a new find: The Urban Beauty Source - Home

are you tired of that thrill of discovery every time you find that RARE mention of a product made specifically for brown girls in Lucky magazine (or Glamour, or InStyle or whatever)?
and the beauty section in essence is too small?

thrill no more. go to ambermag.com - The Urban Beauty Source - Home.

[h/t sid]

'haven't you heard of a thing called amazon?': oh, the wit of the border patrol

i'm back from windsor, ontario and our harry potter book-buying trip. had a lovely weekend reading, eating, reading, discussing various plot points and wondering where all the people were in windsor. (i mean, it's 9.30 pm and all the restaurants are empty! what's up with that?)

on the way back we encountered snitty attitude from the U.S. border guy who'd rather hassle a bunch of lawyers and such in a mini-van. you may scoff at our desire to READ, american border denizen of the booth, but at least we're not letting folks with TB enter the country.

(and the book? awesome. awwwsommme.)

love love love: Endless.com: Shoes & Handbags

Endless.com: Shoes & Handbags

i was hanging out with a gay friend once talking about shopping.
i said, 'you know, i only really care about 3 things: shoes, bags, and coats.'
he said, 'you mean the most expensive things in a wardrobe?'
'yeah.'
'way to be frugal.'

who in their right mind can be frugal when you have a righteous website of affordable, hot shoes and delivery is FREE?? huh? who?

not me.

(you have to check out the pumps. soooo cute. so fricking cute.)

how to ruin lumpia: make them 'american'

Meat and Potatoes Lumpia - Allrecipes

oh, gack.
mayonaise? ketchup?
the filipina in me rises up in protest.

but the flowers are so pretty: on why da mayor ain't so great

Chicago Reader Blogs: Clout City

this post from the political writer at the Reader says better what i struggled to say to some friends during a cookout over the 4th: i like the mayor (as personality) but i'm not going to say he's the best mayor ever. in my job, i'm learning more and more about internal city workings and it's taking a lot of bloom off the rose; i think chicago is still a great place to live, but it would be great if things actually changed around here. it's not enough that the downtown areas and certain neighborhoods of this city are 'progressing'. it would be great if that kind of energy were spread around. but, the response is 'hey, it's not daley's fault! it's a corrupt system! he's doing the best he can! he can't do it alone!'

really? i mean, really? it's not his fault? he's been mayor an awful long time, it seems to me. i mean, we keep voting for him. you'd think something would change year after year. i appreciate the point made in the post about the mayor tolerating the CTA mess while his friend frank kruesi ran it; again, the response is, 'hey, CTA is part of MTA! it's the state's inefficiency! it's not the mayor's fault!'

we seem to be willing to forgive the mayor for a lot:
badly performing schools and craptacular test scores - not his fault, it's arne duncan and the CPS' fault!
police brutality - not his fault, it's the culture of the CPD and a few bad apples (though the sun times seems to think otherwise)!
the CTA mess - don't criticize ron huberman! he's cute and he's just trying to clean up the mess frank kruesi made!
the public housing mess - it's CHA, not the mayor!
the hiring scandal - hey, he had some out of control staffers!
the still flat economy for most working families - hey, the city council and that big box ordinance killed economic growth!
the TIF stuff - uh, what's TIF? (Commissioner Mike Quigley can tell you.)

anyway, like i said, i like the mayor. he makes me laugh when he loses his shit during a press conference and yells at a utility. but he's not a saint. he doesn't walk on water. he's neck-deep in bullshit just like the rest of us.

when the boss is away...

you hang out on MySpace all day and read blogs about comics.
for your consideration: (postmodernbarney.com)

g'morning, kids.
something i've learned since leaving a breakfast meeting at the Drake: don't have breakfast at the Drake. $108 for 4 people?? what the hell?!

jeebus. they really ding you on the orange juice...

