Showing posts with label WTF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WTF. Show all posts

13 February 2009

Dear Split End Salon


Dear Split End Salon (Aurora Village in Shoreline, WA)

Thank you for the complimentary hair cut I received at your shop yesterday. Of course, the term "complimentary" loses its value a bit when it means free because we fucked your hair up so badly that we couldn't, in good conscience, charge you.

Please let your stylist Laura know that the Kristy McNichol look is over. As is the Florence Henderson mushroom top with accompanying flip. It wasn't cute then, and it's really just laughable now. The short, choppy layers, the butchered bangs, the feathering? Not flattering, and so not necessary. Let it go. Yes, I admit, I was crushing on Shaun Cassidy in the 70s, but do you really think I want to see an older, fatter version of him staring back at me from my mirror? That shit's not funny. This morning, while brushing my teeth, I had the overwhelming urge to pull a crazyass Britney Spears move with my son's clippers.

Also, I'd like to point out that the last thing a client wants to hear while sitting in one of your vinyl chairs, is the stylist sucking in her breath with an, Oh, Jesus! I'm so sorry... Yeah, really, that sentence should just never be uttered in a hair salon. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's legal cause for a justifiable beatdown.

Apparently, your current hiring practices include taking on the layoffs from Super Cuts, because I haven't had such a bad haircut since my mom swindled me into getting the Dorothy Hammill in 4th grade. Even the basic training cut I got at Fort Jackson worked better than this. Truth be told, my drill sergeant's cut worked better than this.  And he was bald.

When family, friends and colleagues do not reassure you with the requisite Bad Haircut Platitudes, you know it's bad. When your new haircut draws no comments at all, and you work around all women and gay men, it's a sure sign something has gone awry.

When you pathetically resort to fishing for compliments and only receive So ... what made you cut your hair? or Are you going to grow it out again? that's a clue that someone with some scissors fucked up your head in a major way. (Looking at you, Laura.) My own son brought me pity-coffee at work today. He also snapped a picture of my head with his cell phone before running away. I'm pretty sure it's already been sent to his sisters at college, or possibly posted on the Interwebs.

A military high-and-tight suddenly doesn't seem quite so drastic. I will not, however, be coming to your shop to get it. In fact, I will never set foot in your salon again. I've made sure to tell anyone who asks, exactly where I got my "interesting haircut". Nothing like a living, breathing - and yes, crying - advertisement, is there?

In closing, may I suggest you screen your stylists a bit more carefully? In this economy, I'd imagine you have lots of potential hires to choose from. A little quality control would be nice. You had a good thing going - Adrienne, Halona, or Nicole M. would never have let this shit go down. Your standards have slipped.

And Laura, honey, you need to know that being apologetic and friendly does not make up for me living with this fucked-up, feathered shag on my head. I'm sure you're a nice person, but you should not be wielding scissors in a professional capacity. If I were you, I'd cross the street if you see me coming any time in the next few months. If I knew where you lived, I'd put Nair in your shampoo bottle. That may sound bitchy -- okay, unhinged -- but listen, honey, someone actually used the word "bouffant" in a conversation with me today. Again, that shit's not funny.

Split End Salon, I spit in your general direction. Thanks for the memories.

Disgruntledly Yours,
A Former Client

15 July 2008

Vivisection

Do you all remember The Rat? If not, click and go read -- absolutely essential backstory for today's tale of intrigue.

What? You think I don't see you trying to skip ahead? Please, I can hear the heavy breathing from here. You probably read Cliff Notes as a kid. To quote the Brady Bunch dad, You're only cheating yourself Bobby; and cheaters never prosper. In fact, sometimes they end up divorced with an ex-wife who suddenly develops a penchant for voodoo dolls. That's right, Bobby. Think about it.

I'll wait.


Okay, so the other day I come home from work, open up the fridge to grab a beer, and come face to face with ... The Rat. Like you didn't see that one coming.

Yeah, okay, you got me. Ha, ha, very funny, son. But wait ... what's that red ... holy scalpels, Batman! The Rat had been stitched up like a grisly FrankenRodent! It's true. The Rat was sporting an I-incision with bright red stitching, complete with decorative beadwork. Apparently, my eldest and my youngest spent the afternoon in a study session reviewing Male Offspring's freshman biology lab notes.

Here are the gory details. My kids are nothing if not creative. And twisted.

Warning: This presentation is intended for mature audiences and contains disturbing elements of extreme violence, blood and gore. Animals were definitely harmed for this presentation. Procedures not carried out by licensed medical personnel.


29 March 2008

Gmail: Big Brother in Your Sidebar

Things have been busy in the land of Cowbell. I'm going to try and update about what's been going on, and also get some of these drafts posted before they die the quiet death of forgotten drafts. Who knows how many of these things are languishing in the nether pages of the Edit Posts tab. Anyway, here's one from a day when Gmail was chapping my ass.

----------------------------

I'm about over Gmail. Never mind that their whole "conversations" organizational method is, in practice, annoying as hell. Ever notice those helpful links over to the side? Ever wonder how the links are always mysteriously related to whatever you've been writing about? Yeah, the text in your emails triggers some kind of freakish link recommendation autobot. Like Match.com for email or some shit. It's disturbing in a 1984, Homeland Security, Big Brother kind of way. Like Halliburton is running Gmail or something.

For instance, if you send an email to your friend asking for a recipe for cupcakes, Gmail might hook you up with some links like these:

Make Fun, Cute Cupcakes
200 Piece Kit from Betty Crocker
Decorate Cupcakes, Cakes and More
DecoratorKit.com
www.LINK.REMOVED because I'm not advertising for them.

Buttercream Frosting
Watch Amazing Cake Decorating Tips Tricks & Secrets Of The Pros
Try it out now!
www.LINK.SIMILARLY.REMOVED .


Disturbing, right? Look Gmail, I appreciate the suggestions, but I prefer to keep my cupcakes to myself, thank you! I guess this advertising method enables them to offer free email. OK, fine, whatever. But Betty Crocker isn't the only one profiting from Gmail's linky love. I discovered this about the time I wrote the post on Sales Genie's racist Superbowl commercials. There was some email traffic regarding that post making the rounds of my inbox then, and Gmail took it upon themselves to provide me with some helpful linkage.

Things like this:

Funny Foreigner Jokes
It's Not Because They're Different, We Laugh Because They're Inferior.
http://www.CanYouBelieveThisBullshit.crap

Are you kidding me? "We laugh because they're inferior"? Who is Google hiring these days? Nice, Gmail. But hey, let's not stop there. It seems the current political climate is having an ugly effect on what's considered appropriate in the world of corporate advertising:


Guantanamo Bay T-Shirt
"Come for the beaches... Stay for the waterboarding."
http://www.BushCo4u.crap/


Yes, that was actually in the sidebar of my Gmail account. I'm sorry, but didn't the Google folks hit the big leagues some time back? I'm thinking they can afford to be a little more choosy (and responsible) regarding their advertisers. There's just no excuse for that. But hey, since our Commandant in Chief doesn't classify waterboarding as actual "torture", I'm probably just being overly sensitive, not to mention unpatriotic. Alright, how 'bout this one:


Funny Chinese Ringtones
Ringtones in 30 seconds!
Download Funny Chinese Ringtones
http://www.NotReallyFunny.crap/


I guess foreigners are not only inferior, they're also here for our entertainment. Funny! But if it's a different kind of entertainment you're after, there's always this site:


Get a Chinese Wife
Meet Chinese Wives Near You Today.
100% Free. Join Now!


Or, if you want a broader pool from which to pull your multiculti romantic experiences,

Interracial Relationships
Start A Interracial Relationship!
View Profiles 100% Free. Join Now!


OK, the Chinese Wife site, self-explanatory on the fuckedupness scale. That is something I'd expect to find on some $1 per click site, not in my own friggin' Gmail account.

