyone. I am a more accomplished person today than I was before I set foot in that incredible high school.

Missoula, MT - I am freer and more aware of who I am because of Missoula.

"Grandma" - I am thankful for all the times you listen to me, laugh with me, read and critique my work, for introducing me to your amazing husband (who is actually one of my favorite people) and inviting me into your lives. Thank you so much. Irreplaceable. I still think you're my mentor and I still want you to be my editor.

Lisa Waller - you are an amazing person. You've opened up my eyes to so many things. Thank you for facilitating my growth. I miss you every day. Thank you for making time for me when you did. And it's Michelle, not Naomi, not Nicole.

Talker - well, if you've been paying any attention, you can see why I'd thank her. Thank you for thinking of me.

Janet Marek - because you are amazing and I learn so much from you. Because I think you're one of my favorite parts of Hellgate, of Missoula, of Montana, of my life.

Monica Roscoe - because you are an incredible listener and it was so nice to meet a kindred spirit in a foreign place. I know I can always pick up the phone and call you and have a three hour conversation, like, right now.

Louise - because you have helped me realize that I can really do this. I don't know if I've ever felt this supported in something before. I know you won't read this, so I'll thank you in an e-mail. I am very grateful.

That's all folks! (It isn't. I'm grateful for other people, things. This is all for now.)

Accusations/Sexuality

As you may know, I have a roommate. Her name is Talker. Why is her name Talker? Oh, prying reader, she's Talker because she talks and Talks, airing her mind for any and all listeners. (Unless, of course, we're on the subway and someone pointedly outs me as a pregnant woman. In those instances, she remains silent, inappropriately.) Any subject at all, she's got something to say.

Lately, she has a lot to say about me. And my sexuality. Well, let's be blunt: She's accused me of being a heterosexual.

Gasp!

How could she say such a thing? Let it be known, I am no heterosexual - not that there's anything wrong with that! Talker interprets my pink pregnancy muumuu shirts and predilection for pink hair bands (They're called elastics, Nicole) as telling signs of a bad case of the Heteros. Whatever I've come down with, she's quick to assess the "problem" and I think Talker's found a cure.

We go out together. Don't all roommates? Or most? Some? Okay, I'll settle for a handful. At any rate, we dine, shop, and throw parties. Big deal. Oh, we also decorate our apartment together.

If you live in a cave, you might not know this, but Christmas is fast upon us. Actually, fellow cave dwellers may have ventured out to an internet cafe and relayed the amazing sales at Macy's (and printable coupons!) to you. Christmas has always been the "shit I don't need" and "tree killing" holiday in my book, so Talker and I decided to purchase a tree because they've ripped them, root-by-root, out of the ground anyway, right? Right!

In New York City, tree vendors set up shop around December 1st and do not move from their station until December 25th. Through sub-freezing temperatures, they stand vigil beside a lot of trees, watching the sun rise and fall every day until Christmas.

The closest tree vendor to our apartment is about five blocks south. Last Saturday, I scoped out the selection so that I could give Talker the low down. That afternoon we ventured toward our local tree vendor to pick one out and bring it home with us.

For this "date," I wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt - my gym outfit - and she wore pink pants and cute Converse knock-offs, with a winter coat concealing her lovely green blouse. We were quite the pair. My unwashed hair and spectacled look was intensely attractive, as I'm sure Talker noticed.

We approached the tree vendor and he, self-proclaimed Treeman, said to me, "Oh you're back again! I saw you perusing the lot earlier." He noticed this unkempt delight - I was surprised and thought, Treeman is hot.

Two seconds later

Talker: Which one do you want?

Me: I don't know, this one is cute over here. What do you think?

Talker: I don't know. I don't want to get a dead one. How do we know if it's dead.

Me: Well I guess we could ask Treeman. (Duh.)

Talker: Ok. (To Treeman) So, this is our first tree. I want to make sure we get a good one.

Treeman: (Looks at me then Talker then me again) Um, well I just sold the guy before you an $80 tree and it was dead -

Me: Good thing we asked then!