so i'm doing some late night cleaning last night and i have the television on for some background noise. i had no idea that vh1 turns into weird skeevy-land on sunday nights. first i endure the final 15 minutes of Rock of Love while I scrub the counters (depressing AND distasteful); then came Scott Baio is 45...and Single.

wow. televised mid-life crisis. though it probably killed several brain cells in the process and made me one of the slack-jawed masses, i watched the whole episode because:
1) i was cleaning and there was nothing else on and
2) i felt intense curiosity about what he was going to hear from all the women from his past. (one word: ouch.)

i hesitate to make it a recorded event on the dvr, but that's ok. i'll watch it online.

send me in, coach!

so, uh, i've embarked once again on the road to self-discovery.
my first coaching session was last night and i already have homework:
list 5 emotional requirements i ask from relationships (hard!)
list 10 mistakes i've made in relationships and any lessons i've learned (i've actually already made this list)
...
there was a moment during my chatty blathering my need for a coach when she said, 'Ms. Ding, you know that coaching isn't therapy; we aren't here for therapy and the framework is different. but sometimes it's necessary to deal with things in a client's past that might help illuminate the present. well, i think we may have to do that in your case. are you ok with that?'

'uh, sure. like what patterns?'
'your intimacy issues.'
'they're like neon, aren't they?'
'mm, yes.'

giggle

talk about a 'hard line' policy: China Executes Ex-Food and Drug Chief

China Executes Ex-Food and Drug Chief
yikes.

let's compare this with how we deal with government incompetence and/or corruption:
we tell them they're doing a 'heckuva' job (Katrina, FEMA and 'Brownie')
we commute their sentence (hello, Libby)

we ignore reality (no benchmarks hit, yet, assholes)

we vote for them - twice (frakking Shrub)

details mag: the lads are gross

i'm at work so i'll be brief: yick.

if there are ever guys who lurk here, some simple words of advice:
it's never ok to 'demand' a sexual act. that just makes you a pig.
and liking a sexual act (not because it feels good and brings pleasure to both people) because it strokes your ego and hurts your partner just makes you a bigger pig.
and recognizing that you can only do it when your partner is loaded off her ass and can't (legally) give consent just makes you a date-raping pig (who rapes ass.)

sex is supposed to be a mutual thing, you know?
if i want to stick my thumb (or any other implement) up some guy's butt, i'll make sure he's ok with that.

Feministing

summer of 3: this one's for atalanta

my bloggy friend, atalanta, is a wonderful, smart gal who experiences a small agonzing death every time a potential online suitor sends her a horrific missive. i love her for her sensitivity. (she's even written about it on her blog.) yeah, sure; it makes us lingua-snobs but that's why english majors exist.

though my dating luck seems to have cooled as we enter a hot hot hot july, i'm pleased to say that i have yet to date/have a drink with/sleep with/exchange emails with someone who does not have a fluid, correct and witty relationship with the english language. from S-, to S-, and including the current S- (and even the maligned B-), my boys have been bright. sure, some suffered from clinical depression and lacked a few social skills but, generally, they've been verbally acute.

counts for something...

Jaimie Esptein - On Language - Dating - New York Times

i have no deep thoughts today. nothing probing to say about politics, the state of freedom or reproductive health.

instead, i'd rather think about how much i love the summer.

tuesday night, i left the office early and dropped by the dominick's by navy pier to pick up some things for the, frankly, unsanctioned barbecue we were having at a friend's house while she and her boyfriend spent the holiday in cabo. we spent hours in a bacchic fog on her balcony, our bodies languid in the humid evening, but as the thunderstorm rolled in, stretching our legs and hands, thrilling to the lightning. not caring even we had to run through puddles to get back to the car. summer is for feeling the body get mucky.

i don't mind the long lines at the checkout, i don't care that the bus is crowded and slow. i like standing in the close air of the bus, stretching up to grasp the handrail and feeling the press of bodies against me while there's music in my ears and i can slip into a drowsy daze while the streets speed and lurch past my eyes.