If you're scratching your head over the Interracial Relationships site, thinking, "What the hell ... where does Cowbell get off griping about an interracial dating site? Aren't her kids biracial? What a bunch of bullshit," I don't blame you. Good point. It's a complicated subject that is not the point of today's bitchery, so for now I'll leave it at this -- when I delved headlong into marriage, I was blissfully ensconced in the whole "we all have the same hearts" deal, completely clueless as to the historical issues around the Black/White relationship paradigm. My Ex was, in hindsight, affected by some of those very issues, but I was clueless about that as well, and wasn't able to face that reality until years later. Also, I was a child who had no business getting married in the first place, but hey, I was 18 and knew everything, so on we charged.

Anyway, no, of course I am not against interracial relationships. I'm not against any type of relationship between consenting adults that is based in equality, honesty and respect. What I'm against is specifically seeking out an interracial relationship around some fucked up fetish deal, or as a public display of being Down With Diversity, or an attempt to somehow assuage liberal guilt, or because it seems "exotic", or whatever, just to touch on some reasonings from one side of the equation.

That's a whole different deal than a relationship eventually developing with a real person you've already met and with whom you share a connection.

Whew, this needs to be a subject for another day - sorry.

What I'm getting at is that this advertisement in my Gmail sidebar reduces people's relationships to one thing, race, largely by capitalizing on the whole Exotic Experience thing. Sure, it's usually framed in kinder gentler terms like, "Everyone has their preferences, just like hair color!" or "I just find dark skin so beautiful!" or "I just don't even see color!" Well, yes, actually you do if you're signing up for an interracial dating site: you're looking to purposefully hook up with someone you haven't even met yet on the basis of one thing -- race. And stepping into a culture for no other reason than to satisfy your own "preference" is ... just bullshit.


Anyway, by itself I likely wouldn't have paid that one much mind, but when combined with all the other unwelcome links in my mailbox, it annoyed me along with the rest of them.

OK. On to the next link to arrive unbidden in my email. Since we're on the subject of relationships, you may be glad to know that when it comes to holding on to your man, Gmail has your back, ladies.

Understand Why Men Leave?
Learn The Real Reason Why Men Leave
And How To Become Irresistable!


Wow. If only Eliot Spitzer's wife had had Gmail. Because we all know when a man leaves a woman, it's because she has somehow been found lacking in appearance, desirability, and effort. I mean really, why should men be villified for leaving our asses? If we were more irresistible, they wouldn't! Boys will be boys, ladies, best keep up on the waxings and step it up a notch.

Come on Gmail, if I want to hear that kind of crap, I'll tune in to Dr. Laura's show and listen to her blast resistible women for causing their men to lie and fuck around without protection.


Better yet, I'll just click this link in my sidebar:

Ann Coulter's Column Free
Get Ann Coulter's weekly column delivered to you
Free via email!
www.KissMyAssGmail.crap

Blech! My eyes felt violated. No wonder Blogger -- Google creation that it is -- won't let me change the email address that was used to register this blog -- they know their next ad would have to be:

Understand Why Gmail Subscribers Leave?
Learn How Not to Piss Off Your Customers!
http://www.GetOutOfMyInbox.crap/

Bastards.

01 March 2008

Do I Really Have To?

That's about where I'm at. It's bad, people. I'm trying to get my motivation up. I was really hoping it would be sunny today, that always gets me revved up.

With all the fuckery of 2008, I either haven't had time, haven't given a damn, or have been busy coughing my lungs inside out. I know you all are sitting out there thinking, "Oh please, how bad could it be? I haven't done my dishes for three days! I know what you mean!"

Guys ... the Christmas tree is still up. Stockings, nutcrackers, everything. The dining room table looks like a hangerless closet on legs, with one of those German Christmas pyramids sticking up from the middle of it. I stopped noticing the pine garland on the curtain rod. It used to look so festive. The dog hair tumbleweeds look like guinea pigs running around. There are dead stems on the mantle that used to be flowers. I think.

So. I guess I should get up and get going. Instead of blogging about nothing. I even looked at YouTube videos today. I mean random ones, not searching for something in particular. I've watched the same stories on Headline News three times now.

I really ought to get started.

--------------------------------
UPDATE:

What the hell was I thinking back in December? Holy Tree Toppers, it was like Winter Friggin' Wonderland around this joint! I finally got all the Christmas decorations down. Yesterday I mentioned "the tree" -- I don't know how I got it in my head that "the tree" was the bulk of the Christmasery around here. The tree (which is currently naked and waiting for Teen Demon and Male Offspring to handle the lights and disassembly) was the least of the festive furor that was my house.

Every ornament is packed away, along with every other festive flourish. All the bulbs and ribbon curls hanging in the various windows. The lights strung up near the ceilings. The paper snowflakes, lovingly cut and hung in merry groupings. The velvet mantle cover and stockings. The pine scented candles. The battalion of nutcrackers. The Night Before Christmas book. Big velvet old-timey Santa who looks much classier than he sounds. The giant snowglobe, also much nicer than it sounds. The wooden tic tac toe board (Santas vs. Trees). All the things that have become our traditions since the offspring were wee tykes, with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.

Goodgod, people, I feel like I just performed a Yuletide exorcism on myself.

21 February 2008

Santa Bush: Man or Myth?

This just in. Heidi Harris, conservative radio talk show host, commenting on whether Michelle Obama is proud of America:

We've got President Bush out in Africa, like Santa Claus, giving out money left and right. That's not something to be proud of? She should be thrilled about that!

Well. That changes everything then.

28 October 2007

Tonka: Built for Boyhood!

I've got toys on my mind. No, not toys for grown-up ladies, you naughty freaks. Toys for kids. Specifically, girl toys and boy toys.

Gender-specific toys.

Our favorite Big Ass Belle recently posted about "girl toys" by PLAYSKOOL. Meaning, of course, pink and flowery toys that revolve around, what else?

Housework!

Lynette's Girl Toys post brought to mind a Tonka commercial I saw recently, advertising their toys which are "built for boyhood". Yep, Tonka is Celebrating 60 Years of Boyhood! It turns out Hasbro is the parent company of both Tonka and PLAYSKOOL.

That's right, PLAYSKOOL, of Rose Petal fame, and Tonka, built for boyhood, wedded together to helpfully model gender-appropriate play. How precious. The commercials for PLAYSKOOL's Rose Petal Cottage include this sugary sweet melody:

I love when my laundry gets so clean,
Taking care of my home is a dream, dream, dream!
In Rose Petal Cottage, my home,
A place of my very own!

So "taking care of my home" is the dream, dream, dream PLAYSKOOL wants for Teen Demon and the Bohemian? Because they're girls? I'm sorry, but washing socks and mopping crusty bits off the floor isn't exactly what I dreamed of for them while watching them sleep in their cribs.

It's sure as hell not what they're dreaming of for themselves. I know this because of the dirty socks and crusty bits on their floors.  No interest.  They could a Rose Petal attitude adjustment, come to think of it ...

At Hasbro.com, we learn that the Rose Petal Cottage
empowers preschool girls to use their imagination inside and around their very own play space, featuring everything they need to role-play alone or with friends.

From baking muffins to washing clothes to caring for their dolls, girls now have a place where they can set their imaginations free.
"Everything" a girl needs to set her imagination free? Is there no one in their marketing department without a penis? See, this is what happens when there's no diversity in hiring, people.  Maybe a toy kitchen is one thing to set imagination free.  And guess what, Tonka, my son loved the hell out of his toy kitchen.


And Tonka. Here's what their current commercial has to say about our future heads of households:

Boys! What can you say? They're just built different.
And now ... they can play their way!
It's built around what he does naturally. It's a shape sorter - or not!
Then, it helps him learn to walk. And chase!
Then [it's] his own sweet ride - from baby to big boy. All in one toy.
Let's face it; boys are built different.
And Tonka's got the blueprint.


Built different?  (Also, differently*, Tonka.  Adverb.)

So ... boys "naturally" exercise their minds and bodies by sorting shapes, running and chasing, while girls need nothing more than a pink playhouse to serve as "an entire world where your little girl can play, discover and explore."

