It makes me sick to my stomach

Is that hysteria, or argument? You decide after reading this essay by Deborah Stone. Hungry for Air.

Physicians, I gleaned from Dr. F., would sooner bring a person to the brink of death with morphine than permit them to experience prolonged air hunger. Dr. F. was ready to break his promise to my mother by inflicting a nursing home on her rather than let her die a horrible death. . . . Like Dr. F., [Asst. Attorney General] Bybee used the language and imagery of medicine to draw a line around suffering. They both had trouble articulating a clear line, but what jolted me was how these two men, both struggling to assert their moral agency, marched right up to the same line from opposite directions. Dr. F intended to prevent or at least minimize Mom’s suffering by teaching us when to bring her for medical attention. When Mr. Bybee invoked the need for medical attention, he intended to help soldiers and intelligence officers inflict as much suffering as possible on detainees without violating the law and risking their own prosecution.

Link via Clancy at Culturecat.

I heart hooker boots

No, not shoes. The colleague who goes by that pseudonym. Today I ran into him in the halls and he asked how I was doing and I said something about not knowing my ass from my elbow any more, and when is spring break again? Because I'm about half an inch from just completely falling apart--almost caught up on the grading I'm four weeks behind on, buried under piles of books, have no idea what I'm teaching tomorrow (as in, do not even remember what's on the syllabus), have a conference coming up, various other bureaucratic obligations, blah fucking blah blah.

Poor guy, he thought I was just going to say "fine." But being good-humored, he laughed, and said, "oh step into my office, let's talk," so I did. He whispers, "so, are you looking at the job market?" and I say, "well, yeah, I did but nothing happened this year, guess I have to wait another round, but actually I'm seriously thinking of making a move this summer, don't tell anyone." And he says, "oh, don't do that. You're just exhausted. If you have summer to recover, you'll feel better." And I say "yes, that's true, but look. I'm seriously depressed, I'm on drugs. I figure, if I were in any other profession, and I didn't like the job or the place, I'd start looking. Instead, I'm stuck in this idiotic annual job cycle where one has to pray that the job gods deign to post the right job for you and that you're "lucky" enough to land it. I'm sick of it." Blah blah, much talk about how yes, small town sucks (hooker boots, being smarter than me, lives in Big City and commutes). Talk about money. Hooker boots: "you know, I'm sure the money is adding to your stress. I mean, Mr. B. doesn't work, right? I'm single, and I am barely making it on this stupid salary. I'm sure that if I had a family to support I'd be going nuts. How do you do it? I mean, not to criticize your life or anything, but why doesn't Mr. B. get a job?" Me: "Yeah, I'm thinking that. If we stay he definitely will have to."

Anyway, more babbling about my life, the various reasons I'm dissatisfied with things, the fact that I'm getting more and more to the point where the strain of pretending to be happy is the hardest part of it all, etc. I confess to the open marriage as one instance of the kind of thing that makes me feel that smalltownsylvania isn't my bowl of grits. Hooker boots, being gay, doesn't bat an eye, and says, "well, that sort of thing is pretty common in the gay community, of course, but yeah, I can see how here that would make you feel really closeted." Me: "Yeah, I'm getting tired of passing. Maybe I should just come out about what a freaky bitch I really am." Him: "Well, nooo, I wouldn't advise that. Why burn bridges? Just move to Big City, why don't you?" Me: "Well, if I plan on leaving, it's just more expense and trouble and stress, that's why." Him: "Hmm, true..."

Finally, he just says, look. You're doing a great job. No one hates you. I have colleagues who go home from their jobs and cry. This isn't a bad place. I respond, great. "Not crying" is not really the bar I want to set for job satisfaction. He laughs, and says, well, true, but here. You are publishing, your teaching evals are fantastic, you're doing all sorts of service, you have a high profile in the department. You don't need to do that much. You just need to figure out how to scale back. And Mr. B. needs to get a job, because worrying about money all the time is really, really hard.

Me: "Yeah, maybe. I don't know. I know that's practical advice. But when I think about taking it, I just feel panicked. Like I'm barely managing to remain competent."
Him: "That's how everyone else feels all the time."
Me: "Ha. Well, it sucks."
Him: "You're just stressed out because you can't be superwoman right now."

If only I believed that were all there is to it.

Thinking about Molly Ivins

Ash Valentine, who comments here sometimes, emailed me this column, which Amanda at Mouse Words* blogged about in connection with the Kansas attorney general story. Probably everyone who reads me has seen it already, but Ivins frames a column about Texas H.B. 1212, which makes minors seeking an abortion not only notify their parents, but obtain their consent. Ivans tells stories like this:

Social worker for a 13-year-old: "She ran away from her foster home and was gone for eight weeks. Now she's in an emergency shelter and is pregnant. Her mother is deceased. Her father raped her when she was 8 years old and is still in prison for it. I knew her when she had to testify against him. I don't know if I can convince her to go back to court, but she definitely wants an abortion."

The Summers frame is basically to say, who gives a rat's ass about Summers when there are real issues at stake. As I read the column, here was my thought process:

- Ivins has a point.
- Well, on the other hand, why is it a zero-sum game? Can we not be pissed about Summers and anti-abortion asshole laws?
- On the other hand again, it's true: the Summers kind of stuff gets more focused attention than this stuff, purely by virtue of who has the mic: the chattering classes, you know.
- Hmm. That fafnir comment in the second Drum thread ticked me off, sort of. Again, we had the "real politics" vs. "women's politics" argument. Moreover, a complete elision of the fact that the personal is political: women bloggers get mad when men ignore women's blogs/issues precisely *because* we blog about important shit, shit that affects *us*. Real people. Plus, there's the fact that torture is not really a controversial subject. Hell, even AG Gonzales is against it. As distinct from non-torture coercion, I mean.
- Actually, I think Ivins does have a point, but not quite the point she thinks she's making. I think the point is that one of the problems we on the left have is that we do get very worked up over principles. Which is all well and good, but sort of hard for people to emotionally connect to. Today, I was listening to an NPR story about the death and legacy of Peter Benenson, the guy who founded Amnesty International. The point was that, by focusing on individual stories, he humanized the "issue" of human rights. Issues and principles are well and good, very important. But it is human interest, true stories of true people with whom we can identify, that grips us. That's why the parents of the dead soldier at Bush's inaguaration were so important. Summers is a personal issue for me; but not for my next-door neighbor who works as an office manager and voted for Bush. So I think the point of the Ivins piece isn't, who cares about Summers; instead, it's that we need to talk about abstract issues (like abortion) in personal ways. Not that we don't do that already, but that shit needs to be louder.