anyway, summertime. if i had my wish i'd 'work' from home, take naps in the middle of the day, walk around in loose dresses and low slung white pants and forsake shoes. it's such a cliche - the sensory memory that plunges you back into a crystal clear image of a nostalgic past.

but that's what summertime does for me. things like walking across the river around 3.30, or sitting in the back garden at my local bar staring up at the trailing ivy, or sticking my feet into a square patch of sun in my apartment, or drowsing on my antique quilt in the middle of the afternoon.

they make me want to be a little girl in los angeles again.my sister and i would make a hammock on our front porch, climb in, and she'd chatter while i would read nancy drew or stare at the wooden beams overhead and pretend i was stowing away on a pirate ship hiding with the potatoes and crackers. (for some reason i thought that's what pirates ate: potatoes and crackers. or oranges.)

driving down lakeshore drive with my roommate yesterday and passing through the park, smelling all the charcoal. it was like the whole city was grilling. and this brings back the awesome (so over-used, that word) church picnics from back home. the scratchy blanket on the grass, some contemporary gospel on a boombox, and the smell of chlorine and sun mixed with tangy sunblock on sweaty skin, while recovering from thin white bread sandwiches filled with barbecued pulled pork, or baked beans, buttery corn, peach cobbler with real crust, or greens or really eggy potato salad.

missing the grit inside my red keds from running in the sand pit, the contrast of my nuttier dark tanned skin with my sister's tanned gold. the shadow play of my wild hair, big poofs of hair on the side of my head that only got bigger the more i ran around or played in the pool. (not that i could swim. but man i loved the shallow end.)

but there are advantages to a grown up summer that i never could have imagined when i was a kid. (am i the only one who's fascinated by how cool a kiss can feel even when it's 98 degrees outside?)

yes; things were fun back then, but summer's just fine now.
...
(was really looking forward to a date planned for tomorrow night and he has to travel for the next two weeks; he'll be back in the country when i'm about to go under the knife. am alarmed at how disappointed i am. like - REALLY disappointed. like - despondent disappointed. hm. that's a surprise.

NOW, what??)

horror, gore and misogyny

Jill Soloway: Remove the Rating for Captivity - Living Now on The Huffington Post

goodness knows i'm a fan of a certain kind of horror film.

self-referential horror that makes fun of itself while it scares me? check.

well-written old school ghost stories, vampires, haunted houses, monster flicks, scary cemetaries? i'm all for. (like, The Haunting, The Changeling, Ghost Story, Scream, and even The Exorcist because it was creepy as all hell.)

but there's a certain kind of film i can't stomach anymore: the Saws, the Hostels, the Turistas. all of them. can't. take it. the torture, the eroticized killing, the elaborate fetishistic murder just skeeves me out and makes me hurt the way looking at porn now makes me hurt.

just lately, i've been watching the quick tv ads for Captivity and it turns my stomach: stalker capturing a woman and some guy and torturing the hell out of her. this is entertainment? this is what we need to see to get our rocks off now? woman-hating death porn.

gross.

and, if you read solloway's column, you'll see the grossness isn't an accident. it's done on purpose; it's a thoughtful kind of 'accident'; the misogyny is how the film will succeed. it's built into the marketing and business plan.

sick, really. and if you read here, you'll see that the disgusting dude who created it is counting on our shock and repulsion to drive more people to the film. well, i don't want to drive folks to see the film. i want the film to disappear. so we're thinking about that at the office - how exactly to make it disappear.

i mean, if the fundamentalists can make a regular old movie about evolution disappear, can't we make a piece of woman-hating crap just fizzle out of existence?

jp in china!

my friend jp is off to china today. and perhaps indefinitely. sadness.
but i'll be reading his travel blog over here.

wish jp luck! (not that he needs it but you never know...)