Entire world?

Trouble with that is, the world they want my little girl to discover and explore is comprised of only a laundry room, nursery and kitchen. Probably she'll be expected to clean up after Tonka-boy, since he's shown tracking mud all through the house in his commercial, while mom smiles indulgently.



I find this purposeful gender-based marketing very disturbing. The unspoken gender expectations are ingrained so deeply within our society, it's virtually impossible to avoid them. So when toy companies purposefully SAY things like "boys are built different" and "taking care of my home is a dream, dream, dream", it leaves no doubt in kids' minds as to what's expected of them. What is "normal".

When toy companies purposely perpetuate gender roles, that pisses me off, because they're making my job harder as a parent.

If my little boy believes certain activities are more suited for him, likewise he will develop the belief that other activities and expectations are more suited for the girls and women in his life. Not only will he feel comfortable playing with trucks or light sabers, he'll also feel comfortable expecting the girls in his life not to do those things.

Tonka has told him that trucks are "built for boys". If I do nothing to balance the messages Tonka and PLAYSKOOL are sending him, he may one day feel comfortable with his mother, sisters, or wife in their Rose Petal kitchens, making that sandwich for him while he's out in the living room watching the game.

Um, no.

Male Offspring knows that females are all about watching the game. He would no sooner expect me to hit the kitchen before half-time than he would expect me to sprout wings and fly.



So, what about little Suzy, careening her Tonka truck around the living room? What about the little boy who loves playhouse tea parties and hates mud? How do they feel after seeing these commercials? Especially little Johnny. Society can deal with a tomboy, but a girlieman? Not so much. Chances are, Johnny will soon learn to keep that shit under wraps and play with the damn truck. At least when people are watching.

Both of them are getting a clear message about what it means to be a "normal" girl or boy.



My kids had gender-specific toys, sure.

Teen Demon was a wild hellion in her day. She loved her Little Tykes kitchen, and her pink doll stroller -- pink is still her favorite color -- and the girl bakes like, well, a demon. But, she also rode her Tonka truck like demolition derby time. She personally brought out my appreciation for that whole Tonka Tough thing, before Male Offspring ever came on the scene. She had a toy tool belt that she wore everywhere. With pink hiking boots. She didn't take any guff from little boys.

Yes, Male Offspring loved him some trucks and 'dozers. Tonka would've loved to have his rough-and-tumble boy-behind in their commercials. He was all about the boy toys. They probably would've cut scene, though, when he came clacking onto the set in his sisters' dress up clothes, sporting a pink tutu, white gloves and pearls with a purple straw hat. He adored the pastel pink Little Tykes Cottage. Especially talking on the toy phone, which should've given me some warning as to the boy's future cell phone addiction.

So yeah, my kids loved their girl toys and boy toys. Not like you can really avoid it. Nevertheless, according to Tonka & PLAYSKOOL, my kids were a bit confused as as to proper play for their respective genders.




Well, fear not - no more fretting over ambiguous gender behavior! Tonka, in order to help you navigate the gender divide, has helpfully provided Parenting Advice for Boys.

(Hey, Tonka, I'm pretty sure you meant to give parenting advice to parents of boys, not the little tykes themselves, right? How much do you pay your editor?)
Anyway, if your little darling sports a penis, don't worry, Mom, help is on the way:

Little boys can seem like alien creatures, especially to Moms who were raised as little girls! So to help you speak "boy language," here are some tips from Lawrence Cohen, PhD, Playskool Advisor and author of Playful Parenting.
Heavens! How did I ever manage to raise Male Offspring without learning to speak "boy language"? No worries - Doc Lawrence has tips to help clueless moms decipher their little boys:

(Yes, this shit is actually up at the Tonka site )
9-18 months: During this stage, your son will be learning all about himself, including what it means to be a boy... you can keep the emotional connection going by having your own truck that rolls alongside his (or sometimes gently crashes into his!).
My own truck? Are you sure, Lawrence, because ... I'm a girl. I'm "built different".


2-3 yrs: This is also the stage where "boy humor" begins; this type of humor--filled with jokes about body parts and bodily functions ... seems to be a product of some combination of boy biology and boy social training.
So fart jokes come from "boy biology"? What does that even mean? Is there a gene for fart jokes?



3-5 yrs: Some mothers try to eliminate every expression of aggression from boys’ play, but that doesn’t work--and besides, if we got rid of all aggressive stories, we’d have to exclude stories from Shakespeare, the Bible, and even history books!
The Bible? How'd that get slipped into a toy site?

And get this:
All Ages & Stages: Recognize that your son is absorbing all sorts of information from TV and movies, including many messages about what is expected from boys and men. The media -- and our own expectations -- can give boys the wrong idea that there is only one very narrow definition of masculinity.
No shit, Lawrence! Media like ... Tonka commercials and this website, asshat! How did they not catch that?

I call bullshit, Tonka. This guy should not be giving parenting advice. You should not be paying him.


So ...

---What if ... all types of play were presented as a choice for all kids? Without the frilly pink or tough blue packaging.

---What if nobody thought a thing about Johnny having tea party with his teddy bears, or playing with playhouse dolls?

---What if Suzy could play Pop Warner football or collect model cars instead of Barbies ... without being called a tomboy, without folks assuring her mom she'll "grow out of it"?

---Maybe then, Johnny grows up to be a sous chef in some fancyass restaurant. Or an awesome stay at home dad who knows how to fix a furnace and connect with his kids. Maybe Suzy fixes cars or runs a corporation.

---And maybe, if that were the case, taking care of a home might truly be seen as an option for both genders, not an expectation for one. In which case, it would probably be valued a lot more than it is now. Then role models - and advertising - for kids would be a whole lot different.


Maybe then Suzy feels OK being a cheerleader ...
... and a football player.
And maybe her brother grows up thinking his sister is pretty cool, and not necessarily girlie ...



...because he remembers
carrying that cheerleader's
football pads.





Yes, as a matter of fact, that was a shameless excuse to post cute pics of Teen Demon and Male Offspring. But there is a related point:

Teen Demon recently found out that her school no longer allows male cheerleaders. What? Apparently, there used to be guys on the football/basketball cheer squad. (Teen Demon cheers for wrestling - because the football/b'ball squad is a bunch of Barbie-bitches. According to her.) But the advisor - an adult - decided she didn't want guys on the squad about three years back.

What's sad is Teen Demon actually knows a couple of guys who would like to cheer. And, she said, it would actually make a better cheer squad, on account of the awesome stunts they'd be able to do with guys in the mix.

Male Offspring was in the room during this conversation, and he didn't snicker or make faces. What he said was, "That sucks. If girls can do wrestling and football, it's not fair that guys can't cheer. That's just dumb."

No, son, it's not fair, and it is dumb. I'm glad the kids were bothered by this, rather than thinking "cheerleading's for girls". If it were up to Hasbro, however, that would've been a different conversation.

And that's what's pissing me off about these commercials.

13 October 2007

Distribution of Wealth

Here are some interesting factoids I heard on NPR yesterday. I missed most of the story, so this is just a postlet.


The top 1% of the population holds 21.2% of the wealth.

The bottom 50% holds just 12.1% of the nation's collective wealth.
There are 410 families out there that are worth $1.54 trillion.


I was going to write more, but time flies -- especially when you start out to write a post, and end up chatting with sexy-hunk-of-man, funny-as-shit blogbuddies. You know who are, you skinny bitch.  Besides, I'm late to have a margarita meet with the women to discuss school district stuff.

Anyway, those little factoids should be enough to make you retch anyway. Don't want to overdo it.

Gotta run! Don't want to miss the call to order! Toodles...

12 October 2007

Athletic Supporter

I'm sorry, but there's something wrong when you're sitting among a group of parents at a freshman football game, at 3:30 in the afternoon, and somebody reeks of alcohol.

When it's coming out of your pores? Yeah, we can smell you.

Dude, show some class; stay home. Seriously. You're just embarrassing your kid.