So the moral of the story is, write to the folks in the Texas legislature. And keep on keeping on with the personal stories about political subjects. If the boys really want to win elections, they oughta think about broadcasting those stories. Because, let's be honest. Your average middle-class suburbanite may think torture is horrible, but mostly it's an abstraction (though not always). "Choice" is an abstraction, too. But 13-year old girls who need to ask permission of their jailed rapist daddies for abortions, are not.


*Totally frivolous note: I heart Mouse Words not only because it's a fucking great feminist--political even!!--blog, but because it has the word "mouse" in it, and pseudonymous kid, as we all know, is absolutely obsessed with mice.

I nominate George Tiller for the feminist of the day button; or, gosh, Dorothy, Kansas sure sucks

And Kansas as the scariest state in the Union right now, for women: Kansas Attorney General demands abortion records.

Attorney General Phill Kline, an abortion opponent, insisted Thursday: "I have the duty to investigate and prosecute child rape and other crimes in order to protect Kansas children."

He is seeking complete, unedited medical records for women who sought late abortions and girls under 16. Now. Can you imagine that? You're a 15-yo girl, you get pregnant in Kansas. You manage to find one of the few clinics in the state, to get past the picket line, to have an abortion--and now the Kansas AG wants to read your medical records, including details about your "name, medical history, details of your sex life, birth control practices and psychological profile." Yeah, Mr. AG, I can really tell that you have these girls' best interests at heart. You disgusting human being.

Clinics offered to provide the info sans names. They are legally not allowed to tell patients that their records are being sought.

George Tiller is the doctor who has that clinic in Abortion that the Operation Rescue folks are so determined to take down (recall the La Quinta story). No one is saying if Tiller is the person fighting the AG in this case, but it doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

Use that all purpose letter you've got sitting on your hard drive for these moments, and write the Kansas AG, Kansas papers, and Kansas relatives.

Thanks to tweedledopey for emailing me the story.

"His rhetorical assignment of burdens of proof belies his prejudice"

Ok, it should be "reveals," not "belies" (pet peeve, pardon my mentioning it), but other than that this piece over at Left2Right, on Summers, does an excellent job of explaining what's wrong with his statement in non-angry language. Especially useful for those who, faced with angry women, dismiss us as unreasonable.

I know, of course, that everyone is saying they're now "bored" with Summers. Well, I am not. I am still pissed. Forgive me for just this once not affecting ennui.

Anyway. As Anderson says, "Contrary to claims that feminist agents of political correctness have driven such research out of the academy, research into such hypotheses is active, as Lynn Sanders reminds* us.  Nor did Summers' critics call for censorship of such research.  They did question the intellectual merits of Summers' selective consideration of evidence (see, for example, here*).  Despite his avowals that he wished to be proved wrong in the relative weights he assigned to genetic and social causes, his rhetorical assignment of burdens of proof belies his prejudice (*Links provided in original). Everyone, of course, knows this--or should. It's lovely of Anderson to provide some evidence of these points--but, in keeping with the point about where the burden of proof should lie, I firmly maintain that she (nor I) is not required to provide that evidence.

I provide the link b/c, in addition to the Summers issue itself, I am very interested in, and angered by, this larger issue: whether women (or anyone else), in objecting to sexism (prejudice) or those who dismiss their concerns, must be "reasonable" in tone, must provide "evidence" that X statement or action is sexist, must not rise to provocation but must instead "educate," provide "useful" information, must not "conform" to stereotype (ala Nancy Hopkins saying Summers' remarks made her "sick"), must be "civil," must "cut people slack," must not "alienate" people with our anger--that it is "our fault" if our justified anger "alienates" people. This, frankly, far more than Summers's obvious sexism, is what really upsets me: when those who claim to object to sexism reveal that their true emotional/intellectual identification is not with us, but with sexist men. The burden of proof, the burden of not offending, should be on those who perpetuate, rationalize, or excuse prejudice--not on those who stand up and yell when they see it happening.

Link via unfogged. Quotations in previous paragraph from the comments in this thread, where I was trying to make this very point, though in regard to Drum's "women bloggers" crap rather than the Summers thing, explicitly. Though the two got blended, as the common thread is people acting as apologists for sexism.

Exceptions in case of medical need

Excellent! A literal reversion to Victorian values. Alabama needs a medical exception, like Mississippi has: "physicians and psychologists may prescribe sexual devices for their patients, and the patients may buy them from the physicians and psychologists." (Thank you anonymous emailer, whoever you are, for the link.)

Nowadays, it is hard to fathom doctors giving their patients what Dr. Maines calls regular "vulvular" massage, either manually or electromechanically. No more!

Interestingly, Rachel Maines--who wrote an excellent and award-winning book on this very subject (and who I believe lost an academic job because of her research) provided an affadavit in the Alabama case.

Skeeered of vibrators! Ooh!

Via Trish Wilson and a heads' up email from Stupid Country (note re. latter: new blog to me, good name; note re. former: Trish seems to have fixed whatever it was that was making the site not load in Safari, for which thanks), apparently the Supreme Court is letting stand the stupid Alabama ban on selling sex toys.

Now, Trish expected me to be offended, but really, I find the thing just risible. Apparently the ground for the decision is not about privacy, but about "restricting the sale of sex." According to this brief article, the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals found that "siding with the sex toy merchants could open the door to the legalization of behavior such as prostitution."

Ah yes, we all know this story. A young girl, fresh and innocent, purchases her first vibrator. She becomes addicted to sexual pleasure, masturbating constantly, and neglecting her studies and her family duties. Her hair becomes greasy and unkempt, and her eyes unfocused, and she begins to steal money to purchase more vibes. Anything, anything! to feed her habit. Next thing you know, she's lost touch with all that is Good and Holy and is prostituting herself on the street, mere pennies for a blow job, anything to earn money towards a rabbit vibe. By the end of the novel, there she is, poor, ruined thing, standing on a street corner in the freezing rain, fingering herself right out there in public in front of god and everyone without even realizing what she's doing, all sense of shame lost in her addiction, muttering "suck your cock?" to every passing car.

Happens all the time. Only by outlawing sex toys can we protect women from their inner whores. Don't give me that "if you outlaw sex toys, only outlaws will own sex toys" crap, or the "they'll just masturbate with cucumbers or electric toothbrushes" argument. It's a slippery slope, and we must stop masturbation here and now or we'll descend into a nightmare world of humping and groaning and civilization, as we know it, will be doomed.

