it's not often that a few hours with a guy can move Ding to poetry, but last night's romp with the newly met S- made me think of these lines from Donne:

thou, angel, bring’st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds is to be free;
There where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee.

here's to more summer poetry.

what i'm getting my dad for father's day

a massive kick in the ass.

i swear my dad is going to give me a heart attack. i feel like i'm the mother of a stubborn, idiot teenager who won't listen to anything i say so i must resort to saying things very slowly, like Bill Cosby, and repeating questions like: can you understand me? do you understand why i'm telling you this?

when i tell him that i disagree with his choices and that his choices make me afraid for his future and upset me,thus making my chest hurt a little, what's his response?

"well, i won't tell you my plans for the future, then."

that's not the solution, old man! the correct answer is change your plans! they're bad plans!

jesus.
my left hand is sort of tingling. is that a bad sign?

being a girl

thanks to my friend L- who sent me this article about the woman who stonewalled the inquiry at the justice department: How Monica Goodling played the gender card. - By Emily Bazelon and Dahlia Lithwick - Slate Magazine although i read newspaper reports i haven't been all up in this story. (i have a job, you know!)

but it's a smart, savvy take on gender performance and how our public eye is still more comfortable and accommodating when women weaken themselves rather than stand from a position of strength.

(take this article and then go to that recent study about 'uppity' women being targets of sexual harrassment more frequently than women who adhere to traditional gender roles. they're good bookends for each other.)
...
speaking of being a girl, it's dating season (for good or bad.)

had drinks last week with a very naughty actor guy (we made out in front of Moody Bible College) and yesterday had dinner with a divorced father of two who lived in the burbs.

but i think the hormonal surprise of the weekend was running into an old boss of mine in the supermarket and, while we were chatting and catching up, suddenly thinking, 'ohmygosh. he's totally hot.'

why was this a surprise? he's totally not my type: politically conservative, a 'good ol' boy' from nebraska, one of those totally testosteroned guy types, in possession of a personal life that resembles a train wreck (hello, contentious custody battle), and with a bizarre sales guy demeanor he can turn on and off like water. and, yet, he totally made my uterus clench.

weird.

who's going to italy? i am.

Roomie just reserved a villa in italy for next year!

we're going with a bunch of friends!
italy!
tuscany!
villa!
wine!
cheese!
pasta!
vistas!
i have to learn italian!

all of us are in a tizzy of planning (wardrobes, activities, day trips, food, music, wardrobes.) we haven't been able to work sensibly for the past hour. the group blog is already up and there is NO POINT in getting any work done. we're going to italy!

dude. this is completely better than the cocktail date i have scheduled for tonight.

bitten: close but no cigar

it looks like all i do nowadays is write about clothes, huh? no more snappy, angry political criticism, no more feminist screeds...just clothes. well, clothes can be political, too: who gets them, who controls the industry and who decides who gets to buy what - these are 'political' issues. granted, they're not at big as reproductive health access, but for those of us on the margins, it's a fightin' time.

privilege is invisible; in other words, the thing that marks your privilege is the thing you can't see, or you take for granted. whether you buy your clothes from an outlet or a high end store like barneys, if you go in without worrying about leaving empty-handed, this is the manifestation of your privilege as a 'normal' sized woman. i can't speak for other women who have worn sizes 16-20 since high school, but i've never once been able to do that. whatever city i'm in, i am hyper aware that a shopping trip for me will be limited; i will have to shop in specialty stores, will have to compromise on style and quality and whatever i buy will be a begrudged compromise between what i want, what's popular and what other people make for me.

bouncing between what passes for cute in bloomies, and the pants that fit at old navy, shopping is an event that i don't want to share with anyone because the many steps to shopping is exhausting.

so along comes Bitten, sarah jessica parker's new line of super cheap clothes, that promises to give women affordable style. i was a little excited about the prices and the seeming cute clothes but what really got me was the size range: 2-22. but where can i get it? only through a steve & barry's store and where's the closest one? way out here.

and thus, the problem. no one ever gets it right. if the sizes aren't there, we can't buy clothes; if the sizes are there, but the price point is too high, we can't buy clothes; if the price point is ridiculously low, the sizes are there, there are issues with quality, and you have to drive to iowa to purchase it, we still can't buy clothes.

so here's a big soft girl's manifesto. here's what i frakking want:
i want to walk into a jcrew (because i'm secretly preppy like that) and i want to find my size just like everyone else. that's it. it's that simple. i want to find my size.

repeat it with me: i want to find my size. i want. to find. my size.

can you hear me, big retailers and buyers and designers and bridge label people? i want to find my size.

a great blog i stumbled across has her own take on Bitten: The Budget Fashionista -Bitten by Sarah Jessica Parker on Oprah

three in one

i'm drowning in binders at work over here. conference call, advocacy procedures, reviews coming up, board meetings, blah blah blah.

so, of course i'm going to spend my time thinking about distractions: clothes and boys. oh, and another lisa belkin article about the opt out moms now trying to opt back in.

clothes: the times acknowledges that teen fashion is everywhere (am i the only one who hates H&M?) and trying to dress one's age is difficult. however, there are solutions. if i looked like one of their fashion sketches, perhaps i'd agree with them.

boys: yeah, so, i'm doing the eHarmony thing. (roll of eyes) i mean, if you can't meet someone based on 29 dimensions, where can you? they've improved their process and, though i'm a hit with lots of divorced guys in the burbs, i'll reserve judgment and will try to ignore the overtly goody-goodiness of it all. meanwhile, there is one last nerve guy i'll probably meet for a drink next week.

and the times says that if you're trying to meet a guy in a class, good luck with that.

opting back in: a few women have managed to squeeze their way back into the workplace. i'm still waiting for the article about women of color and why they never opted out in the first place.

i have shopping on the brain.
the weather is warmer, my pedicure is cute and all i want to do is shop for cute summer clothes that will make me feel light as a feather and not too sweaty.

first, an observation:
anyone remember the heady days of 1993 when little babydoll dresses, worn with tights and doc martens, were the absolute thing??

well, they're back. isn't there some rule that if you're old enough to have worn a trend the first time around, you shouldn't wear it when it comes back?

all clear

my ob gyn called today to let me know that my irregular pap is all clear! whoo hoo! the biopsies they took are clear, too! more whoo hoo!

i've been so worried about my fibroid (aka, Agatha) that i totally forgot i had a weird pap. so: no std's. no cervical weirdnesses (as of right now). just one poolball-sized fibroid to be eradicated.

life's good.

(i'll worry about my root canal later.)

when law school students run amok

fascinating.
i wonder how you'd design an experiment to see how fast it takes for a group of guys to totally devolve into a pack of Lord of the Flies-ish anti-semitic, misogynist racists with rape fantasies.

i mean, does the transformation from clean cut ordinary dude to spittle-covered savage take an average of 24 hours? two weeks? a year? or, is it just something that occurs instantaneously whenever a bunch of them gather on an anonymous chat board?

Bitch Ph.D. writes about it here. (and, yes, i'm totally late reading about this!)

and if any of my law grad friends are out there, have you even heard of this board? what's up with that?!

shopping: the return of ugly

i had to get an outfit for tomorrow - one that would move from a business meeting, a luncheon and then another business meeting and then a board meeting. basically, a cute lightweight suit-ish thing. (i have a couple at home, but they're more for fall, not spring.)

i was about to write a long, screedy thing, describing every awful outfit i saw in macy's and lane bryant but i'll just keep it simple:

dear retailers,
do you hate us?
because you keep ignoring the pleas and downright demands of plus size customers.

we don't want to wear the clothes you're making for us. they. are. ugly. you are forcing us to choose those boxy skirts in colors that wouldn't find a place in GAP, Banana or JCrew; those shapeless shirts and jackets that our mothers wore are beginning to show up in your stores again and we hate them. and, now, we are beginning to hate you. if you even attempt to foist mom jeans with a tapered leg on us, we might just have to rise up and kill one of you.

hear us: if you won't create a separate, stylish store for us, for the love of god, expand your sizes. don't hide your large sizes in the back of the store, or in the burbs; put them where you put everything else. find a fit model (joy nash is a good template) and, for god's sake, fire your buyers. they hate fat people.

sincerely,
ding

hm.