-----------------------

Because I have wise blogfriends who call me on my shit, I am adding the following addendum regarding Mr. MadDog: at least the guy showed up. And maybe his kid was just glad to have him there. More than I can say for a lot of parents ...

29 September 2007

"But It's 2007!"

It seems ignorant comments are not just confined to my son's history class.
(Read "Yes, Virginia, People Still Do Say That Shit", if you haven't yet.)

So this is a list of local situations that I've seen personally in 2007, in case anyone still is clinging to the notion that racism is over.

Male Offspring, while fully expected to excel at sports, did not receive the IB* application packet when the other kids did. This despite the fact that he took sophomore math and honors science in the 8th grade. Despite the fact that both sisters are/will be succesful IB diploma graduates.

(*IB = International Baccalaureate, an international honors program.)

No one could tell me why. Something in the IB coordinator's "Sorry about that, but the deadline has passed now ... he can try next year, though," gave me the feeling they just wanted me to quit asking.

Next year? Excuse me? He's supposed to jump into this program after missing the first year? And then you'll wonder why he's not successful? No. Fuck that. Fuck you. He earned his place same as those other kids, he's going in this year.

Thank goodness for his counselor. We got him in through the back door. He'll have his shot.

But I've learned that it is part of my privilege that I am listened to and often see results when I go to address an issue at the school, and that I even have that expectation. (Often there is visible relief when I show up to deal with a situation.  "Oh!  So ... YOU'RE Male Offspring's mother!  Okay!  Sooo nice to meet you!") Many, many parents of color I've spoken with do not experience the same results when they address things. In this case, the parents of color I talked with said they didn't even know about the IB application, let alone the deadline.  This says something about who receives information. And who doesn't. If it weren't for the fact that I'd already fought to get my girls into the program, I wouldn't have known that this opportunity existed for Male Offspring.

They are usually the only Black students in their IB classes. And I had to fight for that.


------------------------------------
There is an African American girl in Teen Demon's class who is the personification of school spirit. She is student body president, is involved in school clubs, and one of the few Black kids in IB. Her grades started to slip; she was stretched too thin with all her activities. She was told to consider moving to regular classes. That's a message about the expectations for her.

Another girl, a White girl, actually wanted to drop IB. School was not her biggest priority, she wasn't involved in clubs, sports, or activities. She actively attempted to move to regular classes. Not only was she encouraged to stick with it, they did not allow her to drop out.  Let me say that again:  they did not allow her to drop out. She eventually did, but those adults had expectations of her; they fought for her, they encouraged her, despite the fact that she wasn't even interested in the program.

The first young lady was not encouraged. They did not fight for her. In fact, she was told maybe IB "wasn't the place for her," even though she had three years of that program under her belt, even though she contributes to the school in many ways. There were expectations for her as well.  Fortunately, she is not living down to those expectations.

Same school, same program, same teachers and administrators.  So even being class president isn't enough to overcome the disparity in treatment and in expectations here.  What the hell, people?


------------------------------------
The Radical Bohemian somehow got marked in the school's records as "White". This means her grades - excellent - were being credited to the White category as far as school performance. This pissed us off, as she was one of only two Black students in the IB program for her year, and now her performance was being credited as a White kid. I asked both the school and the district how that had happened.

Apparently, when we moved here, there was no provision for bi/multiracial students. You checked one box, and one only. So she didn't check any. (These days she just checks Black) Well, it turns out that,

Caucasian is the default.

What? I'm sorry, did you actually just say "Caucasian is the default"? No shit, we knew that; I just didn't know it applied to my daughter's school records as well as to life in general. I was told by a different person:

Oh, she's such a good student. Since you didn't check a category, someone probably looked at her grades and her WASL scores, and made a judgement call.

Are you fucking kidding me? So ... let's see if I've got this straight:  good grades + good standardized test scores + IB program = Caucasian kid? I don't think so. Unconscious bias, anyone?


------------------------------------
A Latina student was asked in Spanish class last week, where her family was from. She'd been taught her family history and Chicano history since she was a little girl. She is also shy, not one for speaking up. This though, was one area she knew, and she confidently told the teacher her grandparents were from the northern part of Mexico. The teacher looked at her name again and replied, smiling,


No -- Spain! Look at your name. Your family must be from Spain.

then she turned to the class and said,



Do you know why I say that? Because _________ is fair-skinned, and her last name is Spanish. Mexicans have the influence of the Indians, so many of them are dark-skinned.

All the kids in the class turned to look at this young lady. Surprise.

Are you kidding me? How arrogant. This teacher, who, by the way, speaks the most awful, gringoized Spanish I've ever heard, has the audacity to correct this child about where her family comes from, AND throw in some fucked up racist incorrect shit on top of it?

That young lady later said she felt stupid in front of her class. Like she didn't even know her own history. How do you undo that feeling?

My son has the same teacher. He says she has asked other students with last names like Garcia and Sanchez, why they are in her class. "Why don't you already speak Spanish?"  What?  Look, lady, do you speak Swedish?  No?  Why the hell not?  Explain yourself.

This is the most qualified individual the district could find to teach Spanish? You seriously expect me to believe there was not a more qualified native speaker who could teach Spanish? And you think there's not been a need for affirmative action?

In fact, I'd suggest that this one local situation is a great example of how our system has included automatic affirmative action for Whites since before we even became a country. In addition to being ignorant about her field of study, this teacher (whom Teen Demon also had for two years) is not even an effective instructor in her field. But she's the one they hired, she's the one who gets to teach the Spanish language to kids in this school. Hello, people, the White kids lose out too, in situations like that. That means your kids too, they're getting fucked up, substandard information in classrooms like this, all across the country.

Is it any wonder US folks in general are abysmal at speaking other languages?


------------------------------------
This same student, last spring, went on a field trip to the UW. Her mother put the trip together on her own, after finding out that the colleges only recruited from honors classes, and that a whole group of Latino kids had never been exposed to a college campus. The girl was fired up after the trip. This shy young lady got her nerve up and actually asked the school club administrator how to go about setting up a Latino Students Club. The advisor told her this:

I'm not sure that's such a good idea. It's not inclusive, you know? I mean, what if a White student wanted to start a White supremacist group here on campus? How would that make you feel?

Really? Are you fucking kidding me? An adult in this school actually compared a Latino Student Club to a White supremacist group. A hate group. What message does that send this student about the value of her culture? What does that say about the level of awareness we accept from the people in positions power? And why was this person permitted to take that action which is against the school handbook/policies on starting up student clubs? We can have a prayer group and a Young Republicans club, but not a Latino Club?

So between those two incidents with this particular student, what do you think the chances are that she, with her already shy personality, will take another chance on speaking up? What is the lasting impact on her? And without that club she wanted to start, what are the chances that she'll even find any support or understanding in the school?

(She did, eventually start the club. She had to fight for it, she had to bring in allies, but it's there now. It is very popular, and the young lady is coming into her own through the business of running it.  She's winning.)


-----------------------------------
An individual in a high position in my area took a group of her (White) staff to the Central District of Seattle in order for them to "learn what it's like to be a minority". I'm serious. So they trooped in for a meal, and now, apparently, they understand what it's like for, say, a student of color to be the only one sitting in a White classroom. Really. That hour is somehow equivalent to living a lifetime with a constant awareness of your environment behind the history of being Black in this country? That must've been one hell of a meal.

Oh, and they also, apparently, have increased their cultural understanding with collard greens!

This was relayed to a group of Black women and a Latino man in that well-intentioned way that suggests the person expects approval or even accolades for her actions. Or a cookie. The person relaying the story did not pick up on the reactions of the group. She truly thought she had done a good thing, and that she's ready for diversity work now.

More harm than good here, people.  This lady and her cohort may conclude that since they were fine on their dinner outing, a Black kid in a White classroom should be similarly fine. If he's not fine, they may see it as his fault, because after all, they managed when they were the "minority". For an hour. They may be even less willing to listen to voices of people who do live this stuff every day, because now they "know from experience".

