Who wants a kitten?

I can't find the comment where someone asked a question about kitten acquisition, but for that person (and anyone else who wants a new pet), the answer is pet harbor, which lets you search shelters in your area. They had more up-to-date listings than the humane society site itself, which didn't show the half-dozen Aby/tabby cross kittens that included Medusa.

This Is How We Do It

What say you? will you yield, and this avoid, Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?

Henry V Act 3 Scene 3

Is it treason to meet with foriegn governments for the purpose of subverting relations between that government and your own?

"Cheney, who worked closely with the Israeli leadership in the lead-up to the Gaza war, portrayed Obama to the Israelis as a “pro-Palestinian,” who would not support their efforts (and, in private, disparaged Obama, referring to him at one point as someone who would “never make it in the major leagues”).

This is from a long article by Seymour Hersh in the current issue of the New_Yorker.

What is Cheney's angle, anyway? I never thought he was stupid. I just thought he was a goddamned chickenshit chickenhawk who viewed the US Treasury as a piggy bank for his cronies.

But now he seems determined to piss off the only person in the country who can protect him from prosecution for his crimes; the current President of the United States of America.

I don't get it.

How You Do It

Anti-feminists, whiners, MRAs, and NiceGuys(tm) everywhere are always complaining that feminists just hate love and sex, and we're so uptight that we never want any man hitting on us, ever. We never want men to show interest in us, because we hate men, and any time they so much as look our way, it's sexual harassment, don't you know? We're trying to deprive men of their god-given right to talk to women!

Well, not so. But the fact is, 90% of men don't have the first clue about how to approach women in a respectful, polite, and non-threatening way. Since I started working downtown, and drive a car most of the time that I'm not at work, my personal incidence of street harassment has plummeted dramatically. But I still get my share, and out of all the random men who talk to me, about once a year I get one that actually knows how to do it right.

I'm riding up the escalator at the Lake Street Station this morning, lost in my own thoughts. I've been reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' book The Beautiful Struggle, and it leaves me stepping off the train with my brain clicking, trying to envision the streets of 1980s Baltimore, and my tongue twisting with Coates' syntactic beat, when a young man slightly behind and to the left of me says "Excuse me." I think he's trying to get by, and so I press my right hip into the side of the escalator, but he doesn't come by. He says "Excuse me" again. I look back with my eyebrows raised, wondering what the deal is. Downtown when cute young men talk to you they're more likely to try to sell you gift cards to hair salons or get you to pledge money to Greenpeace.

Him: Hey, how's it going?
Me: You know, I'm doin' pretty good. Can't complain.
Him: I don't mean to bother you, but can I get your name?
Me: Why?
Him: Well, I wanted to talk to you, and it's only polite to get your name first.
Me: Why do you want to talk to me?
Him: I think you look good. I noticed the way you were walking.
Me: And how was I walking?
Him: You know, like you know what's up.
Me: [laughing] Is that so?
Him: Yeah. So can I get your name?
Me: I'm [M. LeBlanc].
Him: [extending his hand] Hi, I'm Rafael.
Me: Nice to meet you, Rafael.
(At this point, we're stepping up into the street.)
Me: So where you headed? Work?
Him: Yup. What about you?
Me: Yeah, I'm on my way to work.
Him: What do you do?
Me: I'm an attorney.
Him: Wow, you're an attorney? Damn. What kind of law do you practice?
Me: I work at a civil rights organization.
Him: Civil rights? Do they pay you?
Me: They pay me some.
Him: So, I was wondering, are you involved with someone right now?
Me: I am, as a matter of fact. I figured that's what you might be after, but I didn't want to presume. But yes, I have a boyfriend.
Him: Oh really? Damn. I just got out of a relationship, and I'm looking.
Me: Well, Rafael, I hope you find what you're looking for.
Him: I hope I do too. It was nice talking to you. You have a good day.
Me: Good luck!

And I walk off with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. That's how do you it, boys. Polite, respectful, friendly. Didn't get pissed or defensive when I was initially wary. Was complimentary without being creepy. Left me alone when he determined I wasn't interested.

I guarantee you that at least one of the next five women he runs his game on will give him her digits.

Help a mama out? (No, not me.)

Via Katha Pollitt via Facebook, a request for emergency funds (by, like, Wednesday) to help a waitress and mother of two whose boyfriend recently took off obtain an abortion. Of course, between restrictive abortion rules and unreliable partners/fathers, she's far enough into her pregnancy that she needs to travel to get a safe procedure: hence the need for more money than she can get her hands on. She needs $550 to make the trip and has gotten pledges of $460.

If you want to help her out--she's $90 away from her goal--you can donate here.

I have no idea where Pseudonymous Kid gets it

PK is cracking me up lately. He is constantly bitching (affectionately) about the kitten.

"Kitten! Get out of there!"

"Kitten! Do you LIVE for making messes?!?"

"Kitten! Stop eating Luna's food!"

"Mama, would kittens DIE if they weren't running around pestering everyone CONSTANTLY?"

Over the non-existent weekend, while PK was playing video games and pretending to be outraged by Medusa, I cleaned and Mr. B. finished patching all eight holes in PK's room, then ripped the carpet up, making PK's (currently bare) room the nicest in the house. For the moment. The tools have now been transferred to the living room, which is next, along with the hall. Then, I suspect, our bedroom, which will mean relocating all the clothes *again* and then putting them back *again*. Then the family room, I guess, although I wouldn't be surprised if at that point Mr. B. took a much-deserved break.

My other big plans--PK is on spring break this week--are:

Today: find the legal papers, call a process server, have the dead cat people served AGAIN. (They lied to the sheriff the first time and said that they had no idea who they were, thereby cementing my undying loathing. PK and I have instituted a new game, called "vengeance," in which we take turns constructing elaborate fantasies involving how they can be punished and we can get our damn money back at the same time.)

Also today: pay bills, balance checkbook, go to bank and transfer money from god knows where to make our first mortgage payment, which is about 50% bigger than our normal payments should be. This wouldn't have been a problem except for the $1500+ that we've spent in the last month on electrical and plumbing work.

Of necessity today: straighten up the study in order to do those other things. Which will be quite a good thing to do, actually, since I would like to be able to use it again. I had it useable there for a moment, until the electrician showed up and draped everything in plastic and all the pictures somehow got shoved in there on the floor because they needed to get out of the garage or something. Currently, the study is Luna's place to hide out from the kitten, who for some reason tends to stay out of it.

By "request" today: vacuum and wet-mop PK's room, start getting his furniture back in there so he can stop sleeping in the family room.

Tomorrow or Wednesday: PK and I are going to Magic Mountain. I've been promising to do this with him all spring, and since he's on break, what they hey. He is a recent roller coaster enthusiast. We'll see, though, if he chickens out when he sees the big coasters in person.

Later this week: take Luna to the vet (poor, poor Luna) because she has a lump under her arm that weirds me out. It's been biopsied before and was nothing but muscle fiber, but it's a weird-ass place for a cat to have a big muscle, and it's bigger than I remember it being, so second biopsies R us. Poor Luna.

Some other time this week: figure out how the hell to arrange the kitchen table so that we can open the damn refrigerator door. The dining area in the kitchen is rather small, and the actual dining room is now my study (so there). The fridge is in some weird nook on the opposite side of the table from the rest of the kitchen, which wouldn't be quite as inconvenient as it sounds except that opening the door blocks one end of the table (and even then you can't open it all the way), which means two of us (usually Mr. B. and PK) supposedly sit along one side of the table. Only Mr. B. is forever moving his chair to the end of the table, blocking the fridge, even though the current table arrangement was all his idea. If we turn the table the other way, then the walking space around it disappears. But it's a super cool white 50s table that we talked the seller into leaving, and it looks awesome in the space, and I will damn well make it work. Somehow. Have fantasies of purchasing a custom refrigerator that is half the depth of the current one.

(OMG, for some reason Mr. B. just arrived home. He's been sick all weekend. Maybe he puked at work or something.)

Speaking of which, this "using his laptop while he's at work" thing works "okay." But it's hell on the weekends, because his laptop is basically also his television and radio and Most Beloved, and he takes it into the bathroom with him and I can't get a finger on the keyboard. Along with fantasies of unaffordable refrigerators I have a fantasy of buying myself a new laptop, or maybe a mac mini and nice but inexpensive screen and then we can each have accounts on "each other's" computer and I can take the laptop with me when I travel. How Mr. B. will haul a mac mini and a screen into the bathroom I have no idea, but I bet it will involve constructing some new and awkward piece of furniture.

Other fantasies: doing "something" with the front yard while it's still spring. Painting the outside of the house some color other than baby blue, which looks hideous on it. (I think the previous owner was trying to make a Spanish house into a little Dutch cottage or something.) Getting started on any/all of the various little aesthetic projects I want to tackle inside, like mosaicing the inexpensive wood furnishings in the bathroom, or staining the downstairs shower (which is concrete) and basement floor, or replacing the bathroom door with a folding door since the bathroom is the second most crowded and inconvenient space in the house after the eating area, or building the ladder we intend to build from PK's room window down into the patio room behind it which will be his playroom.

Or finding a job of some sort. Preferably something that doesn't involve a couple more years of money and coursework (I'm looking at *you*, teacher certification), or taking some kind of part-time job that I really probably wouldn't mind doing but would feel deeply ashamed of settling for after having spent years getting a PhD (I'm looking at *you*, retail work). If I lived in a bigger town I'd be thinking non-profit-something-or-other. Probably that kind of job does actually exist here. I need to figure out how real people get real jobs. Ding?

Oh yes, and I should be working on that book proposal. Don't hate me, Sybil.

Lessons Learned

Apropos of our inter-comment circumcision debate the other day, I thought it a good idea to inform our readers that circumcision can reduce the incidence of 2 sexually transmitted infections, including HSV (herpes simplex virus) and HPV (human papilloma virus).

I immediately expect an outcry from every righteous, god-fearing person in the country, and all their Republican leaders, that we halt circumcision of male infants immediately. We simply can not encourage young boys, teenagers and men, to be promiscuous sluts by reducing the likelihood that they will get infected as a result of having that sex.