Grey’s Anatomy Spinoff - The New Modern Woman, Ambitious and Feeble

i've only watched 3 episodes of GA in all the time it's been on tv. and i've noticed the same thing this review mentions:

On “Grey’s Anatomy” at least two female characters, Christina (Sandra Oh) and Dr. Bailey (Chandra Wilson) have confidence, big egos and an ability to keep their sorrows to themselves most of the time. The female leads on the new series are fragile and pitiable, and it’s a worrisome imbalance.

i wonder if these characters' perceived strength is because they're women of color, created and written by a woman of color.

just wondering...

a clockwork B-

if anything, he is predictable.
B- sent me an email today asking if i saw his sister when she performed for my organization at an event last month.

then he asked me out for a drink.
i declined.

i could totally set my watch to him.

for mother's day

when i was still in grad school my mom would send me random care packages - shampoo, adobo seasoning, scissors. i'd get the box and would have no idea what i'd find inside.

one day, she sent me a birthday card with this clipping inside. inside the card, she'd written: 'this reminds me of you and makes me laugh.'

jesus.
now i've gotten all teary-eyed at work.

rediscovering home

it's a long, crazy-making story but i'm flying home this weekend to see my dad and pow wow with my sister about his weird decision making skills and the apparently done deal to sell our childhood home and move into a depressing and decidedly 'unhip' retirement community where the words MOBILE HOME PARK are prominently displayed.

i'll be flying into LAX in the afternoon and have decided to embrace being carless in los angeles. it's a scary thought, but it can be done, right? i mean, if you can be carless in Paris, then you sure as hell should be able to be carless in LA.

(incidentally, LA has the second largest public transportation system with subways, buses and a light rail in the nation.)

since i'm all about the research and not getting lost while traveling, i've been on this site: Experiencela.com. it's wonderful. from here, i can plan my bus trip from the airport to my sister's house or to my old high school where she teaches or i can look for some 'adventures' to have while in LA and feel jet set and cosmopolitan.

(the Wilshire Blvd and the Downtown LA adventures look neat.)

from behind the iron curtain: dowd on michelle obama

i don't know why, but MoDo consistently pisses me off.

like, what's the point of this column? the rezko deal? michelle obama ain't as great as everybody thinks she is?

have you noticed she does this with every single candidate's wife? she takes women who, in real life, would actually be pretty cool to know and then suddenly, because they're the candidate's wife, paints them as fake, emasculating Lady MacBeths who can't really be trusted to stick to the 'spin.' or they've somehow fallen down on the job of being 'wife.' or, now, they're just wrong, for some reason.

what's her deal? what would it take to actually make maureen dowd say about a candidate's wife who isn't the quiet smiling type, 'hm. she's ok.' her snittiness, makes me want to write dowd a letter and say, 'for the love of god, get a boyfriend already!' i know. you don't have to tell me how wrong and sexist that is. but what the frak is her problem??

anyway, the article is below:

She’s Not Buttering Him Up
By MAUREEN DOWD
Published: April 25, 2007

WASHINGTON

Usually, I love the dynamics of a cheeky woman puncturing the ego of a cocky guy.

I liked it in ’40s movies, and I liked it with Katie Couric and Bryant Gumbel, and Cybill Shepherd and Bruce Willis in “Moonlighting.”

So why don’t I like it with Michelle and Barack?

I wince a bit when Michelle Obama chides her husband as a mere mortal — a comic routine that rests on the presumption that we see him as a god.

The tweaking takes place at fundraisers, where Michelle wants to lift the veil on their home life a bit and give the folks their money’s worth.

At the big Hollywood fund-raiser for Senator Obama in February, Michelle came on strong.

“I am always a little amazed at the response that people get when they hear from Barack,” she told the crowd at the Beverly Hilton, as her husband stood by looking like a puppy being scolded, reported Hud Morgan of Men’s Vogue. “A great man, a wonderful man. But still a man. ...

“I have some difficulty reconciling the two images I have of Barack Obama. There’s Barack Obama the phenomenon. He’s an amazing orator, Harvard Law Review, or whatever it was, law professor, best-selling author, Grammy winner. Pretty amazing, right?

“And then there’s the Barack Obama that lives with me in my house, and that guy’s a little less impressive. For some reason this guy still can’t manage to put the butter up when he makes toast, secure the bread so that it doesn’t get stale, and his 5-year-old is still better at making the bed than he is.”

She said that the TV version of Barack Obama sounded really interesting and that she’d like to meet him sometime.

Many people I talked to afterward found Michelle wondrous. But others worried that her chiding was emasculating, casting her husband — under fire for lacking experience — as an undisciplined child.

At a March fund-raiser in New York, she tweaked her husband for not “putting his socks actually in the dirty clothes.”

And at a lunch last week with Chicago women, she gave the candidate a fed-up look about that melting butter and said, “I’m like: ‘You’re just asking for it. You know I’m giving a speech about you today.’ ”

She throws in nice stuff, too, about how he’s “the real deal” and a trustworthy “brother.” But this princess of South Chicago, a formidable Princeton and Harvard Law School grad, wants us to know that she’s not polishing the pedestal.

The Chicago Tribune profile of “Barack’s Rock” on Sunday noted that her career had caused her husband discomfort: “Critics have pointed out that her income has risen along with her husband’s political ascent. She sits on the board of a food company that supplies Wal-Mart, which Sen. Obama has denounced for its labor practices.”

The Obamas are both skeptical of hype. Michelle dryly told a reporter at her husband’s Senate swearing-in that perhaps someday, he would do something to earn all the attention he was getting.

But it may not be smart politics to mock him in a way that turns him from the glam J.F.K. into the mundane Gerald Ford, toasting his own English muffins. If all Senator Obama is peddling is the Camelot mystique, why debunk the mystique?

Besides, the coolly detached candidate, striving to seem substantive, is good at turning down the heat himself. He manages to tamp down crowds dying to be electrified. He resists surfing his own wave of excitement.

Michelle conveys the appealing idea that she will tell her husband when he’s puffed up or out of line. She aims high — she ordered her husband to stop puffing on cigarettes as he started campaigning. But then, why didn’t she see the red flags on the Rezko deal?

In order to get a bigger yard for their new house on Chicago’s South Side in 2005, the Obamas got into what the senator now confesses was a “boneheaded” real estate arrangement with a sleazy political dealmaker named Tony Rezko, who has been indicted on influence-peddling charges.

On Monday, The Chicago Sun-Times reported more shady Rezko news: “Obama, who has worked as a lawyer and a legislator to improve living conditions for the poor, took campaign donations from Rezko even as Rezko’s low-income housing empire was collapsing, leaving many African-American families in buildings riddled with problems,” from a lack of heat to no lack of drug dealers and squatters.

Mr. Obama riposted that “it wasn’t brought to my attention.” But isn’t that where a dazzling, tough, smart and connected wife could help a guy out?

bunching and more bunching

Even if not on time, it'll be online | Chicago Tribune

this morning i got so mad i almost ran into the street and cursed out the three bunched buses that passed me. unlike other mornings, i actually made it to the bus stop on time. i was there, reading, around 8.43 am. plenty of time to grab the #65 and go to work by 9 or 9.10.

in the distance, i can see a bus rumbling through a red light. it stops to load up the folks at the stop before mine. i can tell it's packed; you can see folks standing right next to the driver, pressed against the rails and facing the big front window. so i decide to wait for the emptier bus behind it - no biggie.

this is what's supposed to happen: the packed bus passes us and goes to the next stop, while the empty bus picks us up and they alternate. does that happen? no frakking way.

the packed bus stops at my stop and then stands there while the TWO empty buses roar past. what the hell? then, the packed bus squeezes in one more passenger and then IT roars off. i stand there, skipped by the two empty buses and blocked by the packed bus.

now, who the frak cares about GPS when the frakking buses come all in a bunch and empty buses pass passengers and packed buses block the empty ones??

can you tell me that, CTA, can you?!?
frak.

a freaking messy week

if you're hiding in your apartment because of taxes, the v-tech shootings and watching alberto gonzales gave you gas, then add one more thing to the mix: the SCOTUS decided this week to uphold a ban on 'partial birth abortions'. big deal, right? we wouldn't choose that procedure anyway.

sometimes, what we would 'choose' ain't the point. sometimes, like this week, the decision is made for us. read some excellent analysis at the handy dandy roundup from Alas: Round-up of posts about Gonzales v Carhart (Updated)

it's official: tarantino is an asshat

it is unlikely that i will see Grindhouse. while i liked Kill Bill and love robert rodriguez, the whole 'dirty movie theater experience' nostalgia has left me a little 'meh.' whatever. i mean, i can go to the Village if i wanna know what it's like to sit in gunk and watch trash.

but now that quentin tarantino has created a Rapist action figure, i can feel my 'meh' turning into an 'ick.'

[h/t to Bitch]

plug plug plug: She Speaks Volumes

it's Sexual Assault Awareness Month and She Speaks Volumes is one of the events happening in the city. the event last year was awesome and this one looks to be just as good:

She Speaks Volumes Poetry Poetry Slam & Panel Discussion

Presented in collaboration with Institute for the Study of Women and Gender in the Arts and Media, Columbia College, Chicago

The She Speaks Volumes poetry slam and panel discussion fuse art and activism to impact social change. In recognition of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, the event gives voice to the silence surrounding this issue. The event uses music and the arts to encourage young people to speak out against sexual violence and become activists for change in their local communities.