Treeman: Right. (Rolls eyes, continues to swindle) Well, if you just do this (pulls on a branch) and the needles bounce back, the tree is healthy.

The one we wanted was healthy.

Me: What do you think? Do you want this one? I do!

Talker: Yeah this one is good. (Turns and smiles at me.)

He wraps up the tree.

Me: I'll carry it.

Treeman: OR you could carry it together?

Talker: She'll carry it. She always does all the heavy lifting.

Treeman gives "a look" and quickly recounts the money. Sweatpants-clad butch that I've become, I hoist the tree upon my shoulder and we walk home. We don't hold hands because this butch won't engage in such dainty expressions of love while carrying heavy things for Talking Femme.

Me: That Treeman was hot, wasn't he?

Talker: Totally hot.

I hope you're getting all this. Talker formerly denounced me as a Heteros-plagued deviant and then publicly proclaimed (at least to Treeman) our unestablished romantic tryst. Something's missing!

I can't figure her out. Maybe you can. In the meantime, I'll continue my make-up free regimen, wear barrettes in my hair, and step out in black patent flats 'cuz my clothes can't tell me or anyone else whether I've got the Heteros or the Homos.

Gotta keep on truckin' in between.

Stork on a train

It happened on All Saints Day. Appropriately.

The next step in my life process finally came to head. I've been worrying for so long, but now it's happening, at last. On November 1, 2007, I learned that I was pregnant.

See, there's St. Fatima piously beaming her light over my unborn child. St. Anthony and St. Guadalupe look on, supporting the apparent out-of-wedlock birth to-be. (Things are changing.)

Don't be surprised. After all, I only advertise one persona on this blog. This is coming from the next expert on female sex terminology (see previous post, if curious). I am not a contradiction, I am a myriad of yes.

Do you know how I learned of my pregnancy? A woman on the subway told me. New York is a truly incredible place. We've got subways riding under skyscrapers, accordian players and acrobats performing street-side, and now, to add to this list, we have walking pregnancy tests.

Was this woman a gynecologist? I doubt it. Did she touch me? Ask for urine? Inquire about my sexual behavior? No, no, and no. Wait, she did touch my roommate. Perhaps this is how she found out about me and my secret womb.

On the fecundly unfurling morning of All Saints Day, my roommate, who we'll call Talker, and I boarded the subway together, delighting in the sparse showing of commuters. She claimed a seat, I stood in front of her. Everything was fine until 103rd street. That's when the seer, Ms. EPT, climbed on our train car.

A representation of Ms. EPT sans sweatsuit.

Across the floor, she scuttled, waving her cane ahead of her sweatsuit clad body. The woman sitting beside Talker allowed Ms. EPT to take her seat, and so, Ms. EPT swung around, her cane flailing, and landed not upon the seat but Talker's right side. Her entire right side and right-center, in fact. No light-weight, Ms. EPT managed an "excuse me" as she slid her bulbous frame into the orange seat. I could see she had little patience for such niceties; the music from her cheap plastic headphones demanded her full attention.

Wah ah uhhhh. Baby! Waaah Ah Uhhhhh. I stood stupefied, staring into Ms. EPT's scrunched-singing face. My face asked Talker, Who sings on the train? She shrugged, quiet. The vessel was silent but for Ms. EPT's utterances.

One ditty sounded familiar. "Is that .... ?" I started, asking Talker for some Ray Charles knowledge, who made a face and shook her head. The broad, flat (read: scary and incoherent) delivery of lyrics let me know I would never understand the song and pain of Ms. EPT. But then I decided I wouldn't care.

As we hurtled past 50th Street, Ms. EPT momentarily emerged from her musical state and gracefully asked, "What month you in."

"Um ... excuse me?" Slightly stunned, my eyes widened.

"You're pregnant?"

I think my face turned 10 shades of red before settling on "Beyond Embarassed, #49." Talker looked at me, and, as expected, said nothing. She may have been stunned too. But then Talker's neighbors gawked at me, waiting for my response. All of a sudden, the whole subway car wanted to know if I was pregnant.