I expect a ban on circumcision from Congress, and a special restriction on anesthesia by the FDA that it can not be used in a circumcision. I expect mandatory counseling for all parents-to-be on the dangers of circumcising young boys lest they grow up to think that they can have sex without consequences. I expect a mandatory 24-hour waiting period before any circumcision. I expect South Dakota and Texas to immediately introduce legislation against late-term circumcision. Even if you wisely didn't have your infant son circumcised, you can not have him get the surgery at a later date lest he become a slutty whore.

The chastity and purity of our young boys is already threatened enough, what with the FDA considering approving the HPV-vaccine for boys, too. Who will think of the rowdy Davids and Johns and Jeremies and their precious sanctity as vessels of God's special plan for sexuality?

Big Idea

So, a few weeks ago, I was visiting an old friend of mine in Milwaukee and he introduced me to a very nice woman.

Digression: how would we fellas ever meet women if we didn't have friends? When I think about it, every woman I've ever known who meant anything to me was introduced to me by a friend. In fact, most of the women I've met who didn't mean anything to me were introduced to me by a friend. Does that mean I have good friends who are always on the look out for someone who would be just perfect for me? Does it mean my friends are a bunch of nosy parker busy-bodies? Is there any reason I couldn't meet a perfectly nice companion on my own? Could that be a subject for a post? Does talking to myself like this scare off well-balanced, well-adjusted women? No, cause you're not really talking to yourself, its just a device to lay certain ideas in front of the reader. Who said that? I said that. Well, shut up you. You don't tell me to shut up, you shut up. No, you shut up. No, you shut up. No, you shut up. No, you shut up. No, you shut up.

OK, I'm beginning to see why I don't meet more nice women on my own. But never mind that, now. Where was I?

Oh, right, yes, in the saloon bar of a very nice restaurant on the East Side of Milwaukee, not far from the old Astor Hotel. My friend and I were leaning on the bar, having a small aperitif while waiting for his wife to meet us at luncheon. Eventually, she showed up, as wives eventually do.

Now, she and I are not bosom buddies or anything. In fact, there was a time when we did not get along at all. She thought I was a bad influence on her adored object. Me! A bad influence!

But that's all in the past now and, upon meeting, we signaled our rapprochement with a series of brotherly busses.

Calling an abrupt halt to the kissing and squeezing, my friend asked his wife who it was she had in train. The wife then introduced me to her friend, a lovely woman of classic Polish features. We shook hands and my friend summoned the maitre'd for a lunchtime seating.

Over lunch, the chattering of my friend and his wife melded into the general background hubbub as the Polish lady and I became more fascinated with each other. OK, I was fascinated. I think she was curious. But the effect was the same. We each agreed that we would like to see one another again and promised to make plans to do so.

Now, our plans were rendered somewhat complex by the fact that she is a married woman.

Before you get all excercised, I hasten to add hers is not one of these free-loving, free-ranging, convention-smashing, swinging suburbanite, untethered, open marriages about which we've heard so much. No, no, no, no, no. Cause taddyporter has too much respect for the institution of marriage to mess around with that sort of thing.

No, hers is a good old fashioned, all-American, family-valued, customary and traditional, four-cornered, till death-do-us-part, forsaking-all-others, Bible-based, marriage. She was raised a strict Catholic and is currently a member of the Church-of-what's-Happening-Now, or the Washed-in-the-Blood Gospel Temple or the Tabernacle of the End Times or something like that.

She would never go in for something so subversive of Divine Will as open marriage. If she wants to shake up the marriage a little bit, she creeps, the way God intended.

Anyway, over the next few weeks, we kept up a correspondence. We talked of this and that. We exchanged poetry. Sensing an opening, I kept her apprised of my Good Works at the nursing home. She may have got the impression that I was critical to the operation there.

Her job takes her to small towns around the state. One day, she emailed me that she was going to be in the town where I'm staying and suggested we get together for an evening.

On the appointed date, my friend, Rey, blew a gasket and appeared to be about to cease. She and I had to cancel our assignation so I could rush to my friend's bedside and take up the prayerful vigil. This did earn me points with the Polish lady but, you know, points, shmoints.

After an interval of a couple weeks, Rey managed to pull himself together. I returned to the Midwest and resumed things with the Polish lady about where we left off.

Last weekend, she was traveling to a resort town about fifty miles east of here. I arranged lodging at a cute cabin on a frozen lake; stone hearth, big deck, deep carpets, feather beds, icy cold Polish vodka. Visions of crazy monkey lovin turned cartwheels in my brain.

The day before we were to rendesvouz, we were talking on the phone, confirming our plans, when I started shooting my mouth off.

How's things going at the Old Folks' Home?

Pretty good. We went on excursion last night. The Home sent a busload of folks to a local restaurant and I went along to help them in and out of the bus, get them seated in the eatery, that sort of thing.

Oooh, you're a good man. Sounds like they really depend on you.

They do. They called me about helping out to take some residents to a fish fry tomorrow night, said they couldn't do it without me. I said I'd like to help out but I already had plans.

They can't do it without you?

Yep. That's what they said.

Hmmmm.

I'm sure they'll figure something out.

Hmmmm.

What?

Maybe we should reconsider.

Reconsider. Reconsider what?

Maybe we should do it another time.

Do what?

You know.

Oh, no! Why?

So you can help out.

Oh, hell no!

Why taddyporter! They need you.

And I need you! I mean, I want to see you.

And I want to see you. But maybe God is speaking to you.

No. No, no, no. No! God hardly ever speaks to me. I'm pretty sure that wasn't God. That was the Home activities person speaking to me. Not God. That was not God.

Well, I don't think you should take any chances.

Look, uh, I may have overstated my role at the Home.

You're just being modest.

No, really, maybe I've made myself out a little more important than I really am.

Well, maybe I've misjudged you.

No! No, no, no. No! No, you haven't misjudged me.

Well, then...

OK, OK. I'll call them back, tell them I'll help out.

Good.

But when can I see you? Plus, I've already put down a deposit on the cabin.

Why don't you come and get me? We can help out with the old folks together.

Yeah, right.

No, seriously. It'd be fun.

You think so? I'll still lose my deposit, though.

Is this the time to think of money?

Well, yeah, when its my money.

taddyporter!

Alright, alright. You mean it, you want me to come get you?

Yeah, it'll be fun. And we'll still be together. We can stay at your Mama's house, can't we?

I guess.

Don't pout. I'll see you tomorrow.

See you tomorrow.

So, that's what we did. We escorted two busloads of old timers to the fish fry and spent the evening passing out tartar sauce and lemon slices, picking up dropped cutlery, wiping chins, and kissing in the parking lot where we retired for the infrequent break.

We got back to my Mama's house latenight and all hope of crazy monkey love had pretty much gone a-glimmering. It was only after I started making up a pallet in the living room that hope briefly resurrected.

She asked me what the heck I was doing. I told her I was making a place for me to sleep. She told me not to be silly, took my hand and led me to the bedroom.

Where we spooned. No crazy monkey love. Just a contented feeling and a nightlong hug.

Which is not too bad, you know? Months of solo sleeping left me thinking what I needed was some crazy monkey lovin. And I do. Don't get me wrong.

But, equally, I needed to feel the heartbeat of someone rolled up in the blankets with me; to stretch out next to them, to smell their hair and kiss their cheek and listen, in the dark, for the steady sigh of their peaceful repose.

And, there's always next time. The anticipation is really quite delicious. Its like the tension you feel when you're standing on second, watching the ball fly over head deep into center, waiting for the third base coach to wave you home.

OK, I just re-read that and realize it sounds like I got to second base. Which is not what I meant. Maybe we should just leave it there for now.

MOmmy Blog

I read two wrenching posts today from two mommies.

Ann Bauer at Salon writes amazingly honestly and powerfully about her autistic adult son turning violent and the things this made her recognize about how aggressively she had been scripting the story of his recovery and her role in it.

Catherine Conners writes about the disparity in emotional baggage between her mother's decision to give a baby up for a adoption and her own decision to abort a pregnancy.

Both complicated reflections on the cultural weight that surrounds mothering, pregnancy, attendant responsibilities and stigmas. Good reads, both.

welcome to my psyche

Last night I had a dream in which a man, unknown to me, walked into the house and PK was scared. I chased the man out. Mr. B. woke me to ask me why I was saying, in my sleep, ". . . and if you come back into my house I'll cut your dick off with my teeth."

Prepare to Come About

Because the readers of BPhD prodded me along, I've been helping out at the old folks' home where my Mom stays.

Its not easy for me to say this but, you all were right. Even harder to say; I was wrong.

You were right that its more satisfying and more redemptive to give something back than to give something up.

Doing for strangers, thinking about what would make their lives easier, even in the most marginal ways, runs counter to every principle I hold dear but damned if it isn't rewarding. And, it turns out, if you do for strangers, after a while, they're not strangers. Whoda thunk?

Anyway, that's not what I wanted to write about. There's really no need for me to set aside a post to expound on my selfishness or ignorance. I think that's been made pretty clear already.

I wanted to write about making kites.

That's right; kites. The ladies and I at the old folks' home have been turning out kites by the dozen over the last week of so. I rough in the kites here at the house following the designs laid out here and then take them to the ladies for finishing.

We specialize in two basic configurations: the familiar diamond style and the slightly more advanced barn-door style. Its been raining and storming every day for the last week so we haven't yet subjected any of our designs to sea trials but we're pretty confident they'll do OK. I've never built the barn-door style before but I have a lot of experience with the diamond style kites. Me and Poco build them each spring with great success.

One of the things I like about kites is how they evoke sailing, especially in their construction.

They are made up of spars and booms. They have a bow and stern. They get their lift from a sail. They don't have a keel but they have a tail which performs the same function. They are rigged with sheets and chains secured to cleats and passing through hawsepipes. A good knowledge of nautical knots is essential for building the kite and to keep it from foundering in the current or drifting away on the tide.