Featured artists, Diva Diction, are three powerful female poets both on page and on stage. Bassey descends from Nigeria, Amalia Ortiz from Mexico and Ishle Park from Korea. Their unique native roots may have originated from different countries but their cultured personalities blend powerfully together. All three women have competed in the National Poetry Slam and have been featured on Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO.

Special tribute will be paid to three outstanding women who demonstrate a commitment to anti-violence and social justice: Mary Jo Barrett, Executive Director and Co-Founder, Center for Contextual Change; C.C. Carter, Artist and Founder, Pow-Wow Inc.; and Kathy Kempke, Coordinator of Prevention Education, YWCA West Suburban Center.

When: April 26, 2007

Where: HotHouse
31 E. Balbo
Chicago, IL 60605
Doors open at 5:30 p.m.

Volunteer: For volunteer opportunities, contact us at events@ywcachicago.org

Tickets: Tickets for the event are $15. Click here to purchase tickets online. For VIP pricing, contact Tanisha Pleasant at 312.762.2743.

Contact: Tanisha Pleasant at 312.762.2743 or events@ywcachicago.org.

Join the artists for an afternoon discussion, "Where do we draw the line? Creative Expression vs. the Perpetuation of a Rape Culture."

April 26, 2007
Columbia College
Conaway Center
1104 S. Wabash, 1st Floor
Chicago, IL 60605
12 p.m.
Free admission

mr. tax man

so i'm in the process of making sure i render unto caesar exactly what i ought and find myself on the phone with a federal tax guy because of a scary letter i got in the mail last week.

'so...apparently, i under-reported my income for 2003? i swear, i filed electronically and i thought it took all three of my W2s!'
'ms. Ding...'

'really! i don't know what happened. maybe it timed out, maybe i just misunderstood - but i have all the W2s! i can refile! i'll do whatever - i just can't afford this back tax thing...it'll kill me.'
'ms. Ding...'

'and i don't know what happened with my other tax refunds, you know? for tax year 2003, 2004, 2005. i mean, did you guys take them, all of them? are you about to garnish my wages? am i in trouble? i SWEAR i'll send you all the supporting documents - and they took taxes out! i'm not trying to get away with anything!'

have i mentioned i'm having this conversation while i'm at work? everyone can hear my panic.

meanwhile, tax guy is either laughing at me or choking. 'ms. Ding, you're fine. yes, we took your refunds and applied them to your tax debt. but now you're square. you don't owe us anything. we owe you nothing. we're square.'

'are you serious? really? like, nothing?'
tax guy doesn't say anything for a while. 'like, nothing.'

'jeebus, thank goodness. you have no idea how happy you've just made me.'
'i don't believe you but i'll take your word for it.'
'so...the return i just filed now. i'll get that refund, right?'
tax guy sighs. 'yes.'
'thank you, ID number 0657398. i appreciate all your help. really.'
'my pleasure, ms. Ding.'

my motto: when under severe threat by the IRS, playing dumb and panicky is a perfectly acceptable survival method.

bringing it home: twisty on patriarchy

"Do you guys get, I mean actually get, that our society is a patriarchy? Patriarchy isn’t just a gimmick for a blog. It really exists. There are actual implications. Do you get that a patriarchy is predicated on exploitation and victimization? It’s not a joke! It’s not an abstract concept dreamed up by some wannabe ideologue making up catch-phrases while idling away the afternoons with pitchers of margs. Exploitation and victimization is the actual set-up! A person is either an exploiter or a victim, or sometimes both, but never neither.

This means me! This means you!

This means that, until patriarchy is smashed, we ain’t got a chance.

Meanwhile, do you guys see that there is no other possible outcome, in a society based on exploitation and victimization, than for the Don Imuses and the Daily Koses of the world to shit, frequently, on members of the lower castes? Shitting on the lower castes is a privilege built into the system. When exercised with macho aplomb, it attracts advertisers. It creates prestige. It makes money. It entertains the masses."

so. at the risk of contradicting my own self, what's it going to be? is civility really a solution or just a more palatable hidey hole for the exploiters?


[and i really dig that top 'graph.]

bringin' bougie back?: or, do manners trump bigotry?

thanks to an old grad school friend's visit from out of town i spent the whole weekend doing pleasurable things: cooking, spending time with friends, laughing, drinking, eating, and cutting flowers to within an inch of their short lives. i had no time to spare on all things imus.

but today is different. all my doctor appointments aborted for reasons or another so now i have a rare loose afternoon to my self and i'm spending it thinking about manners. yes, manners. etiquette. the preferred way to treat one another. the 'please and thank you' moments of our lives.

manners are occupying my thoughts because it's just too hard to think and speak about race or gender. outside of academic or heavily politicized circles, regular people have no idea what i'm talking about when i say things like 'white privilege', 'race privilege,' 'internalized racism', 'misogyny,' 'minstrelsy' or 'hegemonic discourse.' they get upset when i say that patriarchy is a system, rather than a guy who sits across the bus from you. they don't want to look at power, context, our sexual or racial history or think about what it means to be implicated in cultural practice.

they just want to say bad words and get away with it because it makes them feel good. (sort of like how a child discovers the thrill of saying his first 'fuck.')

and the only way that people will get the message, especially (but not exclusively) white and black men, that saying these things (i.e., bitch, whore, nigger/nigga, nappy dug out and all the especially tart things men like to throw around their funky locker rooms or board rooms) builds up like plaque and makes all of us sick (especially those of us who are called bitch, whore, ho, nigger/nigga or nappy dug out) is to call them out on how very rude it is.

more than anything, white people understand manners, and for a long time, manners was also how the black community policed itself: whatever our actual economic status, we acted bougie. but bougie fell out of vogue once the huxtables disappeared from TV and now it seems we have to bring the bougie back. this is not without its problems; being bougie or suddenly becoming a culture of 'manners' is uneasily akin to 19th century behavior books. it concentrates on the manner of things rather than the matter, so to speak. for a feminist like me to say 'if only people weren't so rude!' - it sounds weak, school marmish and old fashioned.

but what else can our culture handle?
it has proven it can't handle big, complex thoughts like sexism and racism; it has had at least a century to grapple with and discover its finer self. but it hasn't. so, like a spoiled, feces-throwing child in an episode of Super Nanny, it must be put on the naughty mat and made to face the corner and not move until it really means 'i'm sorry' and knows what it said and why it can't ever be said again.

calling for a national rebirth of civility and manners in our public discourse is infantilizing, i know. but, after all, isn't this what our parents told us whenever we got into trouble and whined about it: "if you're going to act like a child, expect to be treated like a child."

222, baby.

shifting my gaze slightly, as i 'work from home' today, i want to talk about our jiggly parts. yes, those parts we'd prefer we could hide all the time. the parts our spanx are supposed to smooth, slim and contain.

perhaps sexist asshats like don imus (who only want to see cool smooth slim girl bodies and have a disgust of, or contempt for, women with strong, big, active, dark, large or bulging bodies) will think twice about opening their big mouths if we all take a page from joy nash's book.



nash says the fashion industry treats big soft girls like we don't even deserve to wear clothes. with the closing of forth & towne and the downright refusal of major clothing lines to not make clothes up to a freaking size 22, at least, i have to agree with her.
...
last night, on Top Designer, carisa lost to matt. i heartily disliked the self-regarding carisa but i liked that she was plump, stylish, feisty and smart. (i'd never live in a room she designed but whatever.) i preferred her wacked out narcissism to kellie werstler's chihuahua-like 'mad princess' moue.

and it ocurred to me that we hardly ever see the carisa types end up in any kind of finals on tv.

unless, of course, you're rooting for laila ali on Dancing with the Stars. she's big, strong, muscular and i love watching her wrestle her dance partner every week. hot.
...
simon doonan was on ultra HD the other night. while they watched christian lacroix's spring/summer show, he and the fashionable male host bemoaned the incipient demise of haute couture - no one knew how to wear it anymore, no one appreciated the craft blah blah, sob sob. then, pointing to a breadstick thin girl clomping down the runway, doonan says something like, 'how fabulous it would be to see that dress in a size 22 or 20. you see? because it's hand made and made just for that individual woman, haute couture can make anyone look fabulous.'

the male host tried to mask his surprise but his face screamed, 'really?! a fat woman?!'
...
so. anyway. there's my number up there.

one's money and one's mouth: upcoming events

supporters of imus have been saying that his language didn't come from himself but from the black community - basically, this is the norm within the black community.

i beg to differ. (i mean, no one black i know has used that kind of language.) but whatever. conversations about misogyny are happening in our community - and i think they're a lot more honest than the ones mainstream society keeps managing to avoid.

so instead of blindly appropriating the language of black sexism like irresponsible children, here's everyone's chance to actually share in our conversation:

Hip Hop: Beyond Beats and Rhymes—Documentary Screening & Discussion with the Director, Byron Hurt
Friday, April 27, 2007
7:00 p.m.
Ida Noyes Hall, Max Palevsky Theater
1212 East 59th Street
Chicago, Illinois
$5.00 admission

Does Hip Hop Hate Women—Panel and Discussion
Saturday, April 28, 2007 | 1:00 pm
Saturday, April 28, 2007
1:00 p.m.
International House Assembly Hall
1414 East 59th Street
Chicago, Illinois
Free & Open to the Public

hope to see you there.

yeah, i'm still on my soapbox

a little friend was kind enough to smuggle something out from behind the NYTimes Iron Curtain.

in all the kerfuffle about the Imus Incident, one thing consistently gets lost: the blatant sexism of his comments. race is the most obvious thing to get riled up about, but what about the sexism? are women still so invisible as subjects that it never crosses our minds? selena roberts below takes a look at how women are easy targets; we become the symbol of what men don't want to be: powerless, weak, less than, debilitated, unskilled.