(and my other friend, liza, has a travel blog about being a professor/corporate wife in india over here. fascinating and also affirming my opinion that, because i am soft and american, i would die in india.)

a lesson in credit

i found my perfect bed at macy's and sears today. i bounced, i rolled, i laid, i stretched but, alas, i could not buy either one of them because my credit is less than stellar.

and now i am demoralized as i face adulthood. apparently, adulthood also includes kick ass credit, despite there being no actual debt.

this is what i don't get: there are people out there with thousands of dollars in credit debt (hello, i saw you on oprah) and here i am, with perhaps $100 in credit debt and a few delinquents. they can buy houses and cars and i can't get a freaking bed?

sadness. so much sadness, i bought comic books and spent the afternoon reading them and watching videos on vh1.

i think i might have to buy my bed from the skeevy guys on milwaukee avenue.

so...
today at the office we saw someone take truly unprofessional behavior to a whole new level.

not going into details but beware the wrath of a HR professional who has been let go.

dude.

election 2008: first donation of the cycle

ok, all that elizabeth edwards v. coulter business made me go over to john edwards' site and make a $50 donation.

baby daddies are dangerous

first, did you know that the biggest killer of pregnant women is homicide?
amazing.

i'm sure you've read the news stories about that pregnant woman in ohio, jessi davis, who was killed by her boyfriend and found in a field. and then about that woman and her kids killed in illinois by her husband. what's up with men?? you have issues and the first thing you do is murder your girlfriend and kids?

it boggles the freaking mind. these stories of murdered women build up and sometimes it makes you look at the other half of the population all aslant.

this woman wrote her boyfriend a note in response to these latest stories of domestic violence against women:

If for some reason I am pregnant, and you suddenly realize that I am just days away from delivering, don't kill me. I know you might not be "ready" to be a father, but there are better ways out of it. Of course I would prefer it if you were a loving and supportive husband and father, but you might freak out. Maybe you're having an affair. Now being a man, you won't think things through. Killing me is NOT an option. Counseling IS an option. You do realize you would be the first person police questioned if I were to go missing right?

If you must be rid of me, just up and leave. I'll go home to live with my dad, or find solace in the arms of a best friend. But I will be alive, and that's the clincher. I'd rather be a single mom on welfare than found murdered in the wilderness.

...
when my dad was visiting, he got embroiled in a rather heated group discussion with my girlfriends about our singleness. it's a futile conversation but we keep having it and my girlfriends are gracious enough to indulge him. but his constant refrain, which kept puzzling us, was "be a woman."

we had no idea what that meant. we have ovaries. we're women. there's no escaping that simple, biological fact.

but to look at the larger culture, i guess 'being a woman' also means 'being killed.'

thanks, i'd rather not.

adulthood blows. no, it's great. really.

Roomie just bought a place and the purchase puts in high relief that i need to get my adulthood act together. sure, i'm an adult and everything, with a great (burgeoning) career and friends, but perhaps it's time to finally get off the roommate train that i boarded back in 2000. it's been fun, supportive, fiscally feasible and wonderful to have a partner in crime but i'm almost 40. maybe i've been using it like a crutch. (and Roomie and i have talked about this so this isn't something she doesn't know has been kicking around. she sometimes sees things before i do.)

but i was looking at my so-called options yesterday and it gave me a stomach-ache. financially, nothing can happen before italy (I-TAL-IA!) but i still need a plan, right?

what is it that i want? what do i imagine the next stage of my life becoming?
is it a single, 40-something life in a streeterville studio? (affordable but depressing for me)
is it a single, 40-something life in a west town apartment? (not depressing and affordable if i get a whopping raise)
is it a financially strapped single 40-something life in a condo in west town or logan square? (stressful and totally not affordable)

i'm trying to think about these things as clear-eyed as possible, with as little emotion as possible. (i think i do my best thinking when i'm not emotional about it.) but, very viscerally, i have one image in my head of what i don't want my life to look like: the female version of B-'s life. one fork, one spoon, one plate, one towel. i may have made fun of it but i should have paid more attention to how alike we actually were, because right now, i'm pretty much one fork, one spoon, one plate, and so on.