Some styles are nothing more than a flying jib or spinnaker. They rise and fall on the invisible rollers in the sky, bobbing in the swell and, occassionally, striking a reef. You can wear them and tack them. You can sail them with the wind, close hauled, or on a long reach.

Depending on the strength of the wind, you may have to take in sail or shake it out. And any activity that requires shaking it with the ladies is good to me.

We used to bitch about politics sometimes

Random thoughts about the politics I haven't been blogging:

1. At the risk of incurring Taddy's wrath, the AIG bonuses are a sideshow distraction. Let's not even indulge this "name names" or "pass stupid-ass laws that require these specific people to pay 90% taxes."

THINK, AMERICA.

Y'all were SO FUCKING OUTRAGED at the idea of raising taxes on people making over $250k/year. But now you wanna tax what, fifteen people? Fifty? Five hundred? at a 90% rate just because you're mad as hell and looking for a scapegoat? Pull your heads out of your goddamn asses (okay, here I'm mostly talking to the house of representatives, and yes, I am including Barney Frank in this one) and let's start acting like we seriously think about things like "policy" and "regulation" that apply "equally" and across the board. This tearing the doors off the barn and then running around trying to figure out how to Teach a Lesson to the cow that wandered into the kitchen is stupid bullshit, unworthy of anyone over the age of three. Put some goddamn fucking doors on the goddamn barn. That one cow isn't any different than any of the others, if you were a cow you wouldn't be either, and even if you shoot it in the head your kitchen is still going to be a mess and a different cow is going to wander in tomorrow.

2. On that note:

Dear President Obama,

Nationalize the banks already and quit fucking around.

Thank you.

3. Come to think of it, if the AIG "scandal" manages to convince Geithner to just nationalize the banks and quit fucking around, I'll retract most of that first bit.

4. Remember how Sarah Palin (yes, I know, I'm sorry) was all "oh i hav such sympathy and understanding of the poor downs syndrome babies because i haz my own and i luv all the little children so vote for me becuz i has long hair and is a girl and we iz the party of feminizm!!!!"? Yeah, right:

alin said she is accepting the federal stimulus money that would go for construction projects. . . . The biggest single chunk of money that Palin is turning down is about $170 million for education, including money that would go for programs to help economically disadvantaged and special needs students.

"It is a matter of discussing with our lawmakers if the expansion there is something we're willing to pick up the tab for when the federal dollars dry up, when they no longer flow into Alaska," Palin said.

Because you sure as shit have no intention of spending money on educating special needs kids, ever. You stupid, stupid egomaniacal cunt. And no, I am not going to apologize for calling her a cunt.

(And the same to all those dickheads like Jindal and Perry and Sanford and any other governors who are refusing state aid. You motherfuckers were elected to serve the people of your states. Not to serve your bullshit ignorant ideology. People's lives are going to be blighted because you need to Make a Stand, and if you're not voted out on your self-serving asses it's only because you're banking on and perpetuating the very ignorance that keeps you in office. You are disgusting human beings.)

5. Speaking of cunts and old election news that I wish to god was consigned to the dustbin of history, if this bullshit supreme court case, brought to you by some stupid ass organization "group" of a few rich ignoramuses that insult us all by calling themselves "Citizens United" (any relation to the oh-so-charming anti-Clinton "C. itizens U. nited N. ot T. imid" people? Hmmm), claiming that their ninety-minute propaganda campaign is a "documentary" and that their freedom of speech is being violated by requiring them to conform to electoral law isn't laughed right the fuck out of the Supreme Court . . . .

I don't even know how to finish that sentence.

Thank you, sinus pain!

For helping me to feel completely guilt-free about my plan for today, which is:

1. sit on recliner with blanket in lap.
2. drink tea.
3. use Mr. B.'s laptop
4. eat cinnamon roll
5. nap?

Later this afternoon, PK and I have plans to go to the local humane society. At this weekend's home and garden show, they had a booth, at which they answered my idle question about kitten availability by telling me that they currently have half-a-dozen abyssinian cross kittens in need of homes. Needless to say, once I went home and checked the kitten pics on the website, there was no question in my mind that PK's desire for a kitten of his own would be short-lived. (The shelter also apparently has a calico and an orange kitten, so we will go and PK will pick the kitten he likes best. But I suspect that the aby personality is best suited to what he wants, which is not so much a lapcat as a cat that will play with him.)

I have been feeling deep guilt for the last two days, thinking things like "this is Luna's* last happy day on earth" and "Luna is going to think that we are trying to hasten her death." I am hoping and praying that despite her deep known hostility to every cat in the universe** she will somehow adjust, especially if I vow to ignore the other kitten as much as possible and if she figures out--as she has, miraculously, with the mice--that this interloper is somehow something to do with PK and therefore, like him, best ignored.

Amusing humane society anecdote: yesterday, while browsing the site I kept saying things to PK like, "oh look, here are three mice that need a home. . ." to which he responded, "Mama. We are getting ONE kitten. One. We are not getting any other pets."

The kid is unnatural, I tell you.



*Luna is "Daisy's" real name.

**Seriously. I know most cats hate other cats, but Luna is the least-tolerant cat I have ever known. She once literally knocked pictures off the walls when I took in a stray for a couple of days, and at the age of 15, she continues to make it Very Clear to the cats in the new neighborhood (including a youthful tom) that they are Not Welcome in her yard--nay, within her sight.

this is your wedding on privilege

I have to give Dawn Turner Trice some credit. Her new column has its heart in the right place: Gay rights battle puts strain on parties -- chicagotribune.com (Whatever you do, don't read the comments.)

But I have an issue with the frame and the fact that it barely touches on the concept of privilege.

The problem shows up early:
"The women come to celebrate without having to worry about straight men pawing them. The gay men are there because, well, they don't want to be around a lot of women."

Well, not really. Gay men aren't in gay bars because they don't want girl-cooties; they're in a gay space because it's probably a respite after being stuck in a straight world all day. It's a world where you can't get married, can't have benefits, can't make legal or medical decisions on your partner's behalf, can't serve in your military, can't adopt children, can't be counted in the census, and can't really be sure that if you mention your partner at the office you won't suddenly find yourself eating alone at lunch.

By saying gay men don't like girls is 1) inaccurate and 2) not the point.
Gay dudes like girls fine; they just have a problem with being forced to prop up our straight privilege while they don't even have full civil rights.

And I wish Trice would at least call or email a gay rights activist before she writes stuff like this because her own heterosexism is all over the place. (I'm getting really tired of reporters who write about any of the -isms and can't seem to grasp/explain the concept of privilege.) This isn't about a battle of genders but a battle for the kind of social privilege that straight women exercise and which the gay community wants.

These are some of the privileges/benefits bachelorette parties assert:
the ability to celebrate one's partnership openly.
the ability to celebrate one's partnership in a venue of one's choice, at the top of one's lungs.
the ability to be assured that everyone approves of, or at least does not want to take away, one's choice to marry.
the knowledge that there is a whole tradition of activities to support the idea of one's marriage.
the knowledge that one can see other soon-to-be-married people that look like you.
the assumption that one's marriage is a foregone conclusion.
the certainty that one's partnership will be legally recognized.
the certainty that one's partnership will not be answered with either verbal or physical violence.

Again, tacky-ass bachelorette parties aren't the point. We all hate them. (Ok, I hate them. The drunk trolleys, the bizarre toilet paper veils, the screeching, the pawing, the drunken singing - it's all awful and needs to stop immediately.) But straight privilege and homophobia? Very much the point.

From the column:
"I asked reveler Blythe Thomas whether, in general, she believed holding bachelorette parties in gay bars was "heterosexist," or insensitive.

"I never would have thought about it like that," Thomas said, watching a curtainlike screen rise on four soon-to-be-nearly-naked dancers. "I could see how this could be frustrating to gay men. Maybe it's something I'll think about next time."'

*That's* straight privilege and I wish that Trice's piece had started there.

Everybody's Green

You've heard of Johnny B. Goode. You know how he could play a guitar like a ringin-a-bell? He referred to the Rickenbacker, the first purpose built solid body electric guitar.

Named for the WWI fighter ace, the frying pan has an oval, bronzey, sound; distinct from the sabred concussion of the Fender Stratocaster or the fat, humbucked boom of the Gibson Les Paul.

John Lennon played a Rickenbacker.

His model, with its custom volume controls, pumped up pickups, and distinctive black and white jetglo finish, inspired many my age to risk electrocution and the fury of the old man, who will make you sorry you were ever born if I have to tell you one more time to knock that shit off, in order to rock the house.

Some of us never did knock it off.

Oh, we grew more serious. We discovered other heroes and mistakenly thought their expression was deeper, more genuine. We adopted their axes and copied their licks and hoped to pour our soul into ash and maple and steel and reversed coils and reverb dampers, just like they did.

And sometimes we forgot that what we really wanted to do was to ring that bell.

It's not a home, it's a whole new hobby

I had hoped to get the house sort of liveable, take some pics for y'all, and then document the ongoing fixit projects.

Mais non.

I had just gotten to the "liveable" stage when the electrician came in to rewire the house. Whoo howdy. It's not the $10k; it's the fact that all our belongings are now piled in the middle of rooms, setting us back even farther than when we first began moving in, since as we moved in furniture was actually placed against walls.

So if I get to the point of syncing my phone with Mr. B.'s laptop (given that my laptop is now at the mac store functioning as a stylish doorstop), I'll give you pics of the chaos. In the meantime, however, we are spending our fair weekend re-plastering the holes in PK's room (eight of them, by my count). Since this house was built in 1928, it has those charming lathe-and-plaster stucco walls, which means trimming the lathe (basically yer cheap pieces of wood) to nail over the holes with maybe quarter-inch spaces between, and then spreading cementish stuff over the hole. It's sort of like frosting a cake, only gloppier, and you can't just add water or renuke the frosting when it starts to stiffen up.

Then of course there's the problem of washing the equipment between times, since you don't really want to pour what is essentially cement down the drain. And wouldn't even if we didn't have a septic tank that doesn't even let me flush tampons or the hair tangles from my comb.