Sports of The Times
A First-Class Response to a Second-Class Put-Down

By SELENA ROBERTS
Published: April 11, 2007

Of grace and dignity, without a single boob joke for ratings or a raunchy sidekick for on-air laughs, the women wearing Rutgers scarlet managed to capsize society’s power differential yesterday.

The meek held the microphone — or the lifeline of the potent Don Imus — as the Rutgers players used their poised voices to hold a radio cowboy accountable for losing his 10-gallon mind during an unconscionable riff last week.

That was when Imus departed from his usual ridicule of influential equals, whether politicians or pro athletes or celebrities, to mock the vulnerable by degrading a mostly African-American basketball team of 18-, 19- and 20-year-old women.

The Rutgers team had done nothing but excel as history students and music majors, as big sisters and determined players on an improbable joyride to the national championship game.

“Nappy-headed hos,” Imus called them.

Racism, shouted prominent black male politicians and journalists. And on the crawls across the screens of cable networks, when news of the Imus rant fomented, the word “racial” bumped into “racially charged.” Right account, if only partly.

By its lonesome, “ho” has barely registered a ripple for anyone outside Gloria Steinem’s buddy list or the Rutgers team.

“It’s more than about the Rutgers women’s basketball team,” the team’s captain, Essence Carson, said during a news conference in Piscataway, N.J., adding, “As a society, we’re trying to grow and get to the point where we don’t classify women as hos and we don’t classify African-American women as nappy-headed hos.”

Ho is the new bitch. And bitch is the old sissy. But whatever the label, women are always first to be part of the gag when sexism and misogyny are publicly sanctioned and celebrated — particularly in sports.

Shaquille O’Neal, in his Lakers days, referred to the Sacramento Kings as “Queens.”

And in this sanitized version, a top Division I football coach was once overheard telling his team after a particularly big win: tonight, you guys deserve to take whatever woman you want.

In Johnny Damon’s long-haired Boston days, a punch line used to circulate: He looks like Jesus, throws like Mary.

Last fall, a television ad for DiGiorno frozen pizza was broadcast throughout the college football season with South Carolina Coach Steve Spurrier and Washington Coach Tyrone Willingham in starring roles. They were shown participating in a news conference at which pizza was served. “If this isn’t delivery, we’ll play the entire game in dresses,” Spurrier tells Willingham.

Cut to the beefy players in sundresses and heels.
•
No one wants a nanny planet, but funny has to be a fair fight — even in pillow fights.

It’s not just Imus in the cross hairs for mocking the defenseless. The Toronto Blue Jays have been under scrutiny for producing a commercial promoting this baseball season.

At 6 feet 5 inches and 275 pounds, Frank Thomas is filmed whacking a small boy so hard with a pillow that the child flies off the bed and hits the floor with a thud. Thomas then breaks into a home run trot.

The Television Bureau of Canada refused to approve the spot. The Blue Jays can’t understand why. But possessing the power differential means bullying someone your own size.

With the ear of a national audience, Imus denigrated women who have revealed the courage to play a sport in its pure, fundamental form even though it is often branded inferior to the dunk style of men. The gals absorb enough put-downs as it is.

The racial twist of Imus’s derision prompted the public outrage and scared network executives out of their focus groups. Talk of race ultimately gave the Rutgers women a platform, but a dialogue on vanquishing sexism and misogyny ribboned their message as they spoke from a dais yesterday.

“It is all women athletes,” Rutgers Coach C. Vivian Stringer said. “It is all women. Have we lost the sense of our own moral fiber? Has society decayed to the point that we forgive and forget because, you know what, it was just a slip of the tongue?”

With everyone’s attention, would Rutgers scream for justice? Instead the players eloquently described their tales of personal pain and their disillusionment with the networks. As the sophomore forward Heather Zurich said, “Our moment was taken away, our moment to celebrate our success, our moment to realize how far we’d come on and off the court as young women; we were stripped of this moment by a degrading comment made by Mr. Imus.”

With the stage, would they demand Imus be fired? They would not play shock jock, but calmly asked for time to meet with him, time to reflect.

“Right now, I can’t really say if we have come to a conclusion on whether we will accept the apology,” the junior guard Matee Ajavon said.
•
Ajavon and her teammates could have cracked Imus over his cowboy hat with the microphone in their hands. They had the outlet to mock him if they had chosen to attack him just as personally as he had them.

Rutgers wasn’t out for revenge, though. Carson said the team did not want to be looked at “as if we’re attacking a major broadcasting figure.

“We’re attacking an issue we know isn’t right,” she said.

Somewhere, Imus was listening. He, like everyone, had to hear the women out. This wasn’t his studio or his sidekicks. The Rutgers women ran the show without abusing the privilege. Very ladylike of them.

E-mail: selenasports@nytimes.com

imus action

if one happens to want to send a strongly worded note to the radio station, CBS and MSNBC, you can go here. the National YWCA has weighed in and you can find their action alert on the link.

cry me a river, don.

i woke up this morning and turned on Good Morning America and the first story i heard, while i tried to ignore my clock, was the whole 'nappy headed ho's' thing. i sleepily watched while robin exuded hurt disapproval and her co-anchor, chris, practically set himself on fire in empathetic outrage over imus' remarks and his lame apology.

as a brown girl who is seriously tired of every single story like this, i give a great big Whatever to his apology and everyone's outrage. i mean, how outraged are we, really? we're shocked and apalled that don imus spewed asshat bigotry on the air? gasp!
and as for his apology, whatever. chalk up another Tour of Sorry as he tries to cleanse himself of his PR mistake.

i don't really give a crap about imus or his remarks (as bad as they are) because, honestly, i don't expect anything more from 'mainstream society.' (read that however you wish.) my expectations have been managed downward at such an alarming rate, things like basic bigotry no longer make my blood pressure jump; i expect the larger society to behave stupidly, crassly and ignorantly. i no longer expect people to behave like civilized, rational adults. unless i have evidence to the contrary, whenever i see people like don imus open their mouths, i wait expectantly for a foot to be inserted.

how cynical is that?

and i am outraged at how paltry our language for condemnation has become. i don't want to hear imus apologize for saying 'bad,' 'insensitive,' 'racially charged' things about those girls on the college basketball team; i want to hear him apologize for being an asshole. i want to hear him apologize for shitting on civility and farting in the face of our cultural discourse. i want him to go on his radio show and say, 'I'm sorry. I'm a pig.' for the love of western civilization, say something that actually matters and is true.

on those rare occasions i meet someone who's a bigoted, misogynist or homophobic asshat, or am confronted with an unexpected bigoted, misogynist or homophobic asshat comment during a social occasion, i drop that person. immediately. they no longer exist for me. they disappear from my universe.

when are we going to start setting the same rules for all the rest? why aren't we outraged over that?!


[everything bloggy you need to know about the imus kerfuffle can be found here.]

Pilot season - British actors - Television - New York Times

brain is dead.
work is hard.
sex is...where?

but pullo and vorenus from 'rome' are coming to network tv.
heh.

shperta!

my blog friend johnboy writes about sparta (the place, not the movie) here. fascinating.

(and i link to it because i think johnboy knows what he's talking about, being a classical scholar and all.)

It’s Not You, It’s Your Apartment - New York Times

It’s Not You, It’s Your Apartment - New York Times

some people may call us shallow but there are some of us who can only take so much when it comes to gettin' down in a craptacular apartment. and i've gotten down in some craptacular apartments. (i'll go on record and admit i've even had a craptacular apartment or two - but i rarely had sex in them. and i was depressed. very very depressed.)

a list of greatest hits:

C-, the financial analyst who lived in a studio in boystown with plastic lawn chairs instead of living room furniture mere inches away from a sagging twin bed and hot plate. he once chased me around his room with his pants around his knees but when i told him it wasn't working out i used his apartment, instead, as an excuse to get rid of him.