The Washington Monthly

Oh look. We have another well-meaning non-sexist liberal non-discriminatory fuckwit around being all concerned about how women just don't choose to talk about politics. Or maybe it's that they're innately less comfortable with the "food fight" nature of political discourse.

Hey Drum, you moron, try doing some goddamn research before you shoot your mouth off, ok?

How the fuck do men ever manage to succeed in any kind of intellectual endeavor without bothering to find out what the fuck they're talking about before shooting their mouths off? Oh yeah, right, it's the magic power of the cock. Jesus.

Thanks, I guess, to Unfogged for the tipoff. My blood pressure was getting dangerously low.

(Update: New links to listings of women political bloggers on "doing" and "some" in the second paragraph.)

Second update--also Lindsay at Majikthise on "try," and an emerging list over on Unfogged (post me bitching my ass off) on "before"--same paragraph)

Pseudonymous kid learns about literature

Walking around yesterday in the cold:

Pseudonymous kid: Mama! Tell me a story!
Me: Again?!? I just told you one.
Pseudonymous kid: Tell me another.
Me: I can't think of any more stories.
Pseudonymous kid: Make one up!
Me: .....
Me: Ok. Once upon a time there was a mama who had a kid. And her kid would always say, "Tell me a story!" And the mama would tell the kid a story. And then when it was over, the kid would say, "Tell me another story!" So the mama would tell another story. And when that story was over, the kid would say, "Tell me another story!" And the mama would say, "I can't think of any more stories, and my throat is sore from all this talking." And the kid would say, "Tell me another story anyway!" And the mama would say, "I'm tired of hearing my own voice." And the kid would say, "Tell me another story anyway!" And so, finally, the mama told the kid a story, and it went like this...

Once upon a time there was a mama who had a kid. And her kid would always say, "Tell me a story!" And the mama would tell the kid a story. And then when it was over, the kid would say, "Tell me another story!" So the mama would tell another story. And when that story was over, the kid would say, "Tell me another story!" And the mama would say, "I can't think of any more stories, and my throat is sore from all this talking." And the kid would say, "Tell me another story anyway!" And the mama would say, "I'm tired of hearing my own voice." And the kid would say, "Tell me another story anyway!" And so, finally, the mama told the kid a story, and it went like this...

(Repeat for several blocks. After five or six tellings...)

Pseudonymous kid says, "Make the story about a mouse!"
Me: Once upon a time there was a mama mouse who had a little mouse. And the little mouse would always say....

(Repeat with variations--a mama hedgehog, a mama kitty, a mama goose--until finally we are about a block from home and we arrive at a mama alligator...)

Me: .... And the little alligator would say, "I don't care, tell me a story anyway!" And so, the mama ate him.
Pseudonymous kid (beat): Ok. Tell me another story!
Me: If you ask me that again, I will eat you.
Pseudonymous kid: No you won't. You're not an alligator.
Me: Aha, yes, that is the flaw with the moral of my story.
Pseudonymous kid: So, tell me another story!
Me: pseudonymous kid, do you know what subtext is?
Pseudonymous kid: No. What is it?
Me: Well, a story has a literal meaning, and then it has subtext. The literal meaning is what the story is about: like, a mama and a little kid and the little kid wants to hear stories. The subtext is what the story is really about, underneath.
Pseudonymous kid (thinking): Oh.
Me: So, do you understand the subtext of the story I just told?
Pseudonymous kid: You're tired of telling me stories?
Me: Yes, exactly.

Sleepy....

Committee crap, done. Grading of one hundred and eighty--yes, you heard me correctly--midterms (including essay component, ugh) about halfway done. Grading rubric established, hence speeding along the process.

Sleep, sadly, not much. Hence not much blogging: too tired to think. Instead, I regale you with another story of my son's impeccable good taste and genius. Saturday, we were running an errand and I was flipping around the radio and came upon a broadcast of the Met's production of La Boheme.

Pseudonymous kid: Wait! Stop. That music is beautiful.
Me: Do you like it?
Pseudonymous kid: Yes, let's listen to it.

So we did. Between acts, the radio commentator would come on and talk about the production and plot of the opera.

Pseudonymous kid: Mama, what is tuburculosis?
Me: Well, it is a disease of the lungs. It makes you cough a lot, sometimes you cough blood. It makes people very sick, and it can kill them.
Pseudonymous kid: If I got tuburculosis, would I die?
Me: Well, this story is about a very long time ago, when we didn't know how to cure tuburculosis. Now we do, so people almost never get it, but if they do we mostly can cure it, so you don't have to worry.
Pseudonymous kid: Is the lady with the beautiful voice the person who has tuburculosis?
Me: Yes, that's right. And the man who loves her is sad, because he knows she is going to die. And he is very poor, so he cannot help her.
Pseudonymous kid: That is sad. Oh, it's starting again, shhh.

MC 900 foot pseudonymous kid

(Scene: yesterday afternoon)

Me, bemoaning my procrastination and the pile of exams I'm grading: What if I accidentally got my shit together? Would I get a medal? Or a pat on the back?
Mr. B.: Heh
Pseudonymous kid: Mama, let's get your shit together.
Me: You think? Good idea.

Pseudonymous kid goes over, pats the cat.

Me: What was that for?
Pseudonymous kid: I was giving her a pat on the back for getting her shit together.

Synchronicity

Well, now, really, could the feminist of the day be any more appropriate? Ruth Bader Ginsburg: Harvard grad, told by the dean that her place in class should have gone to a man, first woman to make law review at both Harvard and Columbia, graduated top of her class (there's some evidence of the "women need to be better to be equal" argument for you, boys)--all while taking care of a preschooler and a husband with cancer, care that included attending his classes and typing his papers as well as her own. And in a field where women used to be told they didn't have the dedication or talent to compete with the men.

Nice quotation, too.

(Now back to grading....)

Celebrity death match!!!!!

According to PZ Myers, David Horowitz says that university professors "work between six to nine hours a week, eight months a year." His sense of what we get paid is fucking ridiculous, as well. But the hours here is the point.

Larry Summers says that university profs, at least at research institutions, work eighty hours a week. Or at least think about their jobs that much, which is--it is true--work.

So. I propose we put David Horowitz and Larry Summers in a locked room and have 'em duke it out 'til only one of 'em is left standing. Winner has to fight me, Nancy Hopkins, or any other woman prof who wants to volunteer immediately afterwards. I figure I can take whoever's left on after the other has softened him up. C'mon, we're only girls...