Between the fun replastering project, I'm sort of half-heartedly trying to get the stuff piled in the middle of rooms put somewhere else that isn't in the middle of rooms. Which is kinda tough, given that the china cabinets mustn't be refilled yet, since we'll just have to move them away from the walls again to replaster *those* holes, and given that I haven't yet figured out what, exactly, to do with all the damn clothes that don't fit anywhere. At some point a clothes-sorting project involving getting rid of stuff will have to be undertaken, but that takes a back seat to the replastering. So as you can see it's sort of a chicken-and-egg problem.

So we are living rather chaotically. PK was sleeping on the couch for a few days, then I vacuumed and wet-wiped as much of the stuff in his room as I could (due to probable lead paint uncovered by hole-in-wall-creation), and he slept there. Now his bedroom has been moved into the family (tv) room, which is blessedly large, and he'll sleep there until we're done with the replastering in his now-empty room, which hopefully will be sometime tomorrow, at which point we can move his bed back where it belongs.

Of course, since his room is now empty, we've almost decided that it would be stupid not to just pull the carpet while we're at it--after all, the carpet's probably full of lead dust now anyway--which will probably add another hour or two to the project.

The funny thing is, I was cranky as all hell until I actually went in and started helping Mr. B. with the replastering*. Now I'm feeling all teamworky and purposeful. So, you know, I highly recommend this shit as a team-building project. No, really.



*Mr. B. was at it ALL DAY yesterday, from early morning until late at night. I was mostly sitting around feeling cranky.

Update: Fuck all that shit, while I was typing this up Mr. B. was out helping PK LEARN TO RIDE A BIKE! Which took about five minutes. I cannot TELL you all how thrilled I am.

Boring and Random Observations from my week

If that title doesn't sell you, what will?

- I swear to God, every time I get on a plane it takes longer to land. You feel it descending for 10 minutes before the captain even gets on and yaps about final approach, then the attendants come around and get your garbage, then another 10 minutes passes before they come around and poke you to put your seat up. Then they turn the lights out and it *still* takes 10 minutes to get the bitch on the ground. I feel like this whole process used to take 7 minutes.

- Working with my dad to plan a surprise party for my mom is like working with an deaf-mute alien who has crossed both space and time, reluctantly, to invent problems we can then fumble towards a diplomatic solution for. That's a terrible metaphor, but what I mean it to convey is how much of a pain in the ass I am finding working with my dad on this project.

- Fuck Lent, am back on treats. Ran into dilemma when I tried to seriously confront whether I considered beer a treat. Decided to scrap whole thing.

- The worst possible combination of shoe attributes is sensible-looking + blister-creating.

- A preschooler running around the house murmuring, "Hakuna Patata means no worries! For the rest of your days!" helps.

- When traveling alone, I listen to the same song on my ipod every time I walk off the plane, down the jetway, and into the hellish airport. It's a dumb enough quirk as it is, having airport pump-up music, but wait till you hear what it is:



Am embarrassed by that, but it is what it is. I totally stroll with serious intent through the terminal.

Bizarro World

Reading rants from Men's Rights Activists (MRAs) is such a bizarre cognitive experience that I always find it quite jarring. I find it to be the case that many of them say things that I find I not only agree with, but that are part of my feminist agenda! And the other things, are downright batshit anti-feminist things that I vehemently disagree with. It's like, the fuck, man. Take, for example, a comment posted to the the Marybeth Hicks "we need a council on men and boys" column in the Washington Times.

God what a load of crap. This is like saying we should have a council on chickens and geese with the aim of making the chickens and geese better at lining up and marching to the slaughter-house.

Here, I agree that it's a load of crap, but for completely different reasons.

A council on men and boys should be involved in such matters as paternity fraud remediation,

What the huh?

getting Title IX rolled back,

Are you fucking kidding me?

passing legislation that guarantees women would be drafted into the armed forces at equal numbers as men if a draft came up,

I'm down with that.

and ordering the armed forces to deploy women into combat in equal numbers as men,

Well, equal numbers would mean vast overrepresentation of women, but equal proportion to their representation in the military, sure. Sounds good!

guarantee the right of fathers to joint custody of children in event of divorce,

This is completely batshit crazy--custody decisions are based on which custody arrangement is best for the kids. I agree that there should be no presumption that the mother is a better custodian than the father, though.

and advocate for the right of genital integrity for males (ie, no more circumcision).

Haven't really thought about this too much, but I'm not against it, really. I do think it's kinda fucked up that this happens to almost all baby boys.

So see? It's like a hodgepodge of reasonable, feminist things, and crazy, anti-feminist things. Or take this other comment:

Actually, men are men's issue. Here are some things a council on men and boys could do:
1) Find out why men die on average 7 years earlier than women.

Right there with you, brother.

2) Restart research and development on a male birth control pill.

Can I get an amen?

3) Allow fathers access to their children after a divorce. All credible studies have shown that children need fathers (no, not just "role models")

Well, yeah, unless the fathers are abusive or otherwise bad for the kids' well-being.

Here is one thing the council on women and girls should do:
Educate women and girls that there is a difference between rape and regret. This would lower the existing high rate of false rape allegations.

Aaaaaand, we're back to the bizarro-world craziness.

I really would like, someday, to meet some of these people with whom my disagreement-o-meter looks like a polygraph test on acid. What the hell are they on?

Quick Hit: Sexual Assault in the Military

Via Megan at Jezebel, it looks like the armed forces are at least starting to talk about the problem of sexual assault of women in their ranks. I have to say that this is really refreshing:

"We … believe the most effective prevention efforts must be focused on airmen who by their participation in peer groups and activities might either actively or passively provide support or camouflage for the sexual predators in their midst," said Charlene Bradley, the Air Force's assistant deputy for force management integration.

As Megan notes, this strategy truly recognizes that men are the ones who can prevent sexual assault, by refusing to excuse harassment, sexism, objectification, and assault. Women aren't the ones who need to change, men are.

This outlook would do wonders in a civilian context. Because people who are not rapists offer active and passive support for rape every single day.

Ouroboros

Let the ethnic jokes begin!

Murphy showed up at Mass one Sunday and the priest almost fainted when he saw him. Murphy had never been seen in Church in his life.

After Mass, the priest caught up with him and said, "Murphy, I am so glad ya decided to come to Mass, what made ya come?"

Murphy said, "I got to be honest with you Father, a while back, I misplaced me hat and I really, really love that hat. I know that McGlynn had a hat just like it and I knew that McGlynn comes to Church every Sunday. I also knew that McGlynn had to take off his hat during Mass and figured he would leave it in the back of Church. So, I was going to leave after Communion and steal McGlynn's hat."

Father said, "Well, Murphy, I notice that ya didn't steal McGlynn's hat. What changed your mind?"

Murphy said, "Well, after I heard your sermon on the 10 Commandments, I decided that I didn't need to steal McGlynn's hat after all."

Father gave Murphy a big smile and said, "After I talked about 'Thou Shalt Not Steal' ya decided you would rather do without the hat than burn in Hell, right?"

Shaking his head, Murphy replied, "No, Father, after ya talked about 'Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery', I remembered where I left me hat."

Happy St Pat's Day! Slainte!

A Blog Memoir in 25 Things: The Other Side of 200

14. As a toddler, I'd eat my little sister's baby food. Snooze, you lose!

Sitting on the crunchy white butcher paper in my doctor's office, I was worried about butt sweat when I really should have been worried about the little frown on her face.

'Well, Ding, this is where we are.' She pointed to a chart. 'For your height and weight, you are in this area.' Her finger circled a bunch of red squares.

'And does this Red Zone mean I'm going to drop dead in the next couple of weeks?'

Her smile was just as brittle as the paper I was sitting on. 'Let me put it this way. You need to be on the other side of 200 - I don't care how long it takes, that's where you need to be. Your family's medical history contains huge red flags - hypertension, stroke, heart disease, heart attack, diabetes. If your lifestyle doesn't change, this is your history, too.'

I was silent. All I could think of were those tasteless, white, wet scoops of cottage cheese my mother made me eat when I was in the 8th grade.

My doctor continued. 'Ding, this is what my practice specializes in. You can do this.'

'Hypothetically, what if I don't get on the other side of 200?'

'You don't want that. Already, your blood pressure is causing other issues.' She sighed. 'Look. I'm not into skinny minnies. I'm not saying you need to shrink all the way down to a Bobble head. But you need to be on the other side of 200. I won't even give you a number. 199? Ok. 190? 195? 180? Fine. 175? 170? Better. But get on the other side of 200 and stay there.'

It's never good to see you're in the 'danger zone' and, if you saw me, you'd never think, Oh, she is morbidly obese. But, according to a chart in the doctor's office, I am.

Perhaps I'm deluding myself, but it wasn't the idea of losing the fat that made me a little shaky-voiced as I described the appointment to my Roomie and some friends. It was everything else.

Hypertension?
Heart disease?
Diabetes?
Stroke?
Potential blindness? (Because of my high blood pressure, a blood vessel had burst behind my left eye and a portion of my eye's left visual field became significantly blurred.)

I don't want these things. I DON'T want these things.

We can talk about 'fat acceptance' but as a now diagnosed, official, Fat Person I am saying that I don't want these things and if it means sacrificing my socially unacceptable fat on the altar of Not Dying, sign me up. If not dying means losing a tire or two around my middle, then so be it. I have no affection for them. I am not wed to these rings around my middle. If it's going to be a choice between me and my fat rings, I choose me.

The fat rings, and the politics attached to them, can go fuck themselves.

So here I am - trying to get on the other side of 200. And I can't help but think of my mother.
...
The day after my mother died, I stood in my parents' kitchen. It felt so small. Like my head. My head felt like it had shrunk and everything I heard or saw came from a great distance.

I opened the refrigerator, just to do something rather than from any particular desire to eat. Next to the little cups meant to protect eggs, I saw 6 vials of insulin. Scooping them up, I went to my father's converted office in the backyard. As usual, he had a few of his church men with him. Their conversation stopped when I entered the room.