(we can include one bed, two bookcases, one bench, two chairs, tiny tea cups, one tv, one bench...you get the picture.)

but while i also feel the pull to be adult (i.e., accumulate) i also don't want all that stress-inducing work, you know? setting up a household. it sounds so daunting. i'm certainly not one of those die-hard folks who want to lessen their 'footprint.' my footprint is what it is: less than other people's, more than a homeless guy's. but i also want to throw a sop to my vanity and live a life that's really wonderful, you know? that's not chintzy. one that's full. self-indugent? perhaps. but that's what it is, too.

but, hey. at least my fibroid will be gone in two months. yay.

the summer of 3: frolic boy

so. had another fun, exhausting, relaxing, intense evening with S- last night.

i would try and characterize our rendezvous with more poetry but i can't find the poet who would fit exactly. i mean, when someone has taken the role of Dominant Teacher, donne or browning doesn't match the occasion.

'how do i frolic with thee?
let me count the ways.
but first let me put
my thumb in your butt.'

see? not really poetic.

if anyone knows an appropriate poet for this kind of action, let me know.

[thanks to shrinky, i've found appropriate versification from Avenue Q, "You Can Be Loud as the Hell You Want":

Princeton:
Oh, my God, Kate, no one's ever touched me like this
before - you can't put your finger there -
OOH! PUT YOUR FINGER THERE!]

it had to happen sooner or later, pt. 2

YOUR PRIVACY IS AN ILLUSION: Six creepy things I can learn about you - Valleywag

orange was kind enough to send me this helpful link about the ways people can follow your online breadcrumbs.

um, yeah. guess what i've been doing the past hour or so?

goodreads : or, another great way to waste 3 hours

goodreads see what your friends are reading

if you're home, have no desire to watch tv or surf videos on youtube and you want to feel really really smart, sign up for goodreads and keep track of your reading habits.

i've just wasted one hour at work thinking about all the books i've read recently and i haven't even kept an accurate tally of what's on my bedside shelf, yet.

(and if you sign up and would like to share reading lists, send me an invitation! i hate wandering around bookstores wondering what to read. i'd much rather go off my friends' recommendations.)

the plan, pt 2.

i'm on my way out the door so this is a quickie.

the plan is in process. met the newly transplanted C- for drinks last night which turned into dinner and an awkward hug before we took our separate cabs home. he was nice, funny, normal and, well, isn't normal the most important thing?

hello, Hang Out Guy.

(boys remaining for summer plan to fall completely into place: the Backup)

another dove winner: evolution

my thighs are too big.
i have a big ass.
i have a flat ass.
my neck is too short.
where's my chin?
my belly pooches out.
i'm not tall enough.
i wear glasses.
i have a round face.
my hair is too frizzy.
i'm too dark.
i'm a pancake.
i hate my freckles.
my lips are thin.
my lips are big.
my nose is crooked.
i'm too pale.
i need to lose weight.
my thighs don't meet.
i wish i looked like jennifer lopez.
i need to work out more.
i'm not disciplined enough.


we all need to stop the chatter about how much we hate ourselves.
which is why i love the new dove ad.

compromised or, it was only a matter of time

one day, the skeins of my online life were going to cross. one day, i was going to underestimate the intrepid skillz of a man who had a lot of time on his hands and an uncanny knack to piss me off. one day, myspace was going to make me rue the day...blah blah blah.

the thing is, i don't use myspace for anything. it is a placeholder. and now it's connected to my work blog (yikes) and even though i've since made it private, so that no one can see it unless i've made them my friend, it's kinda been breached.

oh! and we were just talking about this today during a meeting - what happens when someone comes across your blog that you never intended to, in the first place. aaargh!

so, yeah. i check my myspace acct tonight and B- sent me a message there, inviting me to a show last week. of *course* he's on myspace! and of course he can find me - i used my real name!! my freak out isn't because i'm 'hiding' from him; that's not the issue. i just don't want to leave any crumbs that might lead back here, to Screed.