"I'm not pregnant. I think you're mistaken. See, the shirt I'm wearing, it's billowy, see?" I pinched at my shirt and lifted it from my self, letting it fall back down, demonstrating my point. I wondered if it was my fault that she thought I was pregnant. Had I been shopping in the maternity section of Old Navy?

"Well, sure looks like you could use to lose a few. Mmmhmm." Song lyrics? Not even close. A moment later. "Didn't mean to offend."

"It's okay." I turn to Talker. "Is it okay!?" She shook her head, again. Not a word spoken.

I laughed politely because this is OBVIOUSLY the only correct response to some homeless chic betty telling you you're fat.

We arrived at my stop, 42nd street. "You have a good day," Ms. EPT said.

"Yeah ... ?"

When I left the train, Ms. EPT continued the conversation with Talker, who began to talk, at last.

"I hope I didn't offend your friend."

"Oh, don't worry." (This would not have been my response, by the way.)

"Maternity is a beautiful thing."

I'm sure Talker nodded, though her affirmation was omitted from her report to me.

Right. Ms. EPT thought I was SO BEAUTIFUL that she told me I was pregnant. As a compliment.

Should I have felt insulted? Probably not, since Ms. EPT also goes by Ms. CRAZY, I think. Next time we meet I can only hope that she'll comment on my smile or my eyes instead of my midriff.

Moist & Me - A Tale of Repugnance

I am affected by the words of others. It isn't hearing about the war or the rampant wild fires consuming California that bother me. Surprisingly, the invitations for sex I receive from street people daily aren't so bad either. (See below entry for more information.) I shudder at the most careful, delicate usage of one single word: moist.

Moist. Say it out loud. Allow co-workers in neighboring cubicles to hear the shape your mouth must take to accommodate its round, damp existence. Say it slowly, extend the word to two/two and a half syllables - my mode of execution because of my speech impediment. I mean, because I'm from New Jersey. Let them shudder, too. Are you thoroughly disgusted?

Good. (If not, keep reading. I promise there's entertainment below.)

So let's talk about why moist gets me down. I learned yesterday that many women actually experience repulsion upon hearing that word; I didn't feel so alone. To think, I was about to check out yahoo groups for support. But no, an article on Salon.com's broadsheet titled "Linguists: 'Moist' makes women cringe" addressed my concern.

A very brief synopsis: Carol Lloyd, the writer, contends that women's distaste for "moist" links to their discomfort with their own and all female sexuality. She writes, "One possibility: The word 'moist' straddles the same cultural polarities of shame and openness that still haunt modern female sexuality." She suggests that a Victorian-era modesty regarding sexuality has re-emerged (how post-modern) or has never exited from contemporary discourse on sexuality, and accesses an incident regarding a moist-happy male Shakespeare professor who wielded the word to the critical amusement of a handful of female students:

According to professor [Charles] Doyle [of the University of Georgia], the women offered no explanation for the word's bad juju, but one male student suggested that it might have something to do with female sexual arousal. To which I offer the following comment: No, duh.

Isn't her usage of juju the best part of the quote? (Pretty much.)

Okay, Lloyd's got a point, sorta. Of course, America isn't the most sexually open Western nation, in general, and for some women (not all, not necessarily many), the virgin/whore binary may feel like the only choices. Maybe Lloyd's onto something.

Except I don't personally agree with anything she said in her article. This is my vision of moist:

A DAMP DISGUSTING SPONGE

"MOIST" CHOCOLATE CAKE

MOLD - Still have an appetite for the cake?

When I hear the word moist, an equation suddenly appears within my mind (which should tell you that this is a completely logical response and not linked to a discomfort with arousal):

sexual arousal + warmth + non-cotton panties = yeast infection

Does it sound like I am ashamed of female sexuality? That's for you to decide.

Lloyd also mentions wet and wonders, "Why moist and not wet?" Well that's very simple, Ms. Lloyd.