'What are these?' I lined up the vials on dad's desk.
'Your mother's medication,' he said.
'They're all full,' I said.
He was silent. The men left the room.

'She stopped taking her medication. She stopped taking her insulin.' My father just looked at me. 'Why didn't you do something?' It may have been unfair to raise my voice against my teary-faced father but I couldn't help it. Something needed to be raged against. Someone needed to be raged against.

But all my father could say was that she hated it. She hated being diabetic; she hated not eating what she wanted; she hated having a disease; she hated being told what to do; she hated getting up in the morning and pricking her finger and reading her levels and injecting herself. She would cry in the mornings and, for a while, my father would have to give her the injections while she cried. My big, smart, strong-willed father was tortured thinking he was doing something to his wife that made her cry. But then, the crying - and the injections - stopped. He and I both knew what this meant. We didn't say it out loud, but we knew.

I scooped up the bottles again, went back inside my father's house and put the vials of insulin back inside the refrigerator.

My mother may have been a fast driver but she was a slow suicide.
...
This is me, trying to get on the other side of 200.

In the hipster Dominick's on Chicago, buying the kiddie snack packs of veggies and fruit from the Eating Right brand. If I have to control my portions, and thus my calorie intake, then these smaller versions of food will have to train me to make different choices.

Roomie takes one look at our regrigerator and says, 'We are eating like 4th graders.'

Me, in the morning, eating one whole wheat waffle with a drizzle of honey and a few scoops of low-fat yogurt with some crunchy cereal tossed in while catching a few minutes of Good Morning America.

In the cafe, for the one morning latte I allow myself during the week, to be made with skim milk and, instead of a large, I order a small.

In the later morning, feeling myself get a little munchy, I take out my lunch and eat the piece of fruit I've packed. Or maybe one half of the sandwich I've made.

After lunch, I walk with a coworker for 30 minutes down by the river.

When I come home, I begin to broil a nice piece of salmon drizzled with a little olive oil, some garlic and cracked black pepper. Roomie cooks some spinach with balsamic vinegar.

After dinner, I barely miss the cigarette I would have had with a glass of wine.

As the weather warms, I know I'll have to wave Roomie ahead and forgo the very comfortable and convenient ride home. I'll walk farther to the bus stop or take a different bus route, all to walk a little farther (about 4 blocks out of my way.)

I thought getting to the other side of 200 would have been more mentally difficult than this; I thought I would have kicked and screamed about 'dieting.' But I guess it's all in how you think about it. To me, this isn't 'dieting.' It's living. Not 'living' in the Oprah-sense: all blurry light, white clothing and huge gusts of breath about one's 'best life.'

What I'm doing is less glamorous than that. It's, literally, living - inhaling, exhaling, heart beating.

Fuck the fat. Fuck the politics. I'm changing the way I've been living because I fucking don't want to die like my mother.

Do Not Pass Go Do Not Collect $200

Oh Hell no!

Millions for defense, not one cent for tribute!

Does anybody still believe the holdup, sorry, the bailout was intended, to benefit the American people?

Mind you, AIG is paying out millions of tax dollars in bonuses to their incompetent senior management at the same time ways are being explored to claw back pay and benefits from UAW retirees.

I would go on but, like you and unlike AIG managers, I have to work for a living. I'm already late for work this morning. The boss told me if I'm late one more time I can kiss my million dollar bonus goodbye.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One

You'll be glad to know, and I'm glad to let you know, my friend, Rey, is going to be alright.

Which is just like him, you know? He gets sick near unto death, puts everyone through the changes, scares us all half to death, gets me all jammed up at work, and then he pulls through. I hate to say this, but he's starting to really piss me off.

I told you he pulled the same thing about a year ago, didn't I? Went to the hospital in a coma, long faces on the doctors, weeping family in the hospital waiting room, drunken friends in the hospital parking lot, rosaries being said, novenas being observed, pleas rising to every god from Jehovah to Blue Corn Woman. And he pulls out of it. Just another day at the office. You'd think I'd learn.

The worst part is, he's playing hob with my romantical life, such as it is. I had scheduled a date, a thermonuclear date, the first in a long time, the day I got the call that he was in extremis and I needed to hustle home. So, that put the kibosh on that.

This weekend, a dear friend was coming east to meet me in the Twin Cities for a little rest and recreation but I've fallen so far behind on my job that my boss insists I work this weekend. So, that blows. Or, rather, it doesn't, if you get my drift.

But Taddy, you say, surely your friend's health is more important than your degraded appetites. To which I say; spoken like a person who's getting regularly laid. Your idea of what's important is all messed up. Because you have no idea.

Which reminds me of a joke. Since, we're coming up on St Paddy's Day, its an Irish joke.

A man of Kerry owns a little dairy farm and, having built it into a prosperous business, decides to get married.

He marries a lovely woman; smart, strong, witty, handsome. Her only liability, if you can call it that, is that she's an epileptic, subject to the occassional seizure. This bothers him not at all.

It does cause him trouble with officious neighbors, however, constantly interrupting his work.

Soon after they were married, the Kerryman is dragging a three point plow over his field when he sees a neighbor come sprinting down the road, hooting and hollering and wildly waving his arms about. Kerryman lifts the plow, shuts off the tractor, and runs across the plowed field to the fenceline where the neighbor is trying to catch his breath.

You better get up to the house right away, the neighbor gasps. I was passing your house just now and thought I'd stop in. When no one answered the door, I went round to the kitchen window and saw your wife stretched out on the floor, stone cold dead!

Alarmed, the Kerryman dashes back across the plowed field, over the fence, across the pasture, over another fence, up the hill, and into the house.

He runs into the kitchen, afraid of what he will find. There's his wife, standing at the sink, drying the dishes, not a care in the world.

Darlin, she says. Have you finished the plowing already?

No, he says, but Conn told me you were dead on the floor. Gave me quite a fright.

Not at all, she says, just a fainting spell. You'd better get back to work.

A week later, the same again; panicy neighbor racing to the fenceline, Kerryman stops his work, dashes over the plowed field, jumps the fence, races across the pasture, jumps another fence, climbs the hill to the house, fearfully bursts into the kitchen where he finds his wife calmly peeling the spuds.

This went on for years.

One afternoon, the Kerryman is on the tractor when he observes a neighbor dashing to the fenceline. By now, used to the routine, he shuts off the tractor, marches over the field, climbs the fence, crosses the pasture, climbs another fence, ascends the hill to the house, enters the kitchen, and there's his wife, splayed out across the kitchen floor, stone cold dead.

Well then, says the Kerryman, now we're getting somewhere.

Half-Assed Opinion of The Day

Presidential Signing Statements are stupid.

They were stupid when Bush did them, and they're stupid when Obama does them. The signing statement doesn't, and shouldn't, have the force of law.

I don't think that the Obama administration would say that the signing statement they just made operates as anything but a kind of letter of intent. I.e. this is how we're going to interpret the law I've just signed. I don't really see the point of that, and I think whatever good comes from the transparency is outweighed by the bad that comes from appearing as though you're trying to add on your own requirements to a law.

If you think a particular possible application of the law is unconstitutional, there's no need to do some kind of pre-emptive finger-wagging. If, in fact, some arm of government tries to apply the law in an unconstitutional way, then get your lawyers to work. It seems unlikely to me, especially given Obama's public stance as being anti-signing statement, that the opposing parties would come back and say "well, you signed the law and didn't issue a signing statement, so you've waived your right to object!" That doesn't really work in government.

Sorry to interrupt all the happy randomness but what. the. hell.
Cop beats the crap out of teenager because she's 'lippy' and kicked her shoe off?

Welcome to fucking adolescence, asshat.

(And the video is not pretty. I am getting really sick of this shit.)

h/t Sassy Women Online.

The Salad Police

I have a very poignant sociological observation for you all, so get ready:

The sight of a fat woman eating a salad makes people lose their minds, and wallow in self-hatred.

Scene 1: Couple of weeks ago, 9:00 am

[M. LeBlanc, in office kitchen, spooning yogurt into a bowl]
[Female Co-worker, age 40 (approx.) walks in]
Co-worker: Hey, girl. How are you?
M. LeBlanc: Hey! I'm tired. I'm okay.
Co-worker: What's that?
M. LeBlanc: Breakfast. [shakes box of granola onto bowl of yogurt]
Co-worker: Is that yogurt and granola?
M. LeBlanc: Uh huh.
Co-worker: What's wrong with you? Last week you're eating salad, now you're eating yogurt and granola?
M. LeBlanc: What's wrong with yogurt and granola? It tastes good.
Co-worker: Yeah, but it's all, healthy and shit.
M. LeBlanc: Well, this is full-fat yogurt, because that low-fat shit tastes like crap.
Co-worker: But last week you were eating salad twice!
M. LeBlanc: I was?
Co-worker: Uh huh.
M. LeBlanc: How do you know that?
Co-worker: Because you were eating at the staff meeting.
M. LeBlanc: But everyone is eating at the staff meeting.
Co-worker: Well, I don't know how you do it.
M. LeBlanc: Do what?
Co-worker: Nevermind. Enjoy your rabbit food.
[Exeunt]

Scene 2: Today

[M. LeBlanc stands in line for cashier at high-end [but low-taste] downtown cafeteria, holding a to-go salad. Line Lady stands behind her, holding a personal pizza.]
Line Lady: [Sighs loudly]. I should be getting that. [points to salad]
M. LeBlanc: What?
Line Lady: I should be getting that [points to salad] instead of this [brandishes pizza].
M. LeBlanc: Actually, the pizza is pretty good here.
Line Lady: Yeah, but I'm being bad.
M. LeBlanc: You're not being bad. It's food. It tastes good.
Line Lady: But I shouldn't think about what tastes good, I should go with what good for me.
M. Leblanc: Well, I think pizza is good for you.
Line Lady: [gazes off wistfully] I wish.
M. LeBlanc: Bye.
[Exeunt]

What the flying fuck, people? Can't a fat woman eat a motherfucking salad without incurring comments from all and sundry? You know, people know enough that they would never criticize you (not usually, anyway) for eating "bad" foods. Instead, they criticize themselves when you're eating "good" food.