Open mouth, insert dick, Larry

I am sorry, but from now on I am always going to put the word "dick" in Larry Summers' name. And it's a good goddamn thing I'm not at Harvard, because Wellbutrin girl would want to walk into his goddamn office and rip out his ribcage and wear it as a hat. The assholes who are saying that Nancy Hopkins's walking out of his speech was immature or unprofessional or whatever-the-fuck deserve to be seriously bitch-slapped (I'll do the honors): the miracle is that she didn't shoot him.

Let me explain. You do not make racist and sexist remarks in a professional forum and then back up and say, "hey, free inquiry, exchange of ideas, blah fucking blah." You do not insult people and then play innocent dumb guy. You do not stand up, white man in charge of major cultural institution, and demonstrate your ignorance and prejudice and then be shocked when people call you on it. You do not pretend that remarks that justify racism and sexism are value-neutral. You do not play the "reverse racism" card or the "those feminazis want to suppress free discussion" card when you are in the middle of demonstrating that you, yourself, are a bigot. And you do not defend bigots by attacking people who refuse to listen to bigotry pretending to be substantive discussion.

Here is the transcript. The passages to which I am referring above are below. My emphasis.

It is after all not the case that the role of women in science is the only example of a group that is significantly underrepresented in an important activity and whose underrepresentation contributes to a shortage of role models for others who are considering being in that group. To take a set of diverse examples, the data will, I am confident, reveal that Catholics are substantially underrepresented in investment banking, which is an enormously high-paying profession in our society; that white men are very substantially underrepresented in the National Basketball Association; and that Jews are very substantially underrepresented in farming and in agriculture.

These are not neutral remarks. Allow me to strip this crap of the semi-respectable academic phrasing. Summers is saying, "investment bankers are WASPs, Negroes play basketball, and Jews don't farm." The historic and social reasons why this is the case are very well-established: Protestants were socially dominant in America for many years, so "old money" tended to be Protestant, not Catholic; Christians in Europe didn't want to be "usurers," so they did not lend money--though they needed to borrow it, and a lot of Jews who immigrated to America from Europe (where a great many Jews did, in fact, farm) were, by definition, mobile and tended to congregate in cities, where--like many immigrants--they tended to live near one another in part for protection; Black children are, to this day, encouraged to go into sports and music rather than, say, medicine or banking; not too long ago, Blacks were actually denied higher education except at a very few Black colleges. Ask any parent of a Black child how many times their kid has been asked if they like Basketball.

Ok, back to Summers. Here is what he said about women in science.

There are three broad hypotheses about the sources of the very substantial disparities that this conference's papers document and have been documented before with respect to the presence of women in high-end scientific professions. One is what I would call the--I'll explain each of these in a few moments and comment on how important I think they are--the first is what I call the high-powered job hypothesis. The second is what I would call different availability of aptitude at the high end, and the third is what I would call different socialization and patterns of discrimination in a search. And in my own view, their importance probably ranks in exactly the order that I just described.

So. He is not, as some have claimed, merely listing three possibilities and encouraging us to discuss whether or not they might be contributing factors. He is explicitly saying that women are not in science because they choose not to be (the "Mommies don't want high-powered careers" argument); because they are genetically inferior ("at the high end"; this is the "oh sure, some women are smart, but the best women aren't as smart as the best men" argument); and that, oh yeah, maybe socialization and discrimination happen too, but really that's far less important than the fact that women really don't want these jobs, and if they do, they're just not good enough.

1. Mommies do not have children by budding or splitting. Daddies have kids too. Daddies should spend time with their kids. Mommies being more aggressive on issues of family time is not a socially-neutral fact. It has everything to do with socialization, and with men like Summers ignoring their own parental responsibilities because they can get away with it, knowing that women will pick up the slack.

2. Because of sexism and racism, people from oppressed groups have to be much better than people in the dominant group just to get noticed. Again, the simple fact that women with kids tend to drop out of tenured jobs, while most tenured women--especially at Research I institutions--do not have kids, shows this. Men at RI institutions have children. Every "exceptional" woman is "exceptional," in part, because she is so far superior to her male colleagues.

3. The "choice" and "genetics" argument are themselves completely socially conditioned. Moreover, ask women who have served on hiring committees with men whether or not discrimination, subtle or unsubtle, occurs in searches. I've heard horror stories. Ask whether women get asked, when they go on the market, if their husbands are "willing to move," get told how "lucky" they are if the answer is yes, get asked "what about the kids"--and ask if men get asked the same things, as often. Ask whether search committees hypothesize about women's personal circumstances--children, partners--when they discuss candidate's qualifications. Open your goddamn ears, Larry, you motherfucker.

Via Kevin Drum. Majikthise also has something to say about this.

Update: Whoa!! When you get linked by Atrios, Yglesias, and Crooked Timber all in the same day the sitemeter goes nucking futs. Howdy and welcome all y'all Atrios/Yglesias/CT readers. If you're interested, here are some of my better (imho) posts....

On Summers:
First post
Second post
On feminism:
Abortion
Why Motherhood is not a "Choice"
Professor Mama
Mrs. Professor
Shocking revelations:
Gender, Rhetoric, and Sex Chatting
Sluttier than you Imagine
Whore
Parenting, work, how to read this blog, and there really is a point behind the personal shit if you look:
Subtext

Blogwhoring at its best. Enjoy! And please note that I have an assload of grading this weekend, so play nice in the comments--I don't wanna have to come in there!

This one's for PZ Myers: Pseudonymous kid explains evolution

Pseudonymous kid: Mama, I have hair on my arm.
Me: Yes, you do.
Pseudonymous kid: Why do I still have hair on my arm from when I was a monkey?
Me: You were never a monkey.
Pseudonymous kid: NO! A long time ago, after the dinosaurs, there were people, but there were no people, and the only kind of people were monkeys. And the world was covered with monkeys. And then many years later, some of the monkeys turned into people.
Me: Yes, that's right, but you, personally were never a monkey. You were always a person.
Pseudonymous kid (in a tone of patient exasperation): No, no, no, no. Listen. A long time ago, before the dinosaurs, the earth was just--empty. There was only dirt.
Me: And water.
Pseudonymous kid: Right, and water. And then the germs in the water combined with oxygen and became (pinching forefinger and thumb, squinting eye, squeaky voice) tiny, tiny, tiny little animals. Right?
Me: Yeah, basically.
Pseudonymous kid: And then some of the germs turned into lizards. And some of the lizards got (arms above head, loud voice) REALLY BIG. And those lizards were dinosaurs.
Me: Right.
Pseudonymous kid (crouching down, holding hands over head): And some of them were still small, and those were dinosaurs too.
Me: Yes, right.
Pseudonymous kid: And then, after the dinosaurs died, there were monkeys. And some of the monkeys turned into people. And some of them turned into mice.
Me: No--actually, the mice were first, then the monkeys.
Pseudonymous kid: NO! No, no, no. It was all monkeys.
Mr. B.: No, honey, not every animal in the world comes from monkeys.
Pseudonymous kid: Yes, they do.