Sigh.

So now, how to deal with that person, and her staff, who are in positions to affect things for young people? Her good intentions have made the work even harder for those around her, and she has no idea.


-----------------------------------
So yeah. These are just a few of the things I've personally seen or heard about, the kinds of things still happening in 2007. These are the things that well-intentioned people say and do. It happens a lot.  This is just a sampling.

And it wears a kid down after a while.


26 September 2007

Yes, Virginia, People Do Still Say That Shit.

So here's what happened to my son in history class the other day. First off, preface this with the fact that my son is the only Black student in all of his IB* classes -- a fact he noticed the first day of school.

(*IB is the International Baccalaureate program -- a worldwide honors program. The US is pretty new to it. The number of US schools offering it is limited, but growing. I chose this particular district specifically for IB, as it was the closest I could get to the education the kids had been getting in Hungary. Students of color are underrepresented in IB, African American kids in particular.)

Okay, so Male Offspring is taking Non-Western IB History this year. (the non-Western part is something, at least.) Last Thursday, the teacher is giving the lesson about how human life originated in Africa, the migration of the peoples, yada-yada. One young lady raises her hand and says it makes sense that life would've begun there, as it's

warmer there, and stuff can probably grow better than in a cold place.

OK, she's getting her reasoning skills on. She continues with,

Plus, Black people have the really broad foreheads and noses. They look like monkeys, so it makes sense that they would've come first, since they're the ones closer to monkeys.


Oh, yes, she did.

And every child in that classroom turned to look at my son.

Because that's what happens when you are the only person of color in the classroom. At that moment, my son was not "Male Offspring", he was "the Black kid in class".

My son could not tell me what the teacher said in response. He said he was shocked, everyone was staring at him. He said the teacher looked stunned and didn't really know what to do. She did say something to the girl, but he couldn't tell me what.

He said all he could hear was noise in his ears.


----------------------------------------

Now, I know there are a lot of folks living under the shiny illusion that this shit doesn't happen any more. People invariably respond with, "That's terrible! It's 2007!" Well, it happened in my kid's classroom last Thursday. If you're surprised by that, either your kid is White, or you don't live in this country.

I met with his teacher. Like you all didn't see that coming. A friend who works me in the parent group and who knows Male Offspring came with me.

We thought she was a student. No joke, people. This is her second year of teaching. She graduated from this very high school in 2001. She was like, soooo totally young! I had some assumptions and biases of my own, my first thought (besides "Holy shit, she's not a student?!) being "Oh, this little girl is not going to be able to handle this situation." I had to check myself, however, as we talked.

I had an idea about how to address what happened -- more about that in a minute -- but I wasn't sure how that was going to go. I can imagine if I were a teacher in her position, I might be nervous about meeting the parent. I might feel defensive or embarrassed. So I thought maybe she'd see any suggestions on my part as a judgement, as overstepping into her area.

She didn't.

I tried to get across how that felt for my son, the history behind that remark, the fact that he had no allies in that classroom who understood. Yes, other kids were shocked, thought it was wrong, but no one really understood. And no one spoke up.

I asked how she had initially responded to the young lady in question, and actually I think she did pretty well for being a new teacher caught off guard with such a loaded comment. Better than certain veteran teachers I know, that's for damn sure. Also, I should've said earlier that she did apologize to my son after class, and admitted to him that she hadn't quite known what to do.

I told her that SHE was my son's ally in that classroom, she has to be that for him, because every kid looked to her for direction on how that situation was going to go down. I told her I did not hold her accountable for what comes out of a student's mouth, but I do hold her accountable for addressing it. I fully expect her to have my son's back in that classroom.

I thought Miss Thang would get defensive or make excuses or gush about how she toootally understood. She didn't. Girl may be young, but she's sharp; I'll give her that. She looked me in the eye and said "Okay. That's my position, then." All right. She also said, "Obviously this student has missed some things we've been talking about in class. That says to me it's time to reteach."

It's time to reteach. Go on, girl.



I went into the meeting with 3 objectives:
1) I wanted the student to know her remark was inappropriate and hurtful, and I wanted her to get the correct information so she hopefully won't be spouting that shit again.
2) I wanted the other kids in the class to get the correct info, and to have an example of how to address comments like that.
3) Most important, I wanted my son to come away from this feeling empowered, not humiliated. I wanted him to know that he does not have to accept those statements, and I wanted his expectation to be that the adults in life will address that shit immediately.

Anyway, Miss Thang was on board with all of it, she wanted to learn how to be prepared for the next time. Which was a nice change. I told her my idea:



I wanted his class to see Race: the Power of an Illusion, a three-part PBS documentary.

Part I involves a high school science class in which the students do DNA swabs and blood pricks, then type their DNA. Before they get the results, they form hypotheses about whom they believe they'll be most closely linked to genetically.

Not surprisingly, they predict along racial/ethnic lines; the Black kids believe they will be the closest, genetically speaking, to other Black kids, the White kids predict they will be most like other Caucasian kids. Ditto for the Asian and Latino kids.

The results, of course, come back the opposite of what they'd thought: one African American young man finds he is genetically most similar to a blond, Russian classmate. A Caucasian student finds that in addition to having a 100% match with someone in the Balkans (which he expected, given his family history), he is also a 100% match for an African individual, which he did not expect. Another White student is most similar to an Asian girl in his class.

The film goes on to talk about race being a social construct, and the history behind that. It talks about the two migrations of people -- the first dying out, the second being modern humans. ALL of us. It covers how we all came about on the same timeline, that there are no separate species of humans, no lines from an earlier time, no group that is more/less advanced, and how any visual differences are a result of geographic adaptations after migration, not from genetic coding.

In other words, none of us are closer to monkeys than any of the rest of us.

Basically, it breaks it down in scientific terms that race has no biological basis; no gene, or group of genes, is common to a particular race. Race cannot be identified genetically. I was surprised to learn that there is twice the genetic variation between two penguins -- which, to my eye, look identical -- as there is between any two humans.




But ... past science did make a false connection between genes and race and intelligence, past science was used to purposefully construct the social aspects of race. In fact, the film covers how the Nazis actually had used US racial research to form their bullshit theories.

We all know how that turned out.

Here's the thing:

If a particular group of people can be shown, according to "scientific evidence", to be savage, to be less intelligent, less capable of self-governance -- closer to animals than your own group -- how much easier to justify taking their land and confining them to reservations? How much easier to rationalize enslaving those who are less than human? How much easier to convince ourselves that beating, lynching those who are "closer to monkeys" is necessary to keep them in line? That selling them as property is okay? How much easier is it to send those who are "inferior" to concentration camps? How much easier to justify Jim Crow laws, miscegenation laws, if some folks are shown to be closer to animals than others?

Pretty damned easy, according to history.



So the monkey comment, besides being incorrect and ignorant, has a whole shitload of history attached to it, even still, today. If you think the monkey comment was no big deal, that particular bit of history most likely does not apply to you and yours.

My son will remember that little girl opening her mouth and ignorance falling out, he will remember every eye in that room turning to him. He'll remember hearing nothing but white noise roaring in his ears while the teacher struggled to address it, struggled to find something to say to this girl.

Something that wouldn't humiliate her too much.

He will remember that time in 9th grade history class when his classmate said Black people look like monkeys. He'll remember how that felt. And he will be fully aware of the history behind that belief, enabling it to still be voiced in 2007.  He will also remember he has a voice.


-------------------------------------
Afterward: (ha, look at me trying to play author and shit.)Miss Thang showed the film to all her classes. She had the kids write their ideas of race before the film. Afterwards they wrote how the film did or did not affect their views. She said it went well, that she was encouraged by some of the kids' papers.

She said she'd like to incorporate that film into her classes every year. She's going to bring it up to the science teachers, and try to put something together with them for later in the year.

And for the record, no, that is not the usual response.

I was impressed with Miss Thang, and yes, I checked myself on my own assumptions that I'd formed upon seeing her bouncy blonde ponytail and wide-eyed. perky smile. I learned a lesson too.