T-, a 30-something consultant who lived in a basement with stolen sugar packets, an old lava lamp and a couch that was clearly stolen from a dorm room.

B-, who lives/ed like he lives/ed in prison: one fork, one spoon, one cup, one towel and a mattress on the floor. his record collection, however, is/was stellar.

The Librarian, whose dilapidated connecticut shack was entirely the fault of his bossy, manipulative roommate who owned giant, shedding cats and her bertha-like brother who lived in the attic. not comfortable.

would love to hear of any domiciles that gave folks the heebie-jeebies when it came down to gettin' down.

wow. even the times knows about our train issues

A Rail System (and Patience) Are Stretched Thin in Chicago - New York Times

i made plans to meet a friend up in lincoln square on sunday for lunch.
i left the house shortly before noon; i walked to the chicago bus about 2-3 blocks away; it came after a teeny 3-5 minute wait. then i transferred to the brown line/franlkin stop which took *forever* to arrive. when i finally got to lincoln square it was 1.30.

90 minutes for a usual 45 minute train ride (if that.) unbelievable.

and this morning?
a normal 15 minute bus ride took twice the time.

ding perhaps shares too much

my raincoat smells funny. it smells like old guy.

what a day - when i left the house it was pitch black and i got to the office at 7 for a board meeting and then realized, halfway through the meeting, that after my shower this morning, i'd forgotten my instead cup.

niiice. so now my lower regions are stuffed with toilet paper.

and the day for the agency's spoken word event (at which B-'s sister will perform) is one month out. i'm looking at the nifty postcard advertising the event right now and trying to find a family resemblance but can't find one.

in the stirrups

so a couple weeks ago i went to the doctor for my bi-annual pelvic. (although i know better, i usually don't go to the doctor unless something is hanging out of me, bleeding.)

anyway, there i am, in the stirrups, being palpated by my doctor and missing the old cloth robes we used to wear during these kind of examinations.

then she goes, 'Hm.'
i think, Hm is never good.
i say, 'what's wrong?'
she says, 'did you know you have fibroids?'
'uh, no.'
'well, you do. do you know what they are?' palpate. palpate.
i say, 'big tumor-y things?'
she laughs while continuing to palpate. 'yes, big tumor-y things.' she snaps off the gloves and gets ready to do the pap.
'you got 'em. i'm going to recommend you get an ultrasound just so we see how big they are.'

i just nod and i can't help but think, wow, i really won't ever have children. i have fibroids! huzzah!*

god works in mysterious ways, doesn't He?

*for folks out there who may be befuddled at my logic re: infertility: fibroids keep growing back so i'd either have to get them lasered out all the time, take constant medication all the time, or get a hysterectomy. it's an inevitability. goodbye uterus.*

**and, indeed, god works mysteriously because my STD screening was totally clear! whoo hoo!!**

caught.

i've been a fugitive. for years, i've 'deferred' (avoided/postponed/whatever) my student loan from undergrad and it finally caught up to me today.

the guy on the phone today sort of chuckled and said, 'you're a hard one to locate, actually. i'm glad i caught up with you.'

'yeah, so am i.'

and so he did - from 1992 to the present - whoo hoo! and the principal didn't much rise over all that time. (yes, i already know i'm bad with money. no need to chastise me.)

but, there is a little sigh of relief; in two months my dept of education/student loan debt will be completely gone. why i waited this long, i don't know. it's not like the original $1300 was all that huge...

JT

i'm just too frakking old, you know?

thanks to a very generous friend and acquaintance, i went to the JT concert last night. (a school night!) i think my hearing is broken. oh, not that JT wasn't great. he was...awesome. he puts on a great r&b show. see him play the piano, strum the guitar, dance (and dance and dance and dance) and see him drink tequila and see him get all sensitive with 3 slow jams in a row. it was a little bit of prince, morris day, janet & michael jackson, and it was great. (i think he might even have the coolest back up singers on the planet.)

but it's exhausticating, being at the Allstate arena, listening to thousands of girls scream and watching timbaland blow everyone's mind with some weird 20 minute intermission show. and then riding home in a limo while 14 grown women sing along to JT all over again? my hearing is definitely broken.

however, i must admit: JT is the funkiest little white boy ever.

over at Alas, a Blog, a fascinating review of some back and forth. from Alas (and i heartily encourage y'all to follow the links and read the discussion):

*** ONGOING INTER-BLOG DEBATE ABOUT RACE, BEING A WHITE “RACE TRAITOR,” AND FEMINISM ***
Or, as Nine Pearls aptly calls it, “The White Lady Pity Party.” There are good link round-ups at Fetch Me My Axe and Renegade Evolution, so I won’t attempt to replicate their work. But I will point out three posts that were (for me) stand-outs: Brownfemipower’s typically super-sharp and well-written analysis; the “Clue Phone” post at Cassandra Says; and this milk-shot-out-my-nose visual post at My Private Casbah.

i'm not going to weigh in (because Brownfemipower's post really said it all) but the whole thing is just fascinating.

taboo: taboo for a reason

i was on the bbc news site because i wanted to read some news that had nothing to do with the united states when i came across this.

gick isn't even the word for it.

about my lost link list: i loved my link list. it wasn't super extensive like others' were, but it was made of my favorite things. it will return! soon. as soon as i've figured out where i put my favorite links...

the longest day. ever.

At long last, I have finished preparing my boss for her second lobby trip to Springfield. Not to whine, but here I go: Waah! I'm working really hard! Waah! I need a nap!

And underneath the whining, a quiet 'heh. i rock.'
...
so now that Forth & Towne is closing, i need to plan a massive shopping trip to hoard accessories and cute jackets for spring and summer. who's with me?
...
the political season is underway and i have only meh thoughts about hillary and obama in black churches to prove their street cred. (what cred do they seek, i wonder? is hillary really trying to show what a friend she is to black folks? and is obama really going to cave on the whole 'if you're mixed you're not black enough' meme? i guess so.) how ridiculous is our political process that we pay more attention to the stupid photo op than actual policy?

what i'd love to ask hillary:
without referencing the 60's, martin luther king or anyone from the civil rights era, why should black people pay any attention to you today?
...
in what is becoming an uncomfortable phone call habit, my father keeps asking me what the outcome was of my lunch with MichiGarry.

this lunch was back in january.

so my father is either *really* worried that i'm going to die unshriven and alone or he's entering senility.

is it bad that i'm hoping it's the latter?

kenneth eng: just stupid or just a stupid racist?

here is where you can find all the recent articles about a (crazy) article that ended up in the pages of asian week, a san francisco weekly paper.

(you can read the original article written by kenneth eng here. you can also read his other articles here and here, which demonstrate that perhaps his asshattery isn't just for blacks. it seems to be endemic with mr. eng.)

it reminds me of a chinese freshman student i once had at ucla who wrote a paper defending the japanese internment camps. when my head stopped throbbing with disbelief at his thesis i sat with him in office hours to talk about it. i gave the paper a passing grade (technically, there was nothing much wrong with it) but he and i had a long discussion about critical thinking, research, and the need to avoid talking out of one's ass if one wants to be taken seriously.

i am also reminded of the asian guy whose bright idea it was to create a game called Ghettopoly. remember that?

dear lord, how much fucking ignorance must we endure from young college grads who graduate dumber than when they went in?

i fear for this world, i really do.

[and how much do you want to bet that a statement from mr. eng will soon appear, defending his columns as 'satire' or 'ironic,' whose real, subterranean and much too subtle purpose was to hold racism and bigotry to ridicule?

if such a statement appears i want to be the very first to call bullshit on that.]

damn you, new Blogger!
i lost my link list and buttons!

noooo!: Gap to close Forth & Towne chain

Gap to close Forth & Towne chain

dammit!

now where the hell am i supposed to find anymore cute work clothes??!!
marina renaldi is too expensive.
banana, GAP and JCrew don't have the sizes.
H&M is too young.
Old Navy too cheap.
Bloomies still can't quite get the fit and cut right - and they don't have the variety.
Lane Bryant is too...unprofessional.

so, thanks, GAP.
thanks for totally screwing over 30-something women who can't/won't dress like tarts who also happen to be shaped like women.

fuckers!

[wanna share your thoughts? forth & towne feedback can be emailed here.]

living well

the dinner party was lovely. i love my friends - not only are they funny as hell, they have style, they can cook (when we've had a week to prepare ourselves) and they appreciate effort. and what a lot of effort we went to!

(in fact, at one point of the night, we bemoaned - unfairly, perhaps? - the fact that not very many of the single men we knew went to this kind of effort at all.)