When I think of wet, a different equation lights up my mind:

sexual arousal + sexual act + no panties = only good things

My roommate and I talked about the differences between moist and wet. In a sexual situation, moist, she thought, described what is more for the benefit of the other person, so to speak. It can be considered as a polite gesture, like holding the door for a stranger (my words, I'm not holding her accountable for this). I told her I thought wet was the real thing, a signifier screaming, "It's actually working!" Using wet is a proud proclamation of the arousal that occurs in tandem with the female sexuality long departed from Victorian secrecy and shame. A genuine embrace of a woman's ability to be sexual!

The moral of the story is that wet is raw, real, and accurate, whereas moist is a disgusting word that can only bring various forms of fungal growths to mind. This truly may have been the problem with Lloyd's example involving the professor and students. Were the female students worried that Ophelia or Cleopatra might have gone for a run (before the river, the asps), not worn the right underwear, and then sat around for a few hours? Were they concerned that Monistat may not have been available for them at CVS? What if there was no CVS?! Witness the anxiety brought about by moist!

It has nothing to do with sexuality, but connotation instead. Reserve moist for discussions of mold and cake - never together, please - and take up wet as the new word of empowered female arousal.

M60 Update: ALL Services Included?

Hello local friends and faraway dreamers! Welcome to New York City--site of retail, riots, and private hells. It's also the place where the homeless, surly, and otherwise strange find and target me, where they invite me into their worlds.

Don't get me wrong, I regard this incredible knack for connection as a true gift from above. Or below, or everywhere within and without my body: Shantih shantih shantih, Amen, and all that jazz. People of all orientations and shades of mental illness flock to me in great numbers. Like shit on a stick, if I do say so myself, since in this scenario (only), I'm the stick.

Right.

Let's discuss my recent trip on the great M60. On Friday nights, this strolling, express-stopping White Whale of a bus eludes even the seasoned MetroCard holder. It's the truth. Try following its schedule and you'll quickly realize that the bus itself yields to no such parameters, not even the ones specifically designed for its route.


Look! There's the M60 now, laughing at your 20-minute wait!

No, in all honesty, the M60 looks like a gigantic white shoe box. The diesel hybrid electric bus-box careens around corners and onto wide-set streets such as 125th on its way to LaGuardia Airport.

This is a better representation:



I finally caught the great beast and gave it my card. I sat in a single seat beside a window so I would remember where I was. I sometimes forget the order of the streets, or if I don't forget, I have anxiety that the unstoppable M60 creature will take me to the airport and drop me on a plane to some distant beautiful place. Or wait, is that my deepest desire?

As I moved forward with the jaunty thing, other passengers joined me on my passage to Lenox. Or India, if my traveling wish were fulfilled. One distinguished character entered the bus, sat down across the aisle from me. He looked about 50, donning a cowboy hat, and a carefully chosen button down shirt accented by a crisply starched collar. He wore corduroys and brown leather shoes. He was well-put together, and different from the other men I had seen in my neighborhood. For a moment, I wondered if he was gay.

Minutes later, I discovered he was not. As I watched people pass on the sidewalk, I noticed his gaze fixed on something in my direction. The window, he's looking out the window, too, I told myself. We stopped at a light one avenue away from my destination. I absentmindedly turned in his direction, startled. He stared directly into my eyes, not out the window. No, he was not creating romantic fantasies about the ambling passersby. If he imagined anything romantic, it had to do with me.

How did I know?

I noticed his left hand on his thigh. I saw the bulge. I observed the pressure, the rhythm, the certain thumb-and-forefinger grip he had on his growing member. He didn't pull it out, no. I imagined him as a traditional gentleman, a fine upstanding, church-going community member who single-handedly (literally) stunted gentrification through bouts of public gesturing at white women.

Slightly rattled, I pressed the button to let me off. I wondered if he would follow me or if working it on the bus was enough for him. I became increasingly more disturbed as the hours passed. If only I could avoid the M60 or any bus or public transportation in general.

To think, I took the M60 home from Labyrinth, a bookstore on 112th Street. To think, I was at Labyrinth to hear Naomi Wolf read from her latest book. To think, this kind of sexual assault would come about as an indirect result of my participation in a feminist-y forum.

Oh, what's all this thinking going to do. I'd recommend for you to watch yourself on those buses, but I'm sure "they'll" find me before they get to you. Thank me later. With a food processor.