So, my son will not forget this experience, it will leave its mark; but he will also remember that the adults in his life dealt with that shit, and he'll be more prepared next time. He'll remember that his class learned that shit is not okay and not correct. And hopefully, he'll remember that a little change was made in his school as a result of addressing that ignorant remark.

16 September 2007

Our Media, Sanitized for Your Ignorance

So the Radical Bohemian is home, safe, if not quite sound. She had to leave her new bike, Spirit the Unicorn, chained up on G Street. She's worried, because her last bike, Trigger, got stolen when she left it chained at the metro station once last spring.

She said when they passed the anti-protesters earlier in the day, it was really something. The pro-war camp threw cups, food, and trash at the protesters, hurled obscenities at them, screamed that the traitorous protesters should be deported. One of the protesters ended up with a broken jaw at the hands of the red crowd. I never understand the rationale with that, as a goodly portion of that crowd are at the extreme end of the Christian scale. I can't really see Jesus pulling that crap on some folks who are trying to end a war, but hey, that's just me.
(Not saying that crowd represents all Christians, or even mainstream Christians, but as a former Follower, it upsets me to see that faith used as a way to spread that kind of hatefulness in any way -- that's not what it's supposed to be about.)

Last night I flipped and flipped through channels and found NOTHING on the 11pm news. I was in a meeting yesterday from about 3, and didn't get home until after 10, so I'm sure there was some form of coverage over the afternoon, but I was looking before and after my meeting/dinner, and there wasn't much.

The Radical Bohemian told me last night that they were to be the front page story in the NY Times this morning. I was in the grocery store this morning, and it was nowhere on that front page. She got interviewed by some newspaper out of Rhode Island, but can't remember which one.


So I'm really disappointed in what our media chooses to show and not show.

I think it's part of the reason for the perceived apathy in this country. We're lacking that sense of shared purpose, it seems like no one is doing anything. People were doing something in a big way in DC this weekend, but the media controlled how much and what we know about it. My daughter read on the internet last night, before she finally hit the bed, that "at least 2 people were sprayed with a chemical spray". She was outraged.


"What? 'At least two'? There were at least 20, and those were just the ones who got it directly in the face!"

From what my daughter said about how the ANSWER Coalition folks were treated just over hanging the signs -- huge fines, arrests, harassment, their signs being torn down while ads for concerts and other events stayed up -- I can't help but think that our right to freedom of speech is being purposely and methodically squashed here.

And the conservatives have the nerve to bitch about the liberal media.

Whatever.

06 August 2007

Here's The Confession

Okay, y'all, I am a bit freaked out on two counts, both musical. Here's what I know:

1) I do like some 80s music after all. In fact, I like a lot of it.

2) Lorraine and I sang two of the same songs for church in years past. It's true. Amy Grant's El Shaddai and Father's Eyes. Given that I found this out purely by chance while cruising old comments, I bet if we actually compared notes, there could even be more.

These are the things one discovers whilst passing time alone in a night club way past closing time on a Sunday night.

I am a child of the 80s. I'm pretty sure that was a mistake. I think I was supposed to be a child of the 60s. I may have missed out on Free Love and fringe, but I stole the music. I believe I've mentioned that I worship at the church of Joni Mitchell. The 60s was a cool decade. Woodstock, the Black Panthers, free love, natural hair, acoustic guitars. Dr. King. Flowy tunics that flattered everyone. Down with pretense. Make love, not war. Revolution. They made a difference, man. Far out.

Those days, however, were not mine, but my mother's. The 60s were her heyday, she of the GoGo boots, embroidered vests and protest buttons.

I may have come into being in the 60s, but I came of age in the 80s. Big bangs varnished with Aqua Net. Jheri curls. Side ponytails. Clown make up. Jeans desecrated with tapered ankles, pleats and acid wash finish. Shoulder pads. Leg warmers with Flashdance sweatshirts. Reagan. What a hellish legacy to leave for a generation. And it's all immortalized in our yearbooks -- bad hair, bad make up, bad fashion, bad politics, and bad music.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward: summer, 2007. Sunday night it was me, my dogs, and a some Black Dog Ale. I'm cruising around the Internets, and decide to check out that totally rockin' hot spot, Here's the 80s. This was new for me. As you know, the proprieters are the hilariously irreverent and bitter Lorraine & JP. Although I am thoroughly addicted to both their blogs I have not been a regular patron at the club. Here's the 80s? I thought. Are you kidding? I finally got my bangs to lay down and merge with the rest of my hair. My pants no longer come up to my ribcage. No way. I have been shed of the 80s since belting out Auld Lang Syne on New Year's Eve, 1989.

Or so I thought.

Here's the confession: I do too like 80s music. It's true. I'd forgotten how much of it I actually did like. Granted, a lot of it I missed, because I was doing the Contemporary Christian Music thing at the time (thus the aforementioned church solos I have in common with Lorraine), but you can't go through a decade and not hear this stuff. Plus, after I left the cornfields of my youth for the firing ranges and red clay of Fort Jackson, South Carolina, I added secular music to my list of allowable indulgences. I still had over half the decade to go, at that point.
Leaving smalltown Ohio brought other music to my experience. Thus my affinity for old school rap and groups like DeBarge. (Don't judge.) Purple Rain? Are you kidding? Prince was a god.

So anyway, I was sucked through a vortex of black lace and big hair last Sunday night. I was sucked back into the 80s. I was there for hours. Alone, inebriated, on a Sunday night. Guys, you'll see plenty of my comments scattered around the place. In fact, I made myself stop after a while, realizing that they were taking on an "I love you, man!" quality, most likely due to the freely flowing beer. Sling wasn't there to serve up anything more interesting, so I made do with Black Dog Ale.

I'd forgotten about Huey Lewis and the News. Then Dire Straits made me think about my first boyfriend ever. He was great. To this day, I can't hear Sultans of Swing without thinking of him. Damn, that boy could kiss. I credit him with my high kissing standards of today. (Also, to this day, Dan Fogelberg's Auld Lang Syne will make me get misty behind that guy.) Culture Club, Cyndy Lauper, the Commodores, Linda Ronstadt, Aretha, Foreigner, Beastie Boys, The Pointer Sisters, Journey ... yeah. I was liking some 80s music y'all. I even found a bit of old school -- LL Cool J, MC Lyte, Oran Juice Jones, Young MC, Run DMC ... hell yeah. Even the Fat Boys were there. (Trust that Kurtis Blow, Whodini and UTFO will be on the request line soon.)

So now you know. Shoot, now I know. Here's to the 80s. *clink*

05 August 2007

Baby Boom, Redux.

Have you all heard of this "competitive birthing" deal? I heard about it on NPR this morning, while taking the eldest daughter to the airport at o'dark-thirty on a Sunday morning. May the Ex be stricken with an aggressive case of pubic lice for setting up those tickets.

Apparently, upper crust mommies are getting caught up in the "competitive birthing" phenomenon sweeping through gated communities across the country. According to NPR:

Historically, the country-club set has had the smallest number of kids. But in the past 10 years, the number of high-end earners who are having three or more kids has shot up nearly 30 percent.

Some say the trend is driven by a generation of over-achieving career women who have quit work and transferred all of their competitive energy to baby making. They call it "competitive birthing."


Yep, the newest twist on keeping up with the Joneses is the mega-family with four or more kids. The uptown mommy is popping out babies like a well-coiffed brood mare. Mothers behind the curve with only one or two children admitted feelings of inadequacy next to their fructiferous peers.

One mother of two, who'd left her child bearing years behind her, reconsidered upon moving to an affluent Connecticut suburb. Even after a third child, it wasn't long until she felt the pressure to be fruitful and multiply once more:


I was bike riding at 6am with a friend, and she said 'I'm pregnant with #4!' and I was like, 'I'm so jealous of you,' and sure enough within the month, we're biking again, and I'm like, 'Guess what, I'm pregnant with #4 too.'

Competitive birthing indeed.