(because if he saw this? lord jesus. just look for my body in the chicago river.)

now i have to go back and scrub my myspace page and then try to make sure there's no trail to follow. (if he figures out Real Name=ding=Screed then i'm totally screwed. this blog is #2 when you google 'screed'! i mean, yay, but frak!)

i dedicate this link to my Roomie, of whom i shall never, ever make fun:
My Crazy Roommate: George Lucas ain't got nothin'

ok, thanks to shrinkykitten, i now know how to make ice cream in a bag.

absurdity, meet the chicago public school district

when you're on different boards you learn lots of interesting stuff about how incredibly stupid some institutions are.

for instance, during last night's board meeting, i discovered that CPS has absolutely no idea what it's doing. i mean, what's the point of designating a school a magnet school when it barely even qualifies for it? sure, studies have shown that kids at magnet schools do better - but not because it's called a magnet! they actually have a curriculum and magnet teachers to actually teach it!

anyway, i'm sitting in the meeting listening to one of our literacy task forces report why their results have been mixed and i thought i was in the twilight zone. the conversation sort of went like this:

'reading scores are down at schools AB&C.'
'but don't we have a program there to help with literacy?'
'yes, but the teachers don't like it and aren't using
it.'
'ok, but that's the district's reading tool. are we using
something different?'
'no, we're supporting the district's reading tool.'
'but they hate it. the teachers hate it.'
'yes.'
'and we're giving them money to not use something they
hate?'
'apparently, yes.'
'but aren't they a magnet school? aren't they supposed to have higher
reading scores?'
'well, yes. but they don't. they're in the 20th
percentile.'
'then why are they called a language and fine arts magnet?'
'because parents wanted a magnet.'
'but they don't have a magnet curriculum that supports higher
literacy.'
'well, right.'
'so it's a magnet in name only. underneath, it's still a crappy
chicago public school.' (this was my question)
'in effect, yes.'
'so what are we doing there, again?'
'we're supposed to be helping them read.'
'but they don't have a reading program.'
'yes.'
'and so our impact is basically zero.'
'yes.'
'why are we there, again? i don't get it.' (me again)

if i understood what the poor guy who led this task force was telling us, the city decided to create a random cluster of magnet schools in an inner city area without actually making them a real magnet school (like on the level of a peyton prep or new trier). the schools chose what kind of magnet they wanted to be but didn't actually have any standard, higher level curriculum in place so that it could actually be supported - and, apparently, the classes that are supposed to be 'magnet' level aren't comprehensive at all; they don't have the student scores to justify being a magnet and they don't have the teacher capacity to be a magnet. so why are they a magnet?

that's like saying 'i want to be a genius' and then i go up in my tree house and put out a sign that says Genius and then waiting for my geniosity to strike.

is it just me or is that utterly ridiculous and absurd?

of fibroids and elevators

so i'm leaving my gynecologist's office today. it was a day like any other pretty spring day - except that i got the news that most of my tangerine-sized fibroid (aka, Agatha) is in my uterine wall. frak! so, dealing with the knowledge that i'm going to have to work from home for almost a whole month while i recover, i push the down button for the elevator.

my gyno is in one of the oldest buildings in the city; it's a gorgeous pile of stone, brick and marble. but, as i stepped onto the elevator and noted how the doors vibrated and closed with more of a jerk than a smooth slide, i realized that it made me a little nervous.

(remember The Overlook?)

the elevator made its way down in fits and starts. it stopped once between floors and when i hit the 1 button in panic, it started down again. by the time it shuddered to a stop on the 30th floor i was through. a bearded man stepped inside and when nothing happened for long ominous moments, i took that as my cue to exit.