Definitive proof of insanity

I just had a dream that was was in love with Eminem. Who, you know, was just deeply misunderstood. Also, in the dream, he was very, very young--still living at home, and there was some question about why, and some explanation that even if he moved out, poor boy, his abusive father (who looked like the swim coach in the episode of Buffy with the creatures from the black lagoon, remember?) would still have legal power over him.

He was all sensitive and poetic and made a really huge felt wall-hanging declaring his love for me on Valentine's day. Oh, and we fell in love because of PK, somehow. PK kept waking up in the middle of the night, and I would have to get out of bed and go get him, and Eminem was always up playing poker in the living room or something. My hair looked bad and I was afraid Eminem found me unattractive, but by the end of the night he kissed me and I was So Happy. Then we went to bed in his bed and fucked.

Then we got woken up by his abusive mean Christian father, who sat there and lectured Eminem on how slutty women were or something while looking through me. At this point he kind of looked like Gary Bauer. I got up and put on a shirt and remember that somehow it was very important that I actually felt very justified and comfortable wearing a shirt and no pants in front of Eminem's father, who was now the Buffy swim coach. And I did the whole, "now listen here, mean daddy" thing. He was abusive, so I kept getting in between him and Eminem, who at one point was cowering beside the bed. Mean daddy had some kind of book that was alternately bad sci-fi and, hilariously, a sort of pulpy men's novel about football, in which football players, once they were no longer in their prime, were euthanized and turned into zombies who would play football forever in a utopian state. Mean daddy was very excited about this novel, and sat inside a glass case reading it while I pretended to be fascinated and Eminem ran away. I asked to borrow the novel to give it to my dad, who "would really love that, wow, what a great novel" but Eminem's mean daddy was quite gloating about how he wouldn't lend it to me and nyah nyah nyah.

There was some other weird stuff too, about maybe framing Mean Daddy as a Nazi because he said something derogatory about Stalin, and also spending a lot of time going up and down the halls at school doing some kind of vague anti-racist something-or-other. But mostly it was about how much I loved Eminem.

Who, at least, in the dream, was Really Really Hot. Although I swear in real life I have never thought twice about whether Eminem is sexy or not. But I admit that when I first saw Tim McVeigh on the evening news, I thought, "well, he's a crazed terrorist mass-murderer, but you know, not bad-looking in his way."

In other words, this Wellbutrin is some strange, strange shit, man.

Ok, back to sleep.

I swear to god I am not linking this just because it says nice things about me

If you haven't seen Pish Tosh's piece on The Rhetoric of Blog Humor, do go check it out. It's a clever (and funny) attempt to describe some of the particular techniques you see going on in blogs to create the funny. Entertaining, but also thought-provoking: am now thinking about what other rhetorical techniques one sees in blogland, how those rhetorical techniques differ from other forms of writing (and why), how they work...

Plus it makes me want to write some more funny posts again.

File under: "ya think?!?"

Apparently the Bush administration isn't really compassionately conservative. Apparently that was all just campaign talk. Apparently Bush "never really wanted the 'poor people stuff.".

The upside is tht this argument is posted on a Christian website. In other words (file this, too, under "ya think?!?"), Christianity ain't just about being anti-evolution and sexist. Lots and lots of Christians have sincere moral beliefs about justice and compassion, and the left can get that vote if we just talk about, well, justice and compassion.

Via Trish Wilson, which isn't loading for my Safari-self right now, but I understand is viewable just fine for everyone else.

Seeing red

This NYT article on the Democratic party and abortion rights is so freaking annoying. Presented entirely as a political issue, in terms of "bases" and "core supporters" and "outreach" and blah fucking blah. The issue of sex doesn't even come up in it. It's as if abortion is an "issue" rather than a real thing that real women actually really have to deal with and sometimes really need. We're just pawns to be played in the larger chess game of who controls the board.

I hate to be essentialist, but it's time to start supporting organizations that get that women are, well, women. By which I mean "people," and how annoying is it to have to articulate that? Not saying third party--my sense is that that's not realistic, but I'm not a political scientist, so I'll leave that to those who get how it works. Maybe a big ass swing voting block. The problem is, what the fuck do we do if neither party is willing to represent our interests? Throw a fucking tantrum, I think. Study the civil rights movement, I guess. make enough noise that someone realizes we're out there wanting to buy, and provides something that we're willing to pay for.

We'll see what Dean and the party do. But it looks like the pro-choise platform in the party is weakening, not being solidified. If so, I'm going to advocate, not for sending money to Dean and the Dems, but instead to organizations like Emily's List.

Updating

Hey y'all. Would you do me a favor? Toddle on over to the blogroll there, and check out your own blog. If you've changed identities or something, drop me a line. If you notice a dead or double link, let me know? If you're not on there, ditto? Am planning on doing some updates and such soon-like, since, you know, I'm not sleeping with with being psychotic and all, and yet I'm also too damn lazy to check the accuracy of all the links my own damn self.

Thanks!

Mr. B., by popular demand

(Scene: early morning, waking up.)

Pseudonymous kid: Ahh! I don't feel good!
Me (looking over. Pseudonymous kid's eye is all gummy): Aha. Pseudonymous kid, you have pinkeye.
Pseudonymous kid: No I don't! Go away!
Me: Yes you do. Mr. B., do you wanna take him to the doctor today?
Mr. B.: He doesn't have pinkeye.
Me: Yes, in fact, he does. Would you go get a warm washcloth?
(washcloth delivered, gummy eye cleared, pseudonymous kid yelling "No! No!")
Me: Look. His eye is kinda red and bleary. And it's gummy. That's pinkeye.
Mr. B.: I think he just has a cold, but I have to go have my blood pressure monitored today anyway, I'll take him along and ask them to have a look.

(Scene: at home late afternoon.)