So let me emphasize. I am not on a diet. I don't care whether you are on a diet, and personally, I don't think you should be (not that you do or should give a damn about my opinion). I am not eating salad because I am trying to be "good." I do not like salad because it it "good" for me. I like it because it tastes good. I like it because sometimes I have clearly not been eating enough vegetables and/or am dehydrated, and I get a deep, deep craving for a bowl of lettuce. Sometimes I don't have a craving for it, but it's just the thing that sounds the best to me out of the options I have available. Sometimes I eat fried chicken because it sounds the best to me out of the options I have available.

Even though the patriarchy has very strict criteria about age, race and appearance as to what qualifies you to be an Acceptable Woman™, The Salad Police is very welcoming into its ranks. Old women, young women, fat women, thin women, all are willing to stand up and make you feel uncomfortable if you commit the horrific offense of Eating Salad While Fat. Or Eating Salad While Thin, as a matter of fact (having never been thin, I can't speak from experience, but I'm pretty sure of this stuff).

You see, Eating Salad While Being A Woman means that you are doing so because you hate fat. Either you are fat and you don't want to be that way any more, or you aren't fat and you subsist on a diet of arugula and rice-cakes to keep it that way. And so the crime of Eating Salad While Being A Woman reminds any woman within salad-striking distance that because she is not, at this moment, eating salad, she has slipped in the ranks of Those Who Hate Fat and has to do penance by flogging herself with a personal pizza.

Being in the salad police is a bitch, man.

My pain, your gain

ZOMG HERE I AM!!

So as I said a while back, I've moved. The new house is teh super cute, but did you know that MOVING IS A PAIN IN THE ASS??!? I've spent the last 4+ weeks schlepping boxes, unpacking boxes, discovering that many of the boxes that got rained on contain wet books and clothes, fanning open books over every heater vent and flat surface to try to dry them out, researching drycleaners that might be able to salvage mildewed clothes, schlepping a carful of clothes to the drycleaner, writing checks, recycling the same two outfits, discovering exactly how much china, crystal, and glassware I've inherited from two sets of grandparents (TOO MUCH!! AHHH!), washing china, crystal, and glassware, placing china, crystal, and glassware into two china cabinets and a sideboard, discovering even MORE china,crystal, and glassware, organizing the kitchen, re-organizing the kitchen, unpacking clothes so I have more than two outfits, figuring out where to put my clothes, piling clothes I have no room for in the center of the family room to be dealt with "later," calling plumbers, dealing with no water, writing checks, organizing my office so that bills and necessary shit can be taken care of, listening to workers swear in the crawl space while retrofitting the foundation, writing more checks, calling insurance companies, buying a microwave, getting bids on rewiring the house, writing checks, moving bookshelves into PK's room, moving bookshelves around in PK's room, figuring out where to house the mice safe from the cat, moving the mice so the sound of plumbers and workers and electricians working won't freak them out, moving the mice back so that they don't freeze out in the garage or get eaten by the cat while in the basement, organizing PK's closet, moving all the things I'd unpacked out of china cabinets, re-organizing the kitchen to accommodate china, crystal, and glassware, shoving furniture into the center of the room for the electrician, politely asking him to use dropcloths, gingerly scuttling around the edges of the room and stepping over electrical cord and tools in order to move around the house, showering in the basement with a frosted clear shower curtain dividing me from the electricians, dressing in the shower while they discuss wiring on the other side of said shower curtain, walking PK back and forth to school (hurrah! walking distance!), shuttling Mr. B. to work on days when I need the car, serving papers on the dead cat people, finding out that the dead cat people lied to the sheriff and pretended not to know themselves, asking lawyer for advice, writing very large check to lawyer, postponing court date, contacting process server, wishing ill upon the dead cat people, taking my laptop to the mac store, finding out my logic board died, deciding not to replace laptop right now, juggling bills, washing dishes by hand, learning what not to flush down the toilet into a septic tank (cigarette butts or tampons), taking the compost out, putting bricks and filled gallon jugs into toilet tanks to save water, installing a new shower head, gently reminding Mr. B. to please do the drywalling in PK's room so that he won't be sleeping next to probable lead paint flakes, talking PK into sleeping on the couch while the electricians are rewiring the house (so that the furniture shoved into the middle of his room doesn't have to be shoved back again nightly), finding still more mildewed clothes, throwing clothes out, moving now-dry wrinkled books off heating vents and onto shelves, drying wet shoes over heating vents, reassuring the cat that the electricians are only temporary and everything is okay, donating the odd item to the school rummage sale, filling boxes in the garage marked "next year's rummage sale", failing to visit my aunt, taking a weekend off to go putter around Los Angeles with the family, washing laundry, failing to bring laundry in before it rains, bringing laundry in as soon as it dries, folding laundry and piling it in neat piles around the house while I figure out what to do with all our clothes, picking up dry cleaning, shoving dry cleaning into PK's closet, moving dry cleaning into hall closet, moving dry cleaning to top of bed so electricians can install breaker box in hall closet, buying ten bags of apples and five bags of oranges for school "snack day," talking Mr. B. into transporting fruit to school on his way to work, trying to keep up with email on my iphone, grocery shopping, and occasionally sitting on my ass.

What I haven't been doing, obviously, is blogging. Or quitting smoking, which I started again because of the dead cat people (I swear! It's their fault!). Both of those omissions, however, I hope to rectify soon. I have set myself up with an account on Mr. B.'s laptop and purchased nicotine gum in preparation.

Today I am in Starbucks (yay oatmeal!) because the electricians turned off the electricity. The cold house and inability to heat food--along with the plastic-draped piles of furniture and clothing in every room, the complete absence of places to sit, and the sound of drills and sawing--drove me here. After setting up an online account with my credit card agency so I could pay a bill online, I found myself . . . . with nothing to do.

So I thought I'd check in. How are all of you?

sisters 'neath the skin

I'm starting to look for a new apartment.

Roomie and I have decided, in the interest of maturity and future growth (and the fact that we might want to develop healthier relationships with boys), to break up the panda pen.

In all honesty, I'm hoping to find an apartment down the street. (Yes, we might have some attachment issues.)

But what else is friendship other than deep attachment?

The other night, we were talking about the day Roomie and I met; we even toasted the moment. We had just started at the same Big 4 Consulting Firm. During my orientation, she caught me rolling my eyes at the high-pitched inanity of a HR girl and she said she knew then that we should have lunch and be friends.

I still remember that lunch. We went for Chinese food, she told me a story about Minnesota that made me snort out my Pepsi and I wrote to friends in LA, 'I think I just met a girl who tells better stories than I do. She's funnier than I am, dammit!' Thus began 9 years of our particular brand of cross-cultural exchange. Like the night I got really loud in a bar arguing about the impact colonialism had on Africa and she said, 'I only wanted to know why Martin Lawrence is funny! I don't get it!'

Roomie flew out to LA when my mom died, suffering scorching sunburn and church ladies. When her mother died, I flew out with the rest of the Chicago 7 (as our group was later dubbed) to be her buffer and 2nd family. She was there, updating my LA family during the removal of Agatha the Fibroid and I was there, whipping down the hairpin roads of Italy. (To experience Roomie's driving is to experience an uncomfortable closeness with one's Maker.)

As best friends, sisters underneath different colored skins, we are slightly demented parts of a unit. When we looked up our astrological signs, our pairing was called 'Sensible Elegance,' as represented by Blake Edwards and Julie Andrews.

The other night, in preparation for a dinner party with her boss, Roomie said: And what's off-limits?
Ding: (sigh) Rich people; yuppies; why Whole Foods and the people who shop there annoy the shit out of me; strap-ons; politics; housewives; Republicans; why kids suck; sex.
Roomie: And what else?
Ding: (sigh) I can't have tequila or whiskey. Only beer or wine.
Roomie: Thank you.
Ding: Only for you, dude.

And it's true. There are things that I would only do for Roomie and no one else.

Perhaps it's a high school cliche but LTFs (Long Time Frolics) go away while BFFs stay put, you know? Sometimes I think the burdens of adulthood tend to blunt the folie a deux quality of youthful friendships but thank goodness Roomie and I don't seem to have a problem with that.

Anyway, to Roomie - Happy 9 years of sensibly elegant friendship, lady.

A Comedy of Errors, in which I appeared in drag in 1998

I was having trouble getting work done last week. On Thursday, my boyfriend had a job interview just a block from my office and I said please, please come over when you're done? Please? And he came by my office, dashing in a suit, and my co-workers and boss said he seemed like such a nice young man and I beamed and promptly took off with him to eat a sandwich at 3:45. Which I made him buy me even though I have more money but it was cold outside and I just wanted this nice young sexy man in the navy suit to buy me a sandwich okay? And share his potato salad with me and open my twist-off root beer.

Friday was worse. My boss gaily breezed out of the office at 2:00 and my other boss hadn't been in all day. The whole place was eerily quiet, and the attorney I was working on a project for was on vacation. I took the opportunity to transgressively fill up my water bottle from the water cooler right outside my office instead of the one all the way on the other side. You see, the water cooler by my office has several signs on it which warn me to stay away. One sign proclaims that people should not refill their water bottle there because FATAL DEATH germs get on the spout. I'm using a wide-mouthed Nalgene-type bottle, not a regular plastic bottle which could do the germ-transmitting, but I'm still worried that whoever is responsible for the sign is going to come by and discipline me while I do my dirty deed. The other sign has to do with using hand sanitizer, a fragrant container of which is helpfully perched atop the cooler. I am morally opposed to hand sanitizer. I am also morally opposed to the basket of plastic cups which is also helpfully provided so people don't spread their nasty germs. Hello, environmentally friendly? I'm trying to minimize my carbon footprint, okay? To that end, I've stopped using deodorant.

Anyway, I transgressed the water cooler and surveyed Management Row, as I like to call the side of the office where they seem to have misplaced me. Dead quiet. Crickets. Having made this small, but delicious sin, it was a short leap to heroin and hookers and I soon found myself giving a faux-blowjob to the Nalgene bottle, lubed up with hand-sanitizer, in the conference room.