Stories that tell themselves (too much, too often)

Here we go, blog. Here we go again.

See, I'm finding this daunting. "This" refers to posting on my blog. An "aha!" moment for us all. Conversing with an old comrade the other day, I recalled a moment from this past year when a student suggested I speak about Coming Out Day--how funny was that? Comrade jabbed, "Yeah I remember that story. I read it over and over again on your blog since you won't write new entries." I'm crying. Really. So here it is--an entry!--indulge.

I'm finding this daunting mostly because I've come across one too many bloggers who take their blogging all too seriously. Now, what does THIS mean? Simply: I'm tired of digesting the garbled voice of stifled nobodies who seek somebody-status through densely, never-deftly-conveyed blog posts. About the restaurants they've visited. Or the bums on the sidewalk. But never any commentary, no reflection whatsoever, not even a "good morning Baltimore"-esque meta-critique about their own stoic self-righteousness.

See? These bloggers I speak of irritate me to the very core--to the deepest, darkest place within!

As I write this, I recognize that I may write for an audience of one: myself. I'm okay with this. I'm not going to sit around, spouting Shakespeare--or surely less poetic prose-- with an overly elitist air. I dare not position myself as the wisest typist of the broadest band. No, no. That is foolish and I refuse to participate in any tom-snob-foolery of any kind.

You want some stories? Here. Have one or two or many or tell me your own. Please laugh and remember that you and me and everyone we know are flawed. Except for Miranda July, of course. She's one hot ticket.

1. Overfilling my gas tank. I'll teach a thing or two to you Joisey bOYs and goyls (read: garGOYLs). You sit in your SUVs with your mani-pedis and puffed hair, blasting non-white radio, as some foreigner pumps your gas. You stink of smug. I admit, I was once like you--possessed by a sense of fossil fuel entitlement. Then I moved to Montana and learned to pump for myself, for survival.

As I ventured back toward the Garden (of weed/toxmatoes) State, I made many stops at roadside gas stations. One particular night, near the end of a long-and-winding I-90 death stretch, my companion and I pulled into CENEX. This gas station is located in Mitchell, South Dakota. Some of you (or myself?) may remember that Mitchell is the site of the illustrious Corn Palace. Oooh, aaah. We may have visited the Corn Palace, but it was nearing midnight--and the Corn Palace is the stupidest "attraction" I've ever succumbed to.

My companion and I wearily exited the car. The flourescent lights beamed down on us, the lone customers, punishing our eyes with faux-bright. As Bird cleaned my windows--opaque with dead flies and remains of small mammals--I pumped the gas. Yes, I'll take Ultimate/91, I told myself as I inserted my credit card. I then helped my fine-feathered friend clean my windows. "Nicole," she screamed, "get over here and see this!!" I walked to the pump-side of the car with bleak expectations--is there really a small mammal on my car somewhere? Are there free passes to the Corn Palace littered on the floor? I never thought I'd find what I found that night: gas pouring out of my gas tank and all over the car, the cement, my hands, everywhere.

Take a moment to truly understand this scenario. It's midnight in Mitchell, South Dakota (aka NOWHERE, USA); we're near the Corn Palace; CENEX is one of the few gas stations open on this road and there's still only 2 cars (including my own) at the station. Now there's gas spilling out of the tank. Has this ever happened to you? Didn't think so.

Instead of freaking out and lighting a match or performing an equally intelligent action, I banged on the gas pump (a little trick I learned from back east) and marched into the CENEX convenient store under the spell of soul-sucking fluorescence.

"Um, excuse me? The gas pump out there--number 4? Yeah, you see the grey VW. Okay, that's my car. So, I asked the pump to stop at full and it kept going and now there's gas all over the floor." It was complicated, so sympathize with the wordiness.
"Oh, oh. Oh, okay! So, is there a lot of gas?" the strangely calm clerk replied.
"Is there a lot of gas? Well, there's enough? Um, I'm just gonna leave now, okay?"
"Sure."
...
Right. I didn't hear much about the CENEX. Maybe it blew up--at the hands of the store clerk's match. The world will never know.