I'm sorry, but if your ass is out biking with your girlfriend at 6am, that means there is a nanny at home watching those kids. That means you're getting enough rest to be up and perky at that hellish hour of the morning, because somebody is helping your ass with laundry and dishes and carpooling and shit, and it means you're not going to work.

You are not Supermom, honey, you're team-mothering. Hell, I'd be competitive, too.

According to Virginia Smith, director of Wellesley Nursery School in the Hills, that's a big part of the high-society baby boomlet. These moms are having more babies because they can.

They're hiring consultants to do the toilet training, to teach them to ride the two-wheelers, to teach them to tie their shoes, it's like the kid gets head lice, and the nit-picker comes and picks the head lice out! Is it ok? I don't know...

These posh moms drop the little darlings off at Wellesley In the Hills with lipstick in place, a fresh manicure, and bags that match their designer workout clothes. They've got the time and energy to hit the gym and the tennis court, have coffee with the girls, get the school-agers off to soccer or tap, and still have time to freshen up before hubby gets home from work. Why not have an extra kid or three?

Another mom, from an article in the Boston Globe:

Every person I know who has four kids has full-time help.
40-year-old former investment banker and current Wellesley mother of three.

Well, no fucking wonder! See, I am just not impressed. You don't punch the 9 to 5 clock, you've got help with the cleaning, yard work, cooking, and chauffeuring, you've got babysitting or even nanny services to boot, where's the stress in that? Please! Moms, back me up here -- what makes parenting hard is that we have to handle everything else in life while we're doing it, right? If all I had to do was parent, damn, I could do that.

Shoot, if I had that set-up, my ass would be toned, I'd have a bouncy haircut with highlights, a pedicure, and shaved legs. My damn bag would match my cute workout shoes. I would kick ass if I didn't have to work and had "full-time help".

Who the hell has "full-time help" anydamnway? What the fuck is that about? Is that even real?

Five bucks says these prolific parents don't have to worry about things like college tuition or sports equipment or the cost of Driver's Ed classes either. That would go a long way toward reducing stress and anxiety, wouldn't it?

I'm thinking that can't be all there is to it, though. Besides the obvious financial reasons, why do these women do it? Why not spend that money on travel or Botox?

*One former attorney says being a mother of four validated her choice to leave the work force more than being a mom to a single child would. I guess I can see that. Easier to justify leaving behind a high powered job and letting that Vassar tuition slide down the drain to raise four kids as opposed to one. Proof to the world (and yourself?) that your life is challenging, that you're doing something not everyone could do. That you're not sitting around sucking down bon-bons. Because you know that's what we moms do.

Another mom puts it like this,

I think it's because we're compelled to be successful and to be achievers. If you're an Ivy League graduate, who's always balanced all of the things in your life, and done it well, you don't decide to be a mom and have one kid. You're going to do it in a big way, full stop, 3 or 4 kids.

Really? I guess I can see that. There is more affirmation for parenting multiple children. I get that sometimes, even with my three, and if I'm honest, yes, it is validating. Then again, I'm definitely not using the team-mothering approach, and my ass goes to work every day. Shoot, I could use the other parent being present, let alone a damn housecleaner.

My mini-brood did not come about through some sort of Wisteria Lane competitive birthing deal to seal my status as an Ivy League mom, I'll tell you that much.

No, that shit came about because I temporarily lost my damn mind, no thanks to that damnblasted Barry White. That and baby shoes. Don't ask.

Actually, having reached Older & Wiser status, I do feel guilt about adding to the planet's burgeoning population with my three, particularly since we Americans are not down with Kyoto or any type of greening down as a whole. I rationalize that, though, with the knowledge that my kids are geniuses who will change the world. Plus, the eldest doesn't want kids, the 2nd says she'd adopt, because there are too many kids of color already needing homes. Hey, we adopt shelter dogs, same deal. Plus, no stretchmarks. See? Genius.

I do find it interesting that once again, it seems to be about women feeling the need to prove their worth. If they're not proving they can hang with the guys in the corporate world, they're justifying their choice to stay home and mother by supersizing the family. As if mothering one kid isn't mother enough.

Of course my Radical Bohemian daughter found it interesting that while this is reported as the latest fashion trend among the jet-set to be aspired to (Four Is the New Two! ), regular folks with large families aren't viewed in quite the same way. Far from being trendy and chic, working class families with several kids are seen as irresponsible. Out of control. Not in the same class as the super-sized family elite, are they? (Hey! I was not out of control -- that shit was planned before Barry started singing. The baby shoes didn't help, though...)

So, for those of you who haven't hopped on the breeding bandwagon yet, it's something to think about. Little Topher and Jennifer (and Jayden and Madison) can be walking, breathing status symbols. You too can be a high society competive birther.

Just make sure you've got your support staff and your Hummer in place.

Photo credits: first two photos: Pam Berry/Boston Globe Magazine

25 July 2007

Kucinich: Presidential Candidate or Chick Magnet?

Remember when I was pissed off about Hillary Clinton's femininity being an actual issue in the media, and how it doesn't seem to apply to the guys' masculinity? Remember when I asked why no one questions Dennis Kucinich's masculinity?

Now, I threw that out there, not as an attack on Congressman Kucinich's masculinity, but to illustrate the fact that for those candidates with a penis, masculine/feminine characteristics are a non-issue. It's only brought up in reference to candidates with breasts.

I picked Kucinich for that question because he doesn't strike me as one of those hulking macho guys. Not a bad thing -- those guys are usually arrogant assclowns, and sexist to boot. An overdose of masculinity is not a good thing in my book.

But let's face it, Kucinich isn't exactly butching it up. In fact, he has always put me in mind of a friendly gnome. I don't mean that in a disparaging way -- gnomes are pretty cool. (especially Evil ones wearing sexy hats -- you know who you are.) I know, I know: "Right, Cowbell, how you gonna call somebody a gnome and not mean that in a disparaging way? Sounds pretty damn disparaging to me."

I said friendly gnome, people. No mud-slinging here.

In all seriousness, I was impressed with Kucinich during the YouTube debates. I don't think he can win, but I did like his answers. Did y'all know he's from my home state? Yes, I'm originally a Buckeye. That makes us officially "homies", by the way. As in, "My boy Dennis was giving a speech the other day, and ..." Yeah.

Anyway, I think I know why Dennis Kucinich's masculinity is not in question. I give you his wife, Elizabeth Harper Kucinich. No Barbara Bush the Elder here, people. My man Dennis is coupled up with one smokin' hot willowy sylph of a redhead. I mean, damn! Did I say hot? Yes, I did.

She is 29 years old. He is 31 years her senior. She is British, from Essex, a bit New-Agey, and has a tongue-piercing. Oh yes, she does. A First Lady with a tongue-stud? Yes, I think so.

Now I'm not saying that a woman's hotness is a direct indicator of her man's masculinity -- that's for the testosterone-laden hetero males to debate. I'm just saying I now understand why no one is bringing said masculinity into question.

Why doesn't it work both ways, though? I mean, Bill's a good looking guy. Granted, he's not 29, but still a good looking guy. Why hasn't the media decided that yes, Hillary Clinton is sufficiently feminine (whatever the hell that means) based on the appearance of her husband? Goose and gander, here people.

Of course, if Senator Clinton's husband were a 29 year old hottie, it wouldn't exactly work that way, would it? No, it would not. She would not be "taken seriously". Instead of eliciting high-fives and a You Go Girl! from the masses, she would draw scorn and clucking of tongues. She would be called a Cougar at best, a cradle-robbing hussy buying companionship at worst.

There's just no getting around that double standard, is there?

Bastards.

But back to my man Dennis. Damn! Did you all know this? I didn't. They were married in 2005, after only having known each other for about 3 months. By all accounts, they're very close and genuinely in love. They met in Kucinich's office. This according to Common Dreams:

"Elizabeth Harper walked with her boss into Dennis Kucinich's Capitol Hill office for a meeting and immediately noticed three things. In the reception area, she saw a visiting nun in white robes. In his inner office sat a shelf bearing an illustration depicting "light consciousness" and a bust of Gandhi."