But this could not entertain me all day, and at 3:00 pm I begged my boyfriend to meet me at a coffee shop and bring me his laptop so I could wile the afternoon away drinking iced joe and eating cupcakes and looking at youtube videos of Sarah Haskins. I hopped on the bus and checked out the late-teen gay boys' butts as I rode up Lake Shore Drive, and for the one day the 60 degree weather seemed oppressively hot, and I jostled my way through the sweaty Bryn Mawr blowing-off-work crowd to get to the land of my boyfriend and brownies.

Lest you think me a total derelict, I did have responsible plans to try and get the software set up on the laptop so I could work remotely and finish the thing that I was supposed to finish. My boyfriend shared his cookie with me, the barista gave me cake instead of a cupcake and I pawned off the excess frosting, I glugged a half-gallon of iced coffee and stole $20 from the boy's wallet. He left, and I diligently went about getting on the internet which took eighty fucking years and if I had wanted to, for example, download one of those thirty-second porn clips you have to make do with before you know where to find quality free porn, it would have taken until the Resurrection.

Two hours later, having completely failed in gaining access to my company server, I corralled my former co-worker and bugged her to entertain me. When we used to work together, we delighted in spending the lunch hour wandering the aisles of the nearby grocery store and examining and critiquing their products. I told her I missed that, and she did too, and we ended up spending our Friday night closely examining hundreds of the products at Whole Foods. I was on a natural-products kick after the people on this blog told me about some hippie face-maintenance shtick called the "Oil Cleansing Method," which while researching I discovered is only the tip of the iceberg in terms of hippie-dippie beauty routines. Accordingly, I have stopped washing my face or using shampoo in my hair, and have switched to a light dusting of baking soda instead of deodorant. I have to confess in complete honesty that my face and hair look fucking fabulous, and I smell great. This week I'm going to purchase a safety razor.

So she bought some cheese and a Neti Pot and a jar of almond butter and I bought Castor Oil and Baking Soda and some cheese and a total macaroni-salad impulse buy. And then I picked up my boyfriend from watching Battlestar Galactica and we went out for Chinese and we argued about whether working was a good way to spend your life. I had not done one goddamn iota of the work I was supposed to do, but I ate some really good shrimp and cleaned all the crap out of my car. No worries. I'd go in to the office on Saturday.

Saturday comes, and I wake up feeling like 100% crap. Some sinus affliction has over taken, and the rivers of ooze running down the inside of my head make me want to strangle the nearest small animal. I spend the entire day lying in bed with no pants on, obsessing over whether my shampoo-less hair looks ok, snorting back the primordial ooze behind my cheekbones, and reverently praying for death. Then I go out for Thai.

Another day lost. On Sunday, I drag my boyfriend, in the rain, to the hippie-dippie restaurant down the street where they will not reject my hippie-dippie unwashed hair and potentially fumitastic armpits. I take our only decent umbrella, which he bought forever ago at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and is emblazoned with notes, for myself. The hippie-dippie restaurant's food actually seems like it might make me well again, with all of its vitamins and shit. When we're done, I hop on the train, with an estimated arrival at my place of work--to do the thing I was supposed to do three days ago--of 5:10 pm. I walk in to the building unmolested. I hop in the elevator and press the button for my floor. Three. On-off. Press-light goes on. Depress-light goes off. What. The. Fuck. The elevator refuses to go to my floor. I start pressing other buttons like I am a three years old or like I have a mental disorder. Two lights up! Score!!!

I get off at Two. It is dark. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I have to piss. I try the bathroom and it's locked. I try the bathroom key for my floor's bathroom and it doesn't work. In a fit of possible genius, I try the men's bathroom. Because god hates me and wants my bladder to burst, it doesn't work. I decide that perhaps even though the elevator won't let me go up to my floor, maybe I can cheat fate with the stairs. I make my first-ever foray into the building's stairwells, which are freaky and have that fire-retardant stuff all over everything. I feel like I am in a horror film. I go up to the third floor and of course I can't get in. So I decide, because I am really really smart, that maybe the fourth floor will be open and will have bathrooms I can use. It does and has neither. I'm getting desperate. I have to piss like a motherfucker and my mouth is dry and I feel like I'm doing something illegal. Back on the third floor, there's a keypad. I punch a few numbers thinking maybe I'll hit the jackpot. No dice. I have to pee so bad I think I might cry because I could be stuck here FOREVER and isn't this a fucking fire hazard? Finally I realize that this is the fire escape, not the "pleasant venue for jaunting from floor to floor going about your sophisticated business." And the one way I can get out is by going to the ground floor, where people go to..you know..

ESCAPE THE GODDAMN FIRE.

I run all the way down, forgetting that I have just traveled nearly an hour to try and get some work down, and flee to the cafe down the block that has the bathroom. You know that feeling of finally taking a piss when you've had to really, really bad? That's a good feeling. That's like the third-best feeling after having an orgasm.

After all that, I'm still thirsty as hell, so I bust out the $20 I stole a few days earlier and use it to buy a ridiculously overpriced bottle of water, which I do not smear with hand sanitizer, and glug down in approximately fifteen seconds.

I hop on the bus, and spend most of the ride admiring the pretty girl with the enormous legs and foreboding black suitcase. Then I go home, watch Youtube videos of Sarah Haskins, read some porn, and take a nap. It's not my fault that I didn't work, man. I tried, I really tried. But the forces were against me and I really, really had to take a piss. As a last ditch effort at actually getting the damn thing done, I wearily instruct my boyfriend to set the alarm for 6:00 am, when I will put my de-shampooified head under the shower, not wash my face, throw on the dress I wore twice last week because I have a client meeting and it's way more comfortable than a suit but the stinky armpits are interfering with the no-stink baking soda thing I've got going on, then drop off my boyfriend's crap at the dry cleaners, drive through mcdonalds, and sail traffic-free down LakeShoreDrive to the office, where the security guard helpfully lets me know that I need to get special permission if I want to enter the building before 8. It's 7:08 am.

Foiled yet again, I slunk off to the coffee shop and drink my McDonald's coffee without buying anything, for the next fifty-two minutes. But hey, at least my hair looks good.

Numbers

Marc Bosquet has a great piece at the Valve in response to the NYTimes piece about humanities PhDs and the economy. The thrust of the Times piece is what a terrible effect plummeting endowment values and constricted state budgets are having on job possibilities for humanities PhDs. The thrust of Bosquets response is to point out that it is much less the economy that is fucking over humanities PhDs than it is systemic and exploitative practices of higher ed with respect to teaching labor (also see his earlier reflection on the 'Job Market' that isn't a market)

I agree with Bosquet about the shittiness of the Times piece and about the systemic problems overall, though I do think the current economy has made measurable differences in the possibilities. The important thing, which is clearly his investment as well, is being aware that the economy sucks, but what happens in higher ed searches is simply not a version of what is happening in other sectors, nor will it improve in the way other sectors will.

Below are my numbers from 2 consecutive years of job searching. Note the difference in available jobs; after cancellations, twice as many in only my field last year as in my field and broader ones this year. Notice the sheer availability of more jobs didn't mean my search fared any better.

2007-2008 search

Number of jobs I could have applied for; only in looked in my primary field: 40
Number of jobs I did apply for: 34
Hours/wk on applications, August through October: 8-10
Number cancelled: 0
Money spent: $200
Number of jobs for which I had a personal connection to exploit: 2
Number of requests for more materials: 2 (which correlated exactly the the connections)
Interviews: 1 phone
Campus visits: 0
TT Jobs: 0

Number of postdocs and temp positions I applied for: 3
Interviews: 3
Offers: 2


2008-2009 search:

Number of jobs I could have applied for, including Generalist and such: 36
Number I did apply for: 22
Hours/wk on applications, August through October: 5-6
Number cancelled: 7
Money spent: about $1500
Number of jobs for which I had a personal connection to exploit: 2
Number of applications that were NEVER RECEIVED BY SEARCH COMMITTEE: 1
Number of times that tragedy befell a job where I had a personal connection to exploit: 1
Number of requests for more materials: 3
Interviews: 2 - 1 phone, 1 MLA
Number of times an interview correlated with a personal connection: 1
Campus visits: 2
TT Jobs: remains to be seen

Number of postdocs and temp positions applied for: 01

The differences in my own file between last year and this year include being finished with the degree and having a publication. Still, I feel sure that the network connection I had pulled me ahead of the field for the one interview. And for the other one, without being too specific, there is an aspect of my work that is specialized enough to put me by chance at an advantage for this particular school.

Which is to say. Yes, my files was more competitive this year, but I don't want that to inject the sense of a more meritorious process this year. I was fortunate enough to have time to work on a publication (over and over) between the last market run and this one, something I would had way less time to do if I had been in a program that had me teaching way more as a grad student (like the 3/3 I did in my MA program) than my PhD program did. Also, I know I didn't apply to nearly as many jobs as many of my colleagues did. I have been lucky, I am very very aware.

I don't really know what else I have to say about this data at this point. I have these interviews coming up and am steeped enough in the Catholic hebbie-jeebies to not want to jinx them with too much meta blathering. So consider them presented without further comment.

Galt Schmalt, Part II

In a list compiled by the Modern Library, of the 100 best novels written since 1900, you see some interesting differences between the list compiled by the library and the list compiled by polling readers. You know, average people.

For example, take the people's list. Of the top ten novels of the twentieth century, 4 are by Ayn Rand.

And three are by none other than L. Ron Hubbard.

Galt Schmalt

Hilzoy has a great post up about the bankruptcy of all this 'Going Galt' bullshit. To sum up: on what date, specifically, can we look forward to the fine innovators and creators at pajamasmedia to Go Galt? Michelle, please let me know in advance when you are going to withdraw your wealth-creating talents from the sphere of redistributionists, so I can enter the interweb without any fear of running across your schlock. Rep. John Campbell, you'll be retiring from that seat? Thank God.