Hundreds of miles later, at a different gas station--was it bp?--I cleaned the now-dried gas off my car paint with a little bit of jojoba shampoo and a bottle of water. Bird took a picture of this action. A mere milestone on our trek home.

2. Dinosaur buddies.

Bird and I went to the Field Museum in Chicago. Chicago is in Illinois, which is not pronounced Illi-noise. I still think Oregon is pronounced O-re-gone even though I've been there. The state of New Jersey and I agree that the pronunciation of Oregon is indeed O-re-gone, but we've come to a consensus that Illi-noise is all wrong. Which is true.

The Field Museum houses Sue. Who's Sue? What's the big deal abou Sue? Well, Sue is a dinosaur. A T-Rex? That's still alive. It's amazing.

Very exciting. What was really exciting was Sue's gift shop. Bird and I had a good time wholly embracing Sue's peers and her predecessors. How did we do this?

We tried on dinosaur masks and fashioned tails on our bums or around our heads. We pretended we were dinoosaurs--witih cameras. Duh.

We're learn-ed now.

3. Last one, I swear. It's about a monkey. You like monkeys. Keep reading.
Did you know that South Bend, Indiana has an awesome zoo? Correct--the University of Notre Dame isn't the only OR best! attraction.

The zoo is. Clearly.

This is why: They've got nice animals, yeah, but they have one special primate. An ape, a chimpanzee named Jodi.

That's her. She's cute, no?
What's so special about Jodi you ask? Well, take a look.

You'd think that says it all--it must!--but it doesn't.

Not only is Jodi diabetic, she's the South Bend sex-pot. I had a little chat with the zoo keeper who we'll call Jane G. The wise, ape-knowing Jane G. told me that the spry 19-year-old Jodi is also on the Pill. Which pill? The BIRTH CONTROL PILL. Jane G. informed me that chimps like Jodi live until they're about 55 years old.

This means Jodi's about 25 or so--she's looking for someone to love; to share a lair with; to mate with and mold their children grow into Ivy League material. Wait, that's sounding familiar, maybe not Jodi's situation though. Apparently, Jodi can't keep the other agile apes away from her and she wants to wait for kids until she's set on her career and able to inject her insulin herself. Well, what it comes down to is this: I'm a newly 23-year-old female who is not on the Pill and is not looking to settle down; and is probably not on the Pill because I don't have suitors banging down my door. Yet I feel this ape (note: I use "ape" lovingly) seems to have more prospects on the horizon--evidently--than I can even dream of.

Such is life. You can live behind bars and have it all, or stray and wait--forge your path, forget the Pill.

Pabst Blue Ribbon Fairy Tales

Quick question: Have you heard the one about the drunk-driving woman who ran over and killed her own husband? You haven't? Weird. Wait, wait. How about the time the man charged with a DUI accused a unicorn of driving his truck into a pole? Haven't heard that one either? How strange. Maybe you live in an area of America where IPA isn't on tap ... in your bathroom sink. Out here where I live, these tall tales grow taller by the minute, never stop anyone from driving drunk as long as that local brew keeps flowin'.

Hmm, where to begin. Well, I should establish the above suppositions as fact, as far as newsprint fact goes. That's a good place to start.

On a wintry afternoon in ol' Montana, a couple--the wife in her 60s, the husband 50s--drove out to a little watering hole near Frenchtown. She drove her Toyota along Interstate 90, or "the freeway," as folks out here say, parked her car in a dirt covered lot beside the bar. She and her husband reveled in pints of Pabst and Moose Drool in the waning afternoon, sharing laughter over obviously very funny jokes and situations they remembered. Then, suddenly, Sir Moose Drool left Lady Pabst with the tab and made his way home on foot in the early evening. As the night wore on, Lady Pabst decided she missed her dear hubby and headed home in her trusty Toyota, speeding along the freeway as darkness fell upon her and other night dwellers. Lady Pabst confidently steered her auto into her driveway and parked her body in her bed and slept until morn.



There's Lady Pabst and Sir Moose Drool! Showin their brands, hangin' tough!