Me: So teaching today sucked. I felt dizzy. How was the doctor's appointment?
Mr. B: Pseudonymous kid has pinkeye.
Me: Told you so. I feel dizzy, I have to lie down. Come talk to me while I lie on the couch.
Mr. B: Ok.
Me: So I was right. Am I not the best mama? Are you not impressed?
Mr. B: Very.
Me: Feel free to say that a lot. Feel free to go on about it. I woke up, and I said, "aha, PK has pinkeye." And I was right. Aren't I smart? Aren't I a good mama?
Mr. B: Yes, you are the best mama ever. I need to go fill the prescription.
Me: Ok. Can you pick up a prescription for me? I called the doc yesterday to tell her about the side effects, and she called in another Wellbutrin prescription for me.
Mr. B: Ok, what is it for?
Me: The doc wants me to stay on the 100mgs for another week before going up to 150.
Mr. B: Ok, sure. I have to hurry though, because I need to get dinner on and then go to the pharmacy before it closes.
Me: Do you want me to go?
Mr. B: No, I don't think you should drive right now.

(Scene: at the pharmacist.)

Pharmacist: I see you had a prescription for Wellbutrin filled here just last week, at a higher dose. What's going on?
Mr. B.: Well, my wife has been changed from Paxil to Wellbutrin, and she's having some side effects, so the doctor wanted her to stay on the lower dose, I guess.
Pharmacist: When did she change?
Mr. B.: About six days ago.
Pharmacist: Is she still taking the Paxil?
Mr. B.: No, I don't think so. I think the doctor just switched her over. (Mr. B. has been reading the blog, so knows y'all's advice re. Paxil, btw.)
Pharmacist: Oh, god. Great. Is Dr. (scrutinizing the prescription), Dr. Stiff, is Dr. Stiff a psychiatrist?
Mr. B.: No, a g.p.
Pharmacist (sighs): Ok. Well, how much Paxil was your wife taking? (Looks it up in the computer.) The prescription is for 12.5 mg. Was she taking that once or twice a day?
Mr. B.: I'm not sure, sorry.
Pharmacist: Well, if she was just taking it once a day, I can see why the doctor did that, because 12.5 is usually the lowest dose they use when tapering people off it. But Paxil withdrawal is very emotional. How is your wife acting?
Mr. B.: Really really weird. If you talk to her at all, you're in a fight. She's dizzy, sometimes even sitting down, so she has to lie down. She's kind of hyper but lacks energy. She says she feels really bad.
Pharmacist: Did she tell the doctor about this?
Mr. B.: Yes, that's why the doctor called in the lower Wellbutrin scrip.
Pharmacist: Oh, right. Well, she is probably going through Paxil withdrawal. That can last one or two weeks. She wasn't taking very much, so it should be shorter, but everyone's different. If she isn't feeling better in a day or two, she really should see the doctor again. She should be seeing a psychiatrist, not a g.p.
Mr. B.: Yes, well, our health plan. . . .
Pharmacist: Ok, I understand. Well, if she's not feeling better by Thursday, be sure and call the doctor.

(scene: home)

Mr. B.: How are you feeling?
Me: Better than yesterday. Kinda dizzy. I need to lie down.
Mr. B.: I think you are acting a lot weirder than you realize.
Me: Really? All crazy and shit?
Pseudonymous kid (finding this all hilarious): Mama's crazy! Mama's crazy!
Me: Great, that's gonna catch on.
Pseudonymous kid: Crazy Mama!
Mr. B.: I think it already has.
Me: So I have an idea. I am going to tell my chair tomorrow that I am depressed, and taking medications that are making it very hard to work. I am going to tell her I need a grader to help me keep up.
Mr. B: I don't think you should tell her you're depressed.
Me (getting in a fight): What? That's not the point! The point is that I want to tell her I need a grader for medical reasons! Is that a good idea or not?!
Mr. B: I think that's a good idea.
Me: Ok, so just tell her that I'm on some medication that's making it hard for me to work?
Mr. B: Yes.
Me: So ok, that's good.
Mr. B: And we should get you a psychiatrist.

Latest anti-woman legislation alert

This time, in Arizona. A bill, ostensibly to punish the killing of pregnant women, that makes a fetus legally equal to its mother. The law explicitly makes an exception for abortion.

So. Let's think about the logic here. Abortion is an exception to a law saying a fetus is as much a person as a woman is. Isn't that logically inconsistent? Moreover, let's ask the real question: is a fetus as much a person as a man? Should it have the same rights men have? Or, you know, is it just women--second-class citizens anyway, who are no more important than the contents of their wombs?

And what I really don't get about these Laci Peterson-inspired laws is this: why not just pass a law making killing a pregnant woman a special class of crime? Much cleaner, much more logical. The only reason for focusing this shit on the fetus is to undermine abortion. The only reason not to focus it on the pregnant woman is that it isn't, in fact, about her--except inasmuch as she's the conduit for what we really care about: the fetus.

Anyway, time to write letters to the Arizona Senate. It's exhausting to have to keep doing this shit. Which, of course, is why they keep doing it, hoping to wear us out by keeping us fighting a battle on multiple fronts. But there are more of us than there are of them. Keep it in mind. And write a letter. Keep a copy on your hard drive to change the address and bill # for the next time this comes up, probably next week sometime.

Via feministing.

All right, it's the "knock the bitch up" contest

Must. Get. Pregnant.

Need. Reason. To. Buy. This. Shirt.

(Edited to give credit where credit's due: 'twas the apostropher who gave me the link.)

Bitch in love, part 2

This is an odd, unromantic story about my boyfriend. It's his birthday, and, well, maybe this is romantic after all, for them with eyes to see it.

The boyfriend and I met this summer. In many ways, this relationship has been impacted by depression, if not from the beginning, then from fall onward. Boyfriend and I both deal with it: he's an old hand, for me it's new. Last week, in my depression-related-websurfing (obviously the amount of time I spend online is both an avoidance and a coping mechanism), I ran across this. What leapt out at me was this statement:

"A clue for me that I am in an 'more affected by depression' phase is an inability to initiate needed work. This plagued me in college, of course, and I didn't understand the mechanism, so berated myself for laziness and lack of discipline."

Yes, I thought, that's it exactly. The inability to simply start work on something I need, even want, to do. My thing isn't really depression, it's anxiety: I think the depression is a sort of anxiety overload. The more I "can't" work, the more anxious I get. It's familiar to most academics, I think, even the rare few who aren't on drugs.