Hilzoy is decent enough to think about these tantalizing possibilities in terms of the job openings they will create for the good guys. Not me, I just want these assholes out of my airspace. Please, if you intend to take your ball and go home, just get on with it already.

If Ever I Should Meet You

By land or by sea
I will always remember
your kindness to me.

My buddy, Rey, has not started to get any better but he's stopped getting any worse. Every few hours, over the last several days, it seemed some new danger cropped up. He seemed to be retreating further and further into his own organism, burning bridges behind him.

That's the problem with taking these medicines to suppress the immune system; the worse things are, the worse things get.

But, for now, anyway, his decline has been arrested. I'm not sure if that's because the treatment he's receiving has started to take effect or if its because he can't get any worse. Which ever it is, I'm not asking any questions.

The readers here at BitchPhD are the best! Thank you, thank you, thank you, for many kind words and wishes. If I could express how much they mean, I would but the feelings they evoke beggar description.

I'm on the road again today, returning to Wisconsin. My employer is starting to get grouchy about me being off the job and Moya, my niece, is starting to get grouchy over my employer getting grouchy. I get the feeling from her that if I lose this job, she'll fix it so Rey has company in the intensive care ward.

O Jesus, My Makeup

I'm giving makeup for Lent. Actually, no, I'm trying to give up makeup forever. But I figure Lent's a good start.

You know what's nice about not wearing makeup? You can touch your fucking face. Several times in the last few days I have put my finger to my eye, with the instinct to rub, and then had that moment of "oh! can't rub!" before I realized that I'm not wearing eyeliner, eyeshadow, and mascara, and I can in fact rub my eye. And I feel an inner feeling of delight. And rub vigorously.

Makeup is stupid. You know that people don't really look that different with it on? I was looking around the bus yesterday morning and realized that I couldn't really tell whether most of the women were wearing much makeup. But yet we spend so much time gazing at our own damn faces in the mirror, getting the face-paint just so, that we come to rather exaggerate the difference between makeupped and non-be-makeupped. And also, if people are used to seeing you with makeup, when they see you without, they notice, saying "you look tired.." I've gotten this a million times.

Must I look perky and hyper-awake at all times? Must my eyes be smoky and sultry, with mascara-thickened lashes? Must my cheeks be rosy? Why do I feel like I have to wear at least a little makeup to look "professional"?

Putting on makeup takes time. Since giving up on doing my hair, and giving up makeup, I've added at least an extra twenty minutes of sleep time. I suppose I can't give up showering, so I'm probably at my lower-limit of getting-ready time,at 15 minutes.

This year has, unplanned, been a series of me rejecting practices that foster body alienation! Last fall I stopped plucking my eyebrows, over which I obsessed for like two months while they grew in to their "natural" shape, and now they look.. completely normal and unremarkable. They are fine eyebrows. I used to want more of an arch in my brow (I quietly complained to myself) when I was plucking, and ironically enough now that I've stopped my arch is way better.

So on to my request for advice.

Anyway, I'm trying to get back to my "natural" face, whatever that was, before I put all these products and crap on it. Anyone experimented with not using cleansers on your face? I have known many men who didn't seem to wash their faces very much, if at all (of course, they got them wet in the shower, but you know), and they looked great. The skin is oilier, but in a good, healthy oil way, not like a shiny over-production of oil way. I've been doing the cleanse-and-moisturize routine for so long, but it just seems like drying out only to replace the natural oils with fake ones. Right? I mean, I don't really need to moisturize the rest of my body. Why is my face dry? If I stop washing my face will my skin look like my boyfriend's? Maybe?

Please assist me in looking great with as little effort as possible. KTHXBYE.

Oh hai

Taddy's friend is doing kinda poorly, and Taddy asks me to let y'all know that he appreciates the supportive emails and regrets being unable to answer them all in a timely manner. If you're so inclined, I don't think prayers, incantations, candle-lighting or crossed fingers would go amiss, either.

As for me, my laptops logic board is dead and I'm unpacking and the electricians arrive Monday to tear up the house, so I'll continue to be scarce for a while.

Immodest Proposals

Speaking of realism, what do you think, dear readers, satire or no?

Especially given this.

Via Dave Perry

Realism

I like this Chronicle piece about one assistant professor's (it's really very hard for me to not type "ass. prof." every time I write that) approach to writing a monograph while teaching a 4/4. I like it because it is practical and sensible and presumes that some people actually go about scholarly book writing with mostly thoughts of its being something they like to do. Not have to do. Also the author makes it clear that he privileged efficiency and amiability over prestige in his choice of publisher, that he narrowed his topic based largely on how easily the research could be done, and that he sacrificed class prep to get it done. In other words, the piece is practical and honest and not broody.

In contrast, do you know what is neither practical nor honest-about-one's-needs nor upbeat? Giving up treats for Lent. It's making me actively cranky. I have my doubts about its viability for another 33 days. Unrelated: the Girl Scout cookies have arrived.

Several of my undergraduates have been coming to talk to me about graduate school lately. I am on the record with a particularly rigid piece of advice on this matter, but unsurprisingly (especially if you knew me in real life), I find myself unable to follow through quite that stringently when a 20 yr old person is staring at me. What I end up doing is telling them that I don't think it's the best idea for X, Y, and Z reasons (having to do with job availability, systemic structural problem, and esoteric nature of the work) but that I think it can be a fine way to spend a few years IF you also spend that time thinking about the other things you might do when you get out (not paying for the program is an even more basic contingency). And not really just thinking about it but actively making contacts, especially in administrative divisions. I think a lot of people, myself included, who always imagined themselves in tenure track jobs get to this point and realize they probably won't get one and further that they would be quite happy to stay in higher ed and work on the administrative side of things. But have no idea how to get in to that game. And I have had a lot of people tell me that many entry level positions are filled by graduate students who pick up part time work in those offices while matriculating. So instead of "just say no," I got with, "Ideally you would say no. But if you can't bring yourself to, spend the time you are not reading, writing, and grading meeting and working for people in admin."

There have been some developments on my own job front, but I feel too superstitious to write about them much. The job I interviewed for at MLA is likely going the way of the tanking economy. Which is pretty heartbreaking at this stage of the game. There is another thing that could be a possibility, but very much too soon to be hopeful even. I am trying, without the help of treats, to be more even-tempered and resigned, but this has been going on so. very. long. It very often gets the best of me.

Scenes from the Ranch

Dude: Did you know that I call you my "partner"?
Me: Actually I didn't know that.
Dude: What do you think about it?
Me: Huh. I like it. It's much better than "girlfriend," but I don't know why.
Dude: Well, I like to think of us that way.
Me: Plus "girlfriend" and "boyfriend" have certain connotations. Like "husband" and "wife." I hate the word "wife." I can't imagine anyone referring to me as "my wife."
Dude: Really?
Me: Yes. If we get married, don't refer to me as wife.
Dude: Ok. Seriously, though, you like "partner"? Because that's how I refer to you in interviews and stuff.
Me: I think it's great. Both because it's not gendered, and because it conveys a certain seriousness without having to invoke marriage or engagement or whatever. The only thing is, people might think you're gay.
Dude: So?
Me: I don't know. I guess you wouldn't care if people think you're gay.
Dude: I don't give a shit.
Me: But they might discriminate against you!
Dude: Well, if they're the sort of people who would discriminate against me because they think I'm gay, then I don't want to work for them, do I?
Me: Good point.

i need a liquid lunch

Or, you could just call this Reason #1005 Why Non-Profits Can Ride Your Last Nerve Like a Pony:

Ding, calling State Assault Organization: Hi, I’m the gov't relations officer for Large NonProfit and I’m looking for our state’s implementation plan or report to address sexual assault in IL.
Bureaucrat: Uh…report?
Ding: Yeah; it would also be great if you could tell me if the report on your website is the most recent and, if there is a newer one, when that’ll be up on your site or if you could email it to me.
Bureaucrat: New report…
Ding: Yeah. I’m writing a concept paper that requires updated, current numbers about rape in Illinois.
Bureaucrat: Well, that’s the most recent one we have.
Ding: But all the stuff in it is from 2006. It’s 2009.
Bureaucrat: Well, we have other reports from other federal sources…
Ding: But those are all from 2003.
Bureaucrat: Yeah, they are.

(a beat)

Ding: Ok. Well, when can we have some updated numbers, at least on your report?
Bureaucrat: You know, I don’t think there are plans to update those numbers.
Ding: But they’re from 2006. You’re going to leave them up, like, forever??
Bureaucrat: Well, to be honest, you’re the first person to ever ask for it.
Ding: You are kidding me. (sputter sputter) I am the only person from a coalition agency to EVER request that our state statistics on violence against women be updated and publicly available on your website? EVER?
Bureaucrat: I’ve been communications director here a long time and, yeah. This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had about this.
Ding: Bureaucrat, you’ve shocked me. I’m speechless. And, yet, this explains so much.
So NO ONE in the whole state has ever expressed a desire to have Illinois-specific information collected in one spot to be updated on a regular basis??
Bureaucrat: Not that I can recall. Everyone just calls for the number of reported assaults in the state.
Ding: But that one number doesn’t tell you anything.
Bureaucrat: It tells you the number of reported assaults.
Ding: Which doesn’t tell me anything. It doesn’t tell me anything about trends, reasons why the number is what it is, who created the number or anything like that.
Bureaucrat: Well, no.
Ding: Ok, what happens to the report the state has to file justifying its receipt of federal assault money? Is that report ever made public?
Bureaucrat: I assume so.
Ding: Bureaucrat, you are going to give me a heart attack.
Bureaucrat: No one has ever asked this!
Ding: Theoretically, when would your agency consider updating the report that I’m looking at right now?
Bureaucrat: Maybeeee…2011.
Ding: So, to get 2008 numbers I’d have to get into my time machine, travel two years into the future and then maybe I’d see the report that I need for today.
Bureaucrat: Yes.
Ding: Heart attack, Bureaucrat. You are giving me a heart attack.

And it's true. My heart is beating a little harder just now, thinking about this lame phone call. Other than genetics and family history, this could be the reason I have high blood pressure.