Then, it was the morning that struck her. Where was her husband, she wondered. Good goody that she was, Lady Pabst made haste back toward the bar, searching for her husband. In her hungover state, Lady Pabst failed to notice the gigantic hair-and-blood encrusted crack in her windshield. She saw a fallen man and uniforms forming patterns on the opposite side of the road. Lady Pabst swung back around and pulled to a stop. At the core of the gathering, she viewed the fallen man: her husband, Sir Moose Drool. What happened to him, oh I'm his wife, yes I was out with him last night: she rattled on for minutes on end, and then the detectives noticed her car and the enormous circle of fractured glass. Did she hit an animal on the way here, they wanted to know. No, I don't remember hitting anything, she told them. How could she remember anything? She ain't no Lady O'Douls.

The uniformed men determined that the dead man was her husband and that she was at fault. (Note: Due to the small population, it is likely that her car in fact killed him. It's a sophisticated science out here.) Somehow, somewhere some court determined that she didn't intend to kill her husband. A tough case to manage, I imagine, but one must consider the clear cut motive: the bar tab. That couple stalled out at that bar for a good five hours. Did he really make her pay for her share and his? Was she aiming for his lumbering figure on the Interstate? The world will never know.

Can you believe it? Wrap your mind around this next one.

Here's the second tale, a shorter one. This time figments, rather than tipsy wives, wreak havoc on unsuspecting objects.

A Billings man, last name Holliday (Madonna style), got his fix at a local bar one night just a few weeks back. It wasn't long until Holliday had his fill of sweet nectar of the hops. Or, conversely, it was long, but Holliday got tired of the same ol', same ol' company he kept at this bar. He was looking for something fun and fantasmical. And that's what he found.

Holliday drove a truck--though he probably still drives and what he drives is undoubtedly a truck--a pick-up to be exact. Ever been in a pick-up truck? They're sure roomy in some ways, but they don't have the highest ceilings. In other words, you gotta gauge the gallons of your hat before getting in.

Anyway, when Holliday hopped into his truck, his situatiaon spun out of control, literally. In some ways, the unicorn probably saved him, but "we'll" never know what truly happened. Oh, what's that, you ask? Yes, Holliday accused a unicorn, the most magically mythical figure of all, for drunkedly driving his truck. The rim of his 10-gallon hat covered his eyes as the unicorn mounted the driver's side. Witnesses of this incredible moment are spellbound by the majesty of the unicorn's driving. You have to admit, a hand-less unicorn driving a pick-up is quite the image.



Isn't the unicorn docile and endearing? It would never drive drunk! And do you see how tiny that guy's truck is? Give me a break!

After "they" hit the pole and the media rode the unicorn into the sunset, Holliday corrected the believers. A recent headline under the "Montana" section of the newspaper read "Prosecutor: Man did not blame unicorn in DUI case." He would hire a smart lawyer, wouldn't he.

Okay, I'm going to throw my two cents in. To be quite honest, I think it's obvious that the unicorn wasn't the one to blame in this situation. Holliday spent too much time carousing at his favorite bar and got in the truck with the wrong dude. It wasn't a unicorn. Could it have been? No way! A unicorn would never fit in this guy's truck, first of all. Have you seen the horns on them? They're huge! Second, just because they're magical doesn't mean they can sit upright just like the rest of us with drivers licenses. And last of all, his pick-up definitely didn't have a moon roof. Hell, it didn't have a sun roof! How was the unicorn supposed to even see where he wanted to go?

I may be the only person in Montana who knows what happened that night. I'll let you in on my secret: it was a leprechaun named Laffy on stilts who rammed Holliday's truck into a light post. Doesn't that feel a little bit more logical than a unicorn? Laffy was in the bar with Holliday, sipping a Guiness, playing it cool, and noticed Holliday's Celtic tattoo. Aha, Laffy thought, this is my kind of guy. Who ever said that leprechauns are totally hetero? That's a really crazy assumption, actually. Laffy hopped into the staggering Holliday's truck and pushed him aside. Every self-respecting leprechaun totes stilts for the sort of situation that presented itself. Holliday played a little too rough with Laffy and that's precisely when "things got out of hand."