Anyway. One of the things I admire most about Boyfriend is that, instead of fighting who he is, the way I do, he seems, to me, to have constructed a life that accomodates who he is. It's something I'm trying to learn to do better myself. So, I am an overachiever good girl who, in hindsight, has struggled most of my life with that "laziness and lack of discipline" argument while simultaneously--and successfully--relying on being smarter than the average bear (she says, modestly) to compensate for my "poor work habits." Despite what I tell myself, it isn't a hallmark of the lazy to complete a dissertation with a baby on one hip. I do what I "should," even though I always feel I "should" be doing it faster, more gracefully, more smoothly. But I have done it. Boyfriend, on the other hand, dropped out of high school and started a series of businesses: his private life is, well, private, but let's just say he's had a few very low lows and a few very high highs. Throughout, it seems to me, he's successfully done, not what one "should" do, but exactly what he damn well felt like doing at the time. Like me, he has a hard time getting out of the house in the morning without a couple of hours alone with coffee and a newspaper. I fight that. He accepts it, and creates a life where he's in charge of his own hours. His life is riskier in one way, and safer in another. He's had more swings, more brushes with failure, perhaps; I've been steadily torn between a feeling of what I "ought" to be and a fear that that's not who I really am.

So, what is the point? He admires my achievements. I admire his. He has no formal education, but he is better-read than I am. He is a challenge for me, and I probably am for him, too. I'm married, after all; he loves me, and yet we will probably never live in the same town. I'd move to be with him, but it isn't fair to ask Mr. B. or pseudonymous kid to do that. He has roots, and a kid (not his own) who he is partly responsible for there, so he can't move either. I think he would like to have someone (me) there every morning. It won't be me. If someone else comes along, chances are that she won't accept this long-distance love affair on the side. For my part, I have to accept that, much as I would like a committment from him, I can't, I don't think, ask for one (though I've come close, believe me), because our situation is unbalanced. It's tough, and maybe it fuels the depression a bit, but at the same time, it feels like it heals it, as well: hope? Faith? Trust? Not sure what to call it.

Believe it or not, I am a committment type of girl. The subtext of the proposal story below is that, throughout everything, Mr. B. and I knew we loved each other. We got married in part because we knew we are good partners to one another. Readers ask, how do you "know" the boyfriend/fuckbuddies aren't a threat to the relationship? When we got married, we asked each other: under what circumstances would you want to leave me? The answer? If you hit me. If you hit pseudonymous kid. That's about it. Everything else, we can work through, because we know each other. Knowing that makes it "safe" to fall in love with someone else.

With Boyfriend, I don't have that. Partly because it's new. I think we both know that there's an "always" there, but it's a feeling, not a promise. Riskier. More dangerous. It's not one of those "shoulds" where I know the rules. Instead, it's exactly what we damn well feel like doing now. Want to fall in love? Fall. No idea where it's going to end up? Do it anyway. I don't have a map for this one. I can't really reason it through. There it is, like depression: a fact to be dealt with, and one you can't consciously control. Part of who I am. I've graduated. I've got the degree (the family, the marriage) in hand. Those things are mine. Now, there's this new thing, and no more "shoulds." Just, what do you want to do now?

Don't know if that makes sense. Don't know if it makes sense to me. Happy birthday anyway. I love you.

Bitch in love

Being a bitch over at Unfogged all day has kept me busy (anything to avoid grading) (link to most recent thread; previous threads in this post). Finally chatting with my boyfriend, who among other things wrote me a limerick which I shall not share here because it is far, far too personal and lovely for public consumption, cheered me up a bit. Anyway, the convo. over at Unfogged turned to proposals, and I promised I'd post my own proposal story over here, b/c it's a good one and will show what a heinous bitch I really am. Don't worry, Mr. B. comes off badly, too.

Mr. B. and I started dating, believe it or don't, in 1986. Yeah. Ok, so, anyway, we were always a long-distance couple, since we went to two different colleges (his sister roomed next door to me, which is how we got introduced). So the "open relationship" thing was really a feature from the very start. At one point, he was living about an hour from my home town, and I was home for the summer, and he was dating another woman, and I would call and ask to drive up and he'd say, "I have a date with S. tonight." Which annoyed me, but was fine, until he actually broke up with me for her! The nerve! I threw his t-shirt back in his face, got back in my car, and drove home like a bat out of hell, screaming the whole way. Luckily, it was the middle of the night and I somehow avoided getting a ticket. He went home, where his sister (who had introduced us) gave him endless amounts of shit, and then came back and broke up with her and got back together with me. He claims this had nothing to do with his sister, which is probably true, as if anything being given shit by a sister would tend to cement one's resolve, so I attribute his change of heart to my superior charms, which, I mean, how obvious could you get?

The next year, I went and did a year abroad, and started dating someone else and, though I wasn't in love with the other guy, somehow decided that maintaining a connection to a boy back home while I was, you know, abroad (the entire point of years abroad being to fuck as much as you can) was stupid, so I called Mr. B. to break up with him. As it happens, it was Valentine's Day, which I had somehow forgotten. Mr. B. said, "oh. I thought you were calling to wish me a happy Valentine's Day," and I of course apologized, but the deed was done. A few months later, he showed up on my doorstep at 4 am or some unholy hour and we got back together immediately. I'd dumped the other guy by that point, and took Mr. B. around to a friend's place (off-campus), where they promptly got into a fight over U.S. foreign policy, thereby cementing an intimate friendship between us all that has lasted to this day. A few months later I fell in love with this friend and carried a torch for him for years, but he would never have me (the nerve).

Anyway, fast forward to my senior year. Mr. B. is living someplace a day's drive away from where I'm going to college. I go visit him occasionally, he comes and visits me. One night, he proposes. Shocked, I accept. Later, after he's asleep, I go call my friend (the one from the previous paragraph, with whom I am now in love) on the phone--in the wee hours, I might add, since he is in another country--and say, "omg, Mr. B. proposed!" Friend says congratulations, we are a most excellent couple, it is high time. I say, "yes, but my god, I'm not even graduated yet!" The next morning, I ask Mr. B., "can I take it back?" He says yes. I say, "well, actually, can I think about it?" He says yes. I say, how long? He says, how long do you want? I say, six months? He says yes.

We make arrangements for me to go live with him after I graduate. Now. True confession time: Mr. B. used to be very Catholic if you, ah, get my drift. I wasn't. He was fine with this, which, okay, good, b/c not getting laid in college was not part of my plan. This will become relevant later. Anyway, after graduation I go to visit my friend (the one I'm still in love with, who is still not having me) for a couple of weeks. I get home, I get on the Greyhound to go to Mr. B's city. There's some heinous delay, and I have no actual American money. A homeless person, witnessing my plight (digging through wallet at snack bar, "oh damn, I don't have any money, nevermind"), gives me a couple of bucks, which has to be one of the most humbling moments of my life. I try to refuse, but he insists. On the grounds that it feels good to help others, I think I did the right thing, but admittedly, "oh, I've just returned from a foreign vacation and have absolutely no American money on me, would you be a darling, Mr. Homeless Man, and buy me dinner?" is, well, fairly obnoxious.