Roomie tapped into her midwestern hostess geneology and laid a spectacular table - gorgeous silver, great big fat goblets for wine, ruby water glasses and silver candleabra (how the hell do you spell that?) over a creamy white silky tablecloth sprinkled with little sparkly glass beads that caught the light. vintage linen napkins rolled in heavy silver napkin rings were perfect and pretty. T- brought over a delicate orchid as a hostess gift that played nice with the simple red tulip arrangement and the teeny, pretty as can be calla lilies that Roomie bought the day before.

the menu:

1st course - two amuses: an onion tartelet of puff pastry and cooked with thyme and butter (so yummy) and the salmon mousse on toast, drizzled with a bright green chive oil (ti wasn't my favorite, but it did look very feminine and pretty)
2nd course - roasted tomato soup with fresh basil and crusty artisanal bread, accompanied by a really round fruity white wine that i can't recall
3rd course - endive salad with pear, topped with a gorgonzola and honey dressing (which went well with the champagne we had been drinking before the meal got started)
4th course - meat tortellini with a prosciutto/cream sauce, baked in a puff pastry sarcophagus, as well as a filet of baked red snapper in a champagne sauce with fresh green beans and red peppers on the side, paired with a very nice white burgundy (i think it was called Mayhem & Mischief)
5th course - K-'s gastronomic chocolate topper: a little chocolate cake with a kapow of chipotle, three handmade truffles (one was topped with sea salt and it was so good we all just ruminated on that for a while), a lime cream in the shape of a heart, meringue 'cigarettes' and the whole thing was paired with a very manly shot of vodka. dude. we all agreed that she won the Top Chef moment of the night.
6th course - the very nice cheese plate from T- that was a nice finisher to the chocolate and vodka we'd consumed.

then we sat around the table while the candles burned down, smoked our cigs, drank the rest of the wine and champagne until the table was a wonderful decadent mess of ashtrays, half empty wine glasses, cheese and silver. i took a few pictures and everything had a really great golden glow.

the night reminded me of those nights back in grad school when we wanted to distract ourselves from our deprivation and depression and we'd throw over the top, elaborate dinners and hang out with YF because she was the best cook and we'd sit at her long table in her quirky victorian studio, eating and drinking until we staggered home. i have a few photos from one of those dinners: you can see the packs of french cigarettes, the bottles of wine, the wine and sauce stains on the white tablecloth, profiles of heated faces caught in mid conversation, the over flowing ash trays.

every night you're with friends should be like this, don't you think?

(and then i think about the brief phone call i had with S- yesterday, when she called me from the traffic in los angeles. and, again, she mourned the death of her past life - now it was teaching at a local university and constant daycare for her two children instead of nights with friends and going out.

i said, 'S-. you have to stop that. there's no point to wishing or missing what's gone. your life is different now. all of that - it's over.'
she said, 'i know. but what about you? is it all work and nothing else? don't you miss what it was before?'
'no. because i'm at a different point now. i hate bars and clubs - i don't miss it at all; so while there's tons of work, there's also hanging out with my friends at my place, there're movies, dinners, visits, cocktails. it's just different - better, more livable. and...i don't have kids. i have the freedom to schedule around what i want. there's no one else depending on me for sustenance.'
she sighed. 'i know. it's just that we never go out, we never see anyone, my house is full of toys, it's a mess, my mom is living with us because we can't cope with everything and it just sucks, you know?'

and while i made sympathetic noises, i also felt a little superior. i did! i couldn't help it. i just did. so there.)

the weekend begins

fox & obel makes me want to cook. when i'm there i imagine i'm in paris, on my way to my charming flat overlooking the rue de whatever, picking up just a few things for dinner with sophisticated friends. ah, the dream. it's the dream where i'm wearing a simple chic outfit, carrying a chic canvas bag (no proletariat plastic for me!), and i'll use public transportation in a very chic way, effortlessly balancing bread, cheese, flowers, boeuf and wine.

unfortunately, the reality is far different. i'm slogging through crusty gray snow, slushing through dirty water in the parking lot and the plastic bags are cutting off my circulation in my fingers while my glasses fog over in the cold. (all the while i'm bloated with my period and waddling so slowly across the street i almost get hit by a jeep.)

the plan was so easy: take the time before the dinner party to get a couple recipes under my belt so i could get the timing down and such. so prepared! so full of foresight! so deluded. i bought my smoked salmon, my heavy cream, the chives, the grapeseed oil - all to make a fluffy little amuse. how hard could it be?

almost 2 hours later, with a cuisinart, blender and beater going, grapeseed oil burning on the stove while chives burnt to a crisp, pureed smoked salmon looking about as appetizing as vomit, i decided that stores like fox & obel could kiss my ass. even now, i know i should taste the test batch i made last night but i'm afraid.

pureed salmon with cream sprinkled with chive oil? gag.
...
while near blizzard conditions battered chicago tuesday night, roomie and i (with a couple of girl friends) went to the Chicago Auto Show. (it was ladies night! $5!)

i have to admit that when you're on your period, there's nothing better than wandering desultorily around a convention center with your belly all poked out just being lulled by all the shiny paint jobs and the new car smells.

observations:

why do men want to take pictures with cars? i don't get it.

how cool that you can drive the cars in fake rivers and over faux hills?

the mini is really made for a tiny little hipster with no friends. i mean, really. we tried to fit four people in the new mini convertible and i almost dislocated a hip sliding into the driver's seat.

a car that costs over 150k is totally obscene and no one, except a tacky saudi prince, should ever own one.

the new volvo c30 is love love love love. it's not here, yet, and i don't drive but now i'm rethinking that lifestyle choice, thanks to the volvo.

so whaddya know. cooking and car shows.
i contain multitudes.

ever wonder why you were so dissatisfied with Pretty in Pink and why you can't turn away from Some Kind of Wonderful?

beyond the whole Gen X thing, Atalanta (hee!) discovers the answer here.

(yes, i gave you a shout out!)

the winter blues

Bloog.

It's like I'm a manitee. I'm so incredibly bloated right now I actually look pregnant. (I do. And the empire-waisted blouse I'm wearing ain't helping.)

It feels good, though, to let the belly out. Just stand there and let it all go. ahhh...

Hm.

I'm so signing up for Weight Watchers Online...

another one for the oscar party, ladies.

Anna Nicole Smith Dies - The Lede - Breaking News - New York Times Blog

is it hugely cruel of me to say 'As the fembot lives, so shall the fembot die?"
yes?

ok, then. i won't say it.

Orange Tangerine: Phobias

while i dither at work, frantically trying to prep for tomorrow (now there's a chance i'll have to speak at the press conference!!), here's a post about our sometimes irrational fears from Orange: Orange Tangerine: Phobias.

(in the comments you'll find a short list of mine, which includes having acid thrown in my face. i've been horribly afraid of this since i was a kid. any idea if that's an actual condition or just an extreme expression of my vanity?)

i know i should be excited about tomorrow's trip to springfield.
i really should. i'll be down in the capitol as part of our democratic process. yay.

but it's going to be 2 degrees, snowing and/or yucky. who's at their best when they're wrapped up like the michelin man and wearing sensible boots?

not me!

krugman on molly ivins and satire

(do i have times select? no. but i have friends who have. thanks, Orange! i reprint this not to point out similarities between my rant on what satire is and krugman's essay - ahem - but to direct attention to ivins' desire to hold Power accountable. i hope we can continue to do that.)
...

Missing Molly Ivins
By PAUL KRUGMAN
Published: February 2, 2007

Molly Ivins, the Texas columnist, died of breast cancer on Wednesday.
I first met her more than three years ago, when our book tours
crossed. She was, as she wrote, “a card-carrying member of The Great
Liberal Backlash of 2003, one of the half-dozen or so writers now
schlepping around the country promoting books that do not speak kindly
of Our Leader’s record.”

I can’t claim to have known her well. But I spent enough time with
her, and paid enough attention to her work, to know that obituaries
that mostly stressed her satirical gifts missed the main point. Yes,
she liked to poke fun at the powerful, and was very good at it. But
her satire was only the means to an end: holding the powerful
accountable.

She explained her philosophy in a stinging 1995 article in Mother
Jones magazine about Rush Limbaugh. “Satire ... has historically been
the weapon of powerless people aimed at the powerful,” she wrote.
“When you use satire against powerless people ... it is like kicking a
cripple.”

Molly never lost sight of two eternal truths: rulers lie, and the
times when people are most afraid to challenge authority are also the
times when it’s most important to do just that. And the fact that she
remembered these truths explains something I haven’t seen pointed out
in any of the tributes: her extraordinary prescience on the central
political issue of our time.