'this is weird,' i said. 'i'm taking another elevator.'

i stepped off and soon after the doors closed behind me, alarms within the elevator began to clang. the man inside the elevator pounded on the doors yelling 'For god's sake get me out! Get me out!' the alarms kept ringing.

going into the nearest dentist's office i said, 'There's a man trapped in the elevator and someone needs to call down to security!'
the tiny filipina receptionist said, 'what elevator?'
'this elevator!'
'he's trapped?'
'call 911!'

my phone wasn't working for some reason so my 911 call didn't go through and the man was still pounding on the door and the alarms were still clanging. putting my face really close to the seam where the elevator doors met, i yelled, 'help is on the way, sir! don't worry! they're coming!'

muffled now: 'for god's sake! get me out!'
'ok, sir! they're calling 911!'

then i set off down the stairwell - 30 floors down to the lobby.
what a day, you know?

Isebrand.com

from reading it, i can't tell who writes it but i know they have a major thing for gore vidal. in fact, that's one of the reasons i stumbled upon it; i was looking for an article about timothy mcveigh that had appeared in vanity fair and here it was! it has a good collection of vidal articles, essays and its politics are a little left of center. (ok, it may be more than a little.)

gear up for 08, kiddies!

strange yet cool

this might be one of the coolest (and most useless) things ever. hours, i tell you. hours.

the plan's the thing

the summer of love* has kicked off with a bang. lest you worry that this means that ding will shoot off into all sorts of random trouble, fear not. ding has a plan. sort of.

rather, ding has a goal: 3 boys to be kept in rotation over the summer. the 3 boys would be for different things (the romping boy, the hang out boy and the...extra if any of the other two get broken.) it's ambitious but what else is summer for than to make up for all the 'nose to the grindstone' work that defined the rest of the year?

i figure, 1 per week, 3 weeks a month (1 week off for menstrual issues), and the whole 'dating' thing is taken care of. see?

besides, i bought all these cute tops at F&T and need a reason to wear them.

[*summer of love=the name given to the summer by a co-worker who, despite her own prettiness and kick assedness, despairs of finding a boy and so uses this as a way to inspire her self to action - even though all she has to do is snap her fingers and the boys magically appear.]

you know you're a grown up when...

slowly but surely, i'm getting my act together.
it started with paying off my school debt, then my tax debt and now, it's about securing my retirement. my father would probably look at this as 'worrying' and not trusting in the Lord but that's why we have IRAs, so i won't have to bother the Lord about my retirement.

i spoke with a fund guy this morning and felt mature while doing it but also like i was totally faking it. but the long and short of it is now i have a diversified fund that will grow aggressively over the next few years and then we'll start taking it back a notch as i get older and more risk-averse. the end point? i think the goal is to accrue as close to a million dollars by the time i retire (if i remember the prospectus correctly.)

a bonus: next year, i can access some money for italy (which i've also started saving for) and the penalty actually isn't that bad if it's under $1000. heh.

what's next on the adulthood checklist?
perhaps buying property (only after italy and figuring out my next job move, which may have just presented itself at work)
perhaps, uh, another person (however, the likelihood of that is remarkably slim; i have more chance of going around the world than that)

or perhaps the next step in my march toward adulthood is just buying a grown up bed.

anything you can do i can do better

a scene in one upmanship:

B-: nice pics on your profile.
Ding: don't look at my pics.
B-: i can look at your pics.
Ding: you make me tense.
B-: you're hostile.
Ding: what do you want?
B-: just thinking fondly of you.
Ding: you make me tense.
B-: you're the one who talked about me to my sister.
Ding: not me. i just blurted out our ex relationship during a
staff meeting.
B-: you're shallow and cruel.
Ding: whatever.
B-: i got promoted, live in a great apartment in uptown and am
no longer depressed. whaddya think of that?
Ding: i'm still great and i'm going to italy.

yeah, we're mature.

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?