Anyway, with hotdog in belly and a few coins change, I call Mr. B. from a payphone to tell him I've been delayed. I have decided, on this last visit--when I slept with my friend's roommate, by the way, not 24 hours after Mr. B., who was there on a business trip that overlapped with the beginning of my vacation, left--that I'm not ready to get married yet. I want to actually, you know, live in the same place for a while before I make that committment. For some reason, I feel it is very important to tell him that as soon as possible, so I tell him on the phone from the Greyhound bus station.

When I arrive, he tells me he doesn't want to live together if we're not engaged. You know, being all Catholic and shit. I tell him, "tough shit, I moved to this city because of you, we need to see if this relationship works, and I am not paying rent in this godforsaken town, so suck it up" or something to that effect (really, that's a pretty close approximation of what I said). So, okay, we live together. Not, technically, "in sin," mind you. (Rolls eyes here.) Anyway, something big happens in Mr. B.'s, ah, business, which requires him to be absent a lot. When the crisis is over, he comes home. We go out to dinner. I propose. He says, "no, I don't want to marry you, and I don't want to live with you any more either." I say, of course, "fine, fuck you" and I move home to my mom's, thinking I'll get a teaching credential or something.

Two weeks later, I am helping my mom paint the bathroom when a fedex package arrives. It contains a ring (purchased by another woman, mind, who worked with Mr. B. and was delegated to buy it in Hong Kong where apparently she had a line on cheap engagement rings, or something) and a note that says, "Will you marry me?"

So I call, say yes, give him shit about how now I have to move back again, put all my shit in a truck, and move back. A year later we get married. My friend who I am still in love with attended the wedding. Many years later, we attended his--which, as it happens, was held in the same city my boyfriend now lives in.

I hope to god none of his siblings ever happen on this post, or they will totally recognize this story.

(I admit, however, that I cannot top this.)

On a happier note

For all of you who, like me, spend too much time online: apparently, chat is a very effective way to get to know someone.

I mean, duh. Writing is a good way to get to know someone. When people write, they often say things they wouldn't say irl. This is handy. Talking is a good way to get to know someone. Chat combines the two. Getting to know someone is good. Basing whether you like someone on what they have to say rather than an initial assessment of "hot or not" tends to make for longer-lasting relationships.

Also, people who can write are sexier than people who can't.

Happy goddamn valentine's day

Ok. Let me start by admitting that I have no earthly reason to bemoan this holiday, and I apologize in advance for doing so.

Now, let us begin.

First, a little humor: ladies, this is what your man wants for valentine's day. No, really. I'm serious. All men like trucks. It's like, genetic, according to Larry Summers.

Ok, that didn't take long to devolve into totally pointless snark. Am feeling particularly humorless the last couple of days, leaving snarky comments over here (don't bother going to look, really. It's ridiculous, stupid, and petty, not even worth linking), picking fights with Mr. B. over nothing at all, spending all day yesterday in an extended navel-gazing session, complete with defensive "you're being mean" bullshit, with a blog friend, leaving pathetic "pay attention to me please. . . where are you?" messages on my boyfriend's instant message thingy (goddamnit, what right does he have to be offline for an entire day?!? when I'm being needy attention-seeking avoidance girl?), feeling crazy and unloved and sure that all my relationships are destined for failure and I'm just like my mom.

Also I need to color my hair. God knows it's dirty enough that today's a good day for it.

Oh, I could step back, reassure everyone that I actually truly do think Valentine's day is a silly holiday, or perhaps talk about how for some stupid reason I was feeling sort of romantic about it this year, what with the new boyfriend (whose birthday is tomorrow, even), and Mr. B. spending all day yesterday "helping" pseudonymous kid make homemade valentine's for his class. Or, you know, instead of being a bitch I could talk about feeling depressed and miserable.

But fuck that shit. We're going for self-indulgent and, well, crazy today. So blah. The fact that it's valentine's day is really irrelevant, actually, except that it provided a convenient lead. Please ignore my narcissistic whining and enjoy your holiday (or enjoy snarking about it) as previously scheduled.

(This post brought to you by Wellbutrin, the latest in my ongoing pharmaceutical experimentation. The side effects of switching meds are kicking my ass.)

A quiz

I am so, so sorry. I have a strict no-quiz policy. But this, I cannot resist. Blame New Kid.

You scored as Quirky Shoes. You are Quirky Shoes! Combining style and an unflappable orginality, who cares if you'll never find a handbag to match? You're Fab-U-lous, dahling! Quirky Shoes 83% Sexy Heels 67% Classic Pumps 53% Sensible Flats 43% Flip-Flops 40% What Kind of Shoes Are You? created with QuizFarm.com

More great shoes!

Manolo dislikes these, but more and more I think Manolo's tastes are waaaaay too conservative. How many basic pumps does anyone need?

On the other hand, the true shoe habit, it appreciates the shoe as art.

What should one expect from a physician?

So Friday I went to see my doc. A new doc this time: since I didn't like the G.P. (and since I needed a pap smear), I went to see his wife, in the same practice. She saw me last when I brought pseudonymous kid in when he had tonsillitis. Anyway, so she's all smiles--"how is the kid? how are you?"--as I sit there in the stupid paper robe (is it just me, or would it actually be less embarrassing to just be naked? Less ridiculous, at least).

So she starts the breast exam, and we're talking about my depression meds. I say, "well, the Paxil is helping, yes, but I still have bad days about once a week, where I'm immobilized, and the sexual side-effects, while not a killer, do kind of suck, and oh by the way I'm trying to quit smoking." So, as planned, she says, "well, let's try Wellbutrin." Excellent. Then she moves down between my legs for the pap. So I move on to my other agenda item: "oh, as long as I'm here, I need an STD check. And I have a few questions about HPV. I had a partner recently who had it, and. . ." Now, to New Doc's credit, she answers all my questions, explains the transmission mechanisms for HPV to me, confirms what my research had found about the different strains of the thing (in short, I have nothing to worry about), orders the blood draws, everything is fine.

But. From the moment I ask about the STD check, she no longer makes eye contact, and we're no more smiley. Suddenly it's all business: here is this patient, let's provide her the medical care she needs, let's answer her questions, but I suspect something is going on here that I Disapp