I’ve been going through Molly’s columns from 2002 and 2003, the period
when most of the wise men of the press cheered as Our Leader took us
to war on false pretenses, then dismissed as “Bush haters” anyone who
complained about the absence of W.M.D. or warned that the victory
celebrations were premature. Here are a few selections:

Nov. 19, 2002: “The greatest risk for us in invading Iraq is probably
not war itself, so much as: What happens after we win? ... There is a
batty degree of triumphalism loose in this country right now.”

Jan. 16, 2003: “I assume we can defeat Hussein without great cost to
our side (God forgive me if that is hubris). The problem is what
happens after we win. The country is 20 percent Kurd, 20 percent Sunni
and 60 percent Shiite. Can you say, ‘Horrible three-way civil war?’ ”

July 14, 2003: “I opposed the war in Iraq because I thought it would
lead to the peace from hell, but I’d rather not see my prediction come
true and I don’t think we have much time left to avert it. That the
occupation is not going well is apparent to everyone but Donald
Rumsfeld. ... We don’t need people with credentials as right-wing
ideologues and corporate privatizers — we need people who know how to
fix water and power plants.”

Oct. 7, 2003: “Good thing we won the war, because the peace sure looks
like a quagmire. ...

“I’ve got an even-money bet out that says more Americans will be
killed in the peace than in the war, and more Iraqis will be killed by
Americans in the peace than in the war. Not the first time I’ve had a
bet out that I hoped I’d lose.”

So Molly Ivins — who didn’t mingle with the great and famous, didn’t
have sources high in the administration, and never claimed special
expertise on national security or the Middle East — got almost
everything right. Meanwhile, how did those who did have all those
credentials do?

With very few exceptions, they got everything wrong. They bought the
obviously cooked case for war — or found their own reasons to endorse
the invasion. They didn’t see the folly of the venture, which was
almost as obvious in prospect as it is with the benefit of hindsight.
And they took years to realize that everything we were being told
about progress in Iraq was a lie.

Was Molly smarter than all the experts? No, she was just braver. The
administration’s exploitation of 9/11 created an environment in which
it took a lot of courage to see and say the obvious.

Molly had that courage; not enough others can say the same.

And it’s not over. Many of those who failed the big test in 2002 and
2003 are now making excuses for the “surge.” Meanwhile, the same
techniques of allegation and innuendo that were used to promote war
with Iraq are being used to ratchet up tensions with Iran.

Now, more than ever, we need people who will stand up against the
follies and lies of the powerful. And Molly Ivins, who devoted her
life to questioning authority, will be sorely missed.

aw, crap: Molly Ivins, 1944-2007

Molly Ivins, 1944-2007

who cares if you're racist when you're stupid?

here is a post from Alas, A Blog commenting about a really ill-thought racially themed party at Clemson on Martin Luther King Day.

not only does the general ignorance of college kids stun me, their whole misunderstanding of satire (which just re-emphasizes they weren't paying that much attention in their english classes in the first place) frustrates me.

we've seen this excuse before. michael richards had his defenders who said his n-word laden rant was perhaps a misfired attempt to satirize ... something (it's unclear what exactly he would be satirizing); chuck knipp's drag character, Shirly Q. Liquor, is supposed to be (in his words) a satirical look at racism; the hipsters in brooklyn with their Kill Whitey club nights think they're satirizing 'ghetto culture'; and now, every frat boy/sorority girl, college or law school student who wants to wear a sombrero, put on blackface, speak in ebonics or 'run for the border' thinks they're engaging in satire.

but what they forget, or perhaps never knew or understood, is that satire is a punch in the eye of Power. satire's anger, it's needle, is directed upward - never downward. if it does, then it ceases to be satire and it's just another way for those in power to bully the powerless or to scream to the public that you're just another tool of the status quo.

so, for all you dumbass college kids and misinformed adults out there, this is satire:

it is a precise literary term (which means you have to have some measure of intellectual weight to pull it off)
it has a very specific target (i.e., a person or group of people, an idea or attitude, an institution or a social practice)
in satire, your target is held up to merciless ridicule that is often very angry, ideally in the hope of shaming your target into reform (again, critical faculties are necessary as well as a recognition of power and how it operates in society)
it has a strong vein of irony or sarcasm (parody, burlesque, exaggeration and double entendre are all devices frequently used in satirical speech and writing - again, pointing to intellectual rigor in the person who calls herself a satirist)
finally, it is strictly a misuse of the word to describe as "satire" works without an ironic (or sarcastic) undercurrent of mock-approval, criticism and an element at least of anger.

how does a privileged white boy in blackface poke fun or criticize or throw into instability the codes of racism or our racist history? how does a white girl in a do' rag holding a forty problematize the ways that race, sexuality and racial images are reproduced and disseminted in this country?

it doesn't. because all you have is a white girl in a do' rag holding a forty.

here endeth the lesson.

silky panties, pt 2.

next week may be my first trip to springfield to knock on some doors and attend a coalition press conference. but what's the burning question on my mind (as i avoid creating my trip agenda)?

what does the well-dressed advocate wear while chasing after legislators and their staff all day? sensible shoes, yes, but how about a pointy-toed flat? (and what about snow?) and, clearly, a pantsuit is necessary, but can i find one that won't bankrupt me but still accommodate the flat sensible shoes? and what about a bag? i can't see myself tooling around with my Tumi messenger.

i'm sure all the guy advocates worry about the same thing.
...
yesterday was also a lesson in city/county politics. did you know that city hall is literally split in two? yes; if you go to the 5th floor you'll notice a big ugly iron door cutting the floor in half. on one side is the county and the other the city. i think there's some story behind this but i can't recall it right now.

i had plenty of time to contemplate the symbolism of a divided city hall while i and a coworker waited in the hot hallway to enter the public budget hearings for the county. (you know, the budget that's basically going to suck ass and kill basic services for the whole county.) above us, the speakers tried to transmit the droning tones of the meeting happening inside, but the anger in the hallway sometimes got in the way.

in line with us were crowds of city and cook county employees, rallying for the survival of their departments. it was an interesting crowd: doctors elbowing with criminal justice folks, nudging against nurses, doctors, clerks, public defenders, administrators, priests, plus all the big beefy guys you see in various parts of the city.

with 110 speakers signed up, we calculated that the meeting would last 5.5 hours. so we left without being able to participate in our city's democratic process. and outside, in the flurrying snow and wind, hundreds of city and county workers marched on Daly Plaza yelling "They say cutback! We say fight back! They say cutback! We say fight back!" we saw at least 4 different unions represented. and that's what makes a good rally - organization and anger. it was awesome.

depressing, but awesome.

they shoot horses, don't they? well, duh!

i went to the planned parenthood gala tonight. i worked a little late so i missed half the cocktail hour and have resolved that, next year, i am not going alone. it was totally boring without having someone to dish with.

however, todd stroger (our new county board president) was there. he's really short and bears an uncanny resemblance to a guy i once dated in my dad's church. his handwritten nametag gave him a forlorn, paddington bear kind of air. poor thing didn't realize everyone called him Urkel behind his back. but, hey, why should i feel sorry for him? there he is, in a feminist organization's annual gala, rubbing elbows with other politicos (like gov. rod blagojevich, jan schakowsky and carol ronen). he's made in the shade. but he's also the guy who's proposing to get rid of the women's justice services dept in the sherrif's dept (meanwhile, men's services stay intact.) i wonder if he felt the irony. i know i did. i wonder if anyone approached him to ask him about it. probably not.

then i hung out in the bar to drink a glass of jameson's and overheard some staffers complain about the big donors' reserved tables while the frontline staff were 'forced' to stand (along with folks like me); she railed on about the hyprocrisy and i hid a smile. i've heard this complaint before, from folks in my own organization, and i have to admit to a certain lack of patience with the complaint. it's petty and painfully childish.

in a perfect world, organizations that provide crucial social and human services would be fueled by all the good feelings it produces in the world. butterflies would bring me coffee and birds would read my email; then, a blue fairy would hit me with her wand and i'd suddenly become a real boy.

but, alas, we live in the world of cold, hard cash. that money the staffer is so quick to scoff at actually means something to the organization. it's a fucking line item in the budget - a line item that needs to exist if the organization is going to continue to function.

fundraisers aren't about recognizing the hard work of front line staff; unfortunate, but true. they're about the story we tell donors so we can get our hands on their money. they're marginally about the work we do. they're really about telling a really great story of our organization to the donor so the donor can feel good about parting with hefty sums of cash. it's an intricate dance of seduction - and, if you've done the job well, you will celebrate and feel a little icky that you've just spent one night whoring yourself out for nearly $1 million. (hence all the folks who shook hands with todd stroger with gritted teeth.)