That's Laffy! Isn't he happy and gay?

No wonder the guy retracted his statement about the unicorn. The truth is hard enough to hear.

I want you to know that I've changed the names to protect the guilty. I've changed the names because I prefer the names I suggest over their given ones.

Only in Montana? I sure as hell hope so.

America's Youth: Less Service, More Drugs

Have you heard the word, Ferd? What I mean by "Ferd" is "friend"? I'm just having some trouble with language lately.

So, the Ferdy word I'm talking about is National and Global Youth Service Day or NGYSD or NGYSDABCDEFGHZ. At one point, my colleagues and I referred to it as GYNday, which is probably not something I should write on the internet. Oh, I suppose this "blog" is anonymous anyway, right? Well, when Youth Serve America breaks down my door, I'll start to worry. Until then, I'll just laugh about BadAcronymDay (BAD).

Okay, wait, I have a question: Why am I getting weird porn people comments on my blog? Is there anything sex-related? Do I sound interested to you? I'd like your feedback.

Pressing forward, Ferds.

So, BAD. Well, it's not so bad. I guess. Why don't I provide some background? Sure, I'll do that, alright. BAD is a gigantic service event happening all over the globe, or "wherever Angelina leads." I didn't say that. Wait, I did say that. I was just using quotes to mislead you for a moment. I'm over that moment. You?

BAD could be the most amazing event to grace the WORLD just because youth determine how to serve their communities in important and effective ways. Sounds awesome? Pretty much.

Get this: Service can only happen when "the right people" say so. Service: a potentially populist notion, surely, but this bureacratic hopscotch gets under my skin. Allow me to explain.

Our little youth (the 0-17 year old students) decided they wanted to increase the number of trash cans in Missoula, and decorate the new receptacles to boot. Wow, crazy idea! They're only encouraging folks to pick up after themselves and doing it with artistic flair. Do you have the inclination to shoot down this idea then send a dog after it to pick it up and bring it back to you like defenseless flying fowl? ME TOO!

Actually, I wouldn't. I hate the idea of hunting, and sending a dog after the prey is crossing a line I don't even want to approach (but, in a way, I have). Also, the little youth went after that community need like none other (hunter). Take that 501(c)3s! I admitted to the group that I'm a belligerent litterer, which made the trash can idea's relevance resound.

Bad news for BAD: Trash cans are trash. I was hoping it wouldn't happen, but it did.

Onto the next topic: Upgrading parks - what a concept! Art, native grasses and flowers, free music every night, a hot dog vendor. Oh wait, sounds like a park in a faraway place.

In Missoula, allowing little youths to beautify outdoor areas must break laws. I'm so happy they've deprioritized marijuana now that I realize teenagers are barred from creating aesthetically engaging venues for tomorrow's generation. Community service is a much bigger problem out west than marijuana. Actually, community service nearly beats meth as the most detrimental agent in our community. Haven't you seen the commercials?

Once the Parks idea was nixed, we moved onto the slightly daunting undertaking of the Bark Park walkway. Stop rolling your eyes. You'd love the Bark Park. It's a park of bark. Yeah, that's right. There's a ton of trees. Sometimes dogs scamper around the trees, hoping for a barky obstacle course.

So there aren't any trees in the Bark Park, but a ParksRec birdy Ferdy told us that we could build a walkway. Who the hell knows how to build a walkway? I didn't learn that in my VISTA training, believe it or not, and I'm pretty sure they don't teach "cement pouring" in AP English. Maybe my high school was an exception, though.

A visitor of the Bark Park told us that the walkway is already cemented. Okay. What the fuck? Do you know? Parks and Rec Ferdy nerdys clearly have their ducks in a row. No hunting anaology, please. This is serious.

Is there a moral to this story? Yes. Don't try to perform service in your community. You'll get shut down, shunned, told that you're an idealistic dreamer, and probably be driven to drink. Service is bad for America's youth. Missoula tells me so.

Anyway, BAD better become BAD-ass lickity split else I'm gonna throw a fit in city hall. Or, you know, just get over it.

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?