yes. $1 million dollars. what would you do for $1 million, knowing that it pays for programs, overhead, education, advocacy capacity, and direct service? can those of us in the nonprofit arena afford to be so frakking naive about how our organizations operate and what our money is used for? with the increasing strictures of govt funding and private sources of funding becoming even more important, i think not.

come one, people. leave graduate school behind and frakking grow up a little.

i'm ecstatic. i can now order my most favorite pants and jackets by phone from forth & towne, here!

but when the heck are they going to have an online store?? come on, people - enough dilly dallying!

hola, super osas!

yesterday, dressed in an orange cashmere sweater, my hair in a perky ponytail topped off by an orange ribbon tied in a bow (i was so spirited i should have won an award), i watched The Game with a couple of girl friends at our local bar and now our Bears are going to the Superbowl!!

yay for lovie smith (don't you just love his calm demeanor?)! yay for rex grossman! and yay for punter dude, who really deserves an outstanding contribution award, considering our first 6 or 9 points on the board were for field goals!

just imagine: chicago wins the superbowl AND we get the olympics.
awesome.

yeah, i'm successful: i'm wearing silky panties

Speaking Chic to Power - New York Times

in addition to my brown silky bikini panties, i'm also wearing a matching lacy brown bra underneath a sheer silk blouse, which is underneath a black nipped in blazer on top of a crisp pair of black boot cut trousers. on my feet, a pair of black/white plaid, kitten heel flats with a scarlet rhinestone buckle. (it seems gaudy, but you have to see these shoes - they're cute as hell.)

and what did i have to do today (nay, this week)?
plan/organize a board meeting for this morning, take minutes, manage the board members, set up/break down; juggle various presentations, senior managers, consultants, vendors, logistics, agendas, materials for a staff retreat; remain cheerful, supportive and efficient; take my knocks and step up when things didn't go as planned, much to my CEO's displeasure, and basically make sure that everything, by hell or high water, got frakking done for 150 people tomorrow (for whom i will be up at the crack of dawn again, onsite, helping the facilitation team, getting our bill paid and smoothing over whatever gaps/cracks appear over the course of one very long, arduous day.) am i successful? i'd like to think so.

now.
what do my panties have to do with any of that?
apparently, a lot, if you take this article seriously.

from the article:
“You don’t have to grow up to look like a librarian,” said Lauren Solomon, founder and director of LS Image Associates, which has clients in the corporate and political fields. “But you don’t have to look like a hooker, either.”

nice. librarian/hooker. these are our choices when we're women of substance. clearly our media is still new to the idea that there are thousands of women in our offices and universities, hospitals and courhouses who manage to avoid this nonsensical binary every single day.

what does a girl do when she gets rid of one mistake?
she flies to boston to forget it ever happened and replace it with...more fun memories.

so.
i'll miss all 5 of my readers, but i'll be away until monday afternoon, getting some sleep, some sex and some food.

ding dong, the B- is gone!

how do you tell a boy it's over after he's called you too crazy for friendship, too cool for love and too uptight (because you have a crazy busy work/social schedule) for everything else and then demanded you drop everything you had scheduled that night in order to prove you're not?

you tell him like this:

From: ding
To: B-

"busy" means 'uptight'?
whatever, b-. busy means that i have a full work and social life and enjoy it.
and i have to prove something to you? are you kidding?

i was willing to give the friendship thing a try but it's patently obvious that friendship between us will never be possible. (i'm too crazy for friendship? ha! that's called projection. when it's so clear that two people don't get along and aren't right for each other, it's pointless to argue back and forth about who or what's at fault.
but rest assured i could make a list. a long one.)

and since it's clear we've entered the Active Dislike phase of our association, and we can't even get the basics down, i think we've done this long enough. (in total, we've been going back and forth like this since 2002. too long without progress!)

so. in the interest of our mental health for 2007, let's drop the hammer on the two of us and vow never to contact the other ever again. i mean it. i don't want to open my inbox and see another email from you asking how i am. chances are, i'll be great.

in fact, i just deleted you from my mobile.

bye, b-. i'm late for a meeting.

here i come, old orchard!

Gaining steam, finally Chicago Tribune

so plans are afoot to extend the yellow line to old orchard.
this would make me ecstatic beyond measure. no more bugging roomie to drive me out to the mall - i could hop on several trains and make it myself! yay!
it'd be easier to get to forth & towne sales! yay!

oh, and can you tell my boss is on vacation for a week? (i'm also wearing jeans...heh heh heh.)

the chicago way

so, a rather important part of my job is to make sure certain folks know about the work we do here and to encourage mutually beneficial contact. it's like marketing. ok, it is marketing - but for public officials and other such important 'stakeholders'. like that.

so this morning a breaking news alert pops into my inbox and, to my horror, i read that a city official has just been arrested on federal corruption charges. i was totally going to call this person for an appointment this week! aagh!

frakkin' chicago - you're killing me!

deal me out

driving home yesterday in the rain, roomie and i had a conversation about my current dating status which is, to date, zilch. i despaired of 2007 turning into a repeat of 2006, The Year of Celibacy (though there's nothing really wrong with that and i rather enjoyed it - sorta), and she said, 'ding, you need to look at the cards that have been dealt you and be honest about what it is you want.'

i tried to imagine these cards but i had no idea what they were. 'and...what are they?'
'are you kidding me?'
'no! i don't know what cards i have! what cards? is it a good hand?'
'B-! your cards are B-!'
'oh,' i said. 'those cards. i don't want those cards. those cards piss me off.'

'then you need to fold and get a new hand.'
i said, 'and how would i do that? all three of the straight guys i know in chicago are...actually, there's just one. how is it possible i only know one straight guy and he has a girlfriend?'
roomie said, 'i don't know, ding. but you need a new deck of cards or you're going to go nuts. just call B-, arrange to see him this weekend and call it a night.'
'i can't. that would not be good. he makes me mad. but, grr! i want a frolic!'
'you're nuts. get a frolic. go online, choose a boy and get your frolic.'

'but i'm trying to be good!'
'then i don't know what to tell you, ding. you want the frolic or you don't. tradition and habit say that you want the frolic more than being good. so get the frolic.'

so, after a whole night of watching season 2 of Veronica Mars (damn you karis), i went online last night and looked for a frolic. what happened? when my search results came up the first candidate at the top of the queue was B-! aagh! i blocked him and logged off.

the universe has become a cockblock!

why women ain't funny: our uterus sucks out all the funny

Adam Ash: Christopher Hitchens explains why women aren't funny

have you read the hitchens piece about why women aren't funny (faithfully reproduced on adam ash's space)? it's a doozy. shorter hitchens: women aren't funny because mommies are never funny.

that's right; for hitchens, every woman is a nagging, churchy, fecund, humorless, authority-loving priss just dying to kill the funny. in other words, vagina dentata. that toothy vijayjay inhibits everything that makes men funny - irreverence, irreligion, rebellion, and defiance. we're too soft, too emotional, too serious, too dreamy, and too damn biological to be funny.

(however, if we're fat, dykey or jewish, we've apparently got funny to spare.)

never in my life have i laughed as hard, snorted or accidentally farted than when i'm with my girlfriends telling them the latest B- disaster or listening to what happened at so-and-so's birthday party/wedding, or reading the sharply worded, hilarious emails sent from various scattered family domiciles while we're trapped in hometowns for the holidays. (i remember one string of christmas emails from roomie, A- and J- that had me snorting and blowing wine all over my dad's laptop. 'the baby jesus blows!')

women don't like dirty or crude? hitchens, we could make you guzzle a whole bottle of Hendricks with tales of monstrous blood clots, menstrual disasters, catastrophic sexual encounters, embarassing visits to the doctor, the unfortunate thing that happened at grandma's funeral and the reason why sometimes my friends call me Puddles. there's nothing dirtier or cruder than a bunch of women hopped up on tequila, my friend. nothing. (just ask what a bridal party did to the cowboy troubadour they hired then drunkenly held captive until they finally released him, shaking and traumatized, the following day.)

women can't be funny in the face of death? too bad hitchens wasn't at my roomie's mother's funeral this past summer. the tears were expected; the guffaws halfway through my roomie's speech were a welcome surprise. it takes guts, strength and a finely tuned sensibility to get a whole church full of mourning midwesterners to give up the funny.

his tone wavers between 'admiration' of our inherent biological/moral authority over men and a smarmy castigation of it but what's most clear is that hitchens (and other men who always seem to ask these dumbass questions) has never really eavesdropped on a real conversation between groups of women. or maybe it's because he only knows neurotic white women. (expose yourself to a little diversity and suddenly you have a lot of funny.)

neurotic women aren't funny. confident, self-aware women are funny. women willing to look ridiculous are funny. women willing to point out the ridiculous and the neurotic in others are funny. women who tell the truth are funny. women in touch with their anger are funny. (bitter, but funny.) oh, we're funny, alright. just depends on who's listening to us.