Apparently, that piqued her interest, and she emailed him. Within a few weeks, they were engaged, and married 3 months later. I've got to say, most folks wouldn't imagine them to be partnered up, just based on appearance. I mean, this blows the whole Charles and Diana thing out of the water.

Frog Prince my ass. And did I say gnome? My bad.

Elizabeth though, is no princess. She has volunteered in India with orphaned children, and worked in rural Tanzania as an advocate for regional development. She has a masters degree in International Conflict Analysis. She believes their union to based more on substance than form:

It's not like I'm some ditsy young thing and he's an old fogey. He has the wisdom of an ancient and the energy of youth.

Indeed. I am so sure he must have the energy of youth. That vegan diet must be keeping him chock full o' vim and vigor. I'm sorry, but I've got say it, this man has got to be some sort of freak in the sheets. Think about it.


Her thoughts on their height difference -- she is 6' tall:

Who cares? I like wearing high heels, so I’m used to being taller than most men I stand next to.

That's right girl. Strut.


And for all those who say it must be a money thing, Kucinich doesn't lead an extravagant life, comparatively speaking. At the debates the other night, he said he's still living in a working class neighborhood, in the same house he bought 35 years ago. Can't really say the same for John Edwards. I mean, girl could hook up with a lot of younger, hotter rich guys, if that's what she was after.

Like I said, freak in the sheets.

Now I like a lot of what Kucinich has to say. I have concerns about how he would come across with international relations. And really, after this Charlie-Foxtrot of an administration, we need some serious leadership when it comes to international relations.

However ... if Kucinich had this British enchantress heading to the alter after less than a month, the man must have some serious skillz in the international relations department.

Something to ponder.



Photo credits:
1 & 2: kucinich.us
3: Jason Behnken/Tampa Tribune

12 July 2007

Autoflush: When Innovation Isn't Good

So what is the deal with automatic toilets?

Welcome to the world of the Thinking Blogger, y'all.

You all know my department has temporarily relocated during the sprinkler installation so as to avoid death by asbestos 10 or 20 years from now. The new building has autoflush toilets. You know, with the little infrared beam that decides when you're sitting and when you're done.

(Side note: why isn't infrared spelled "infra-red"?)

Autoflush in my building needs to be recalibrated. That shit's just not working. Either that or autoflush is fucking with me.

At first, I was cool with the new water closet digs. Check out how the seat curves up at the rear, cradling your ass like an old recliner. Nice. So nice, in fact, that I was testing it out, leaning forward and back a little, appreciating the secure feel of the seat, when

FLLUUUSH!

The toilet autosprayed my ass. Literally. Damn it!

Fine. Lesson learned: no leaning around, no testing out the seating arrangements.  (Oh please. Like you've never done that.)  As long as I kept reasonably still on the porcelain throne, things would be fine.

Wrong.

Next trip, I go in, grab one of those paper seat covers -- or as my dad calls them, ass gaskets -- because this is a public toilet, after all. Punch out the center and lay said ass gasket down on the seat. Unbuckle belt, unhook pants, pull down, turn around to sit dow--------

FLLUUUSH!

Shit. Now I'm doing the bare-assed crouch maneuver over this power-flushing, porcelain vessel, the ol' bladder thinks it's time to let loose the stream, and I can't sit down because the toilet has autosucked my seat cover into its watery depths.

Shit. Practice some kegels, straighten up, awkwardly turn back around whilst keeping my knees apart so as to keep my pants up off the tiled germfest under my feet, grab another ass gasket, and repeat. This time, I back way up, so the autoflusher won't read me as "sitting" already.

It worked! I'm sitting, ass separated from the petri dish of a toilet seat by my properly placed prophylactic paper. Relief.  Except ... oh, no. This is turning out to be a Number Two occasion. Fine. Not the most convenient time and place, but whatever.  Like it's never happened to you.



So, I'm done. As the Airborne Rangers say, "Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door ..." I try to leave (on the count of four), but the autoflush has not kicked in.

I wait.  I wave my hands around. Do a couple of squats.

Nothing.

Some autoflushers have a manual override. In other words, a good old, regular flushing handle. Not these. Auto all the way, baby.

I back way up. I wave my hands in front of the reader, and wait again. Nada. The toilet sits, silently automocking my ass with its feculent cargo. I resort to duck-walking toward the rear of the stall, straddling the toilet, facing the wall, so my pelvis is blocking the reader.

At this point, two women enter the bathroom, laughing and chatting. Great. There is a knock on my door. "Oh!" The woman suddenly stops chatting with her pal, quickly moving on to the next stall. Great. There is nothing to do but the backward duck-walk. My new neighbor can't help but see my rear-facing shoes retreat, unless she's counting ceiling tiles. I'm sure this confirmed her initial suspicion that I am either 1) experimenting with pissing like the boys, or 2) I am packing.  Great.

About this time, autoflush kicks in with a vengeance.

Too little, too late, you porcelain bastard.

04 July 2007

Karaoke Kevin Strikes Out

So last Friday night, to celebrate the end of Hell Week at work, some friends and I decide to go get our par-tay on. Hell week left me too beat to actually drive into The City, as Seattle proper is called 'round these here parts. Plus, we needed to party hardy locally because alcohol.

This meant karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant.

I guess I should give some background on the whole going out deal. Before returning to the land of fast food and NASCAR, I went out all the damn time. We had community overseas, and someone was always up for fun. You could go out by yourself, and within five minutes, you'd hear someone else speaking English, and -bam- automatic connection. Before long, there'd be a group, and multiple languages, and you'd be making the rounds. Plus, the ex and I were still friends at that time, so we each had a free babysitter whenever one or the other of us was feeling all Saturday Night Fever.

Here, everybody speaks English. (And English only, bygod. This here's 'Murka! ) There's no connection. You go up and start talking to someone, they think you're a freak. Or that you want a hookup. Also, my friends are scattered all over. A night out with the girls isn't quite the same when you only have one girl.

I've got one close friend here. One. I met her because her brother was my boyfriend. She stayed with us for a while after an extended trip to Europe. Anyway, I ended up giving her brother the boot, but she stayed on for a few months. This led to a rumor that she'd stolen me away from her own brother with her nefarious bisexual ass. This rumor made it all the way to the brother, to my ex-husband in the Middle East, the brother's ex-wife in Jersey, and the brother's friend in Texas. We thought that shit was funny as hell, seeing as how I, apparently, am "nowhere near butch enough" for her. Those subtleties, however, are lost on most straight guys. That whole gay agenda thing.  They have to take their fantasies where they can get them, I guess.

Sometimes I still call her My Bitch just for old times sake.

Anyway, My Bitch and I used to go out in The City my first year or two back in 'Murka. We had to compromise when it came to our party establishments, as her ass is stuck in the 70s, musically. She also gets annoyed at "straight clubs", because men "don't know how to respect women,". Compromise was in order.

She is all about some 70s soul. It's great music. Love it. But it ain't the only show in town. Just sayin'. Anyway, my favorite place to go was Larry's, which was known around these parts as The Hip Hop Club, or The R&B Club. Which are just politically correct ways of saying The Black Club by people who "don't see color". I liked Larry's because it wasn't uptight and the music was good. (If you ignored any lyrics which happened to be misogynistic.) My Bitch maintained that it was all about men "getting all up in your ass", but when E'rbody in the Club's Gettin' Tipsy came on, her ass was the first to step out.

My Bitch, who tends toward the cynical when it comes to US race relations, told me often that Larry's was not long for this city, because "Whenever there's a black club in Seattle, they shut that shit down. Too many black folks in one place at the same time, folks here get nervous. They're going to shut that shit down."

I believe she even used the phrase "Mark my words," with an air of superiority thrown in for good measure. I blew it off. Larry's was doing the business. Seattle is all about diversity (in theory, if not in the flesh). This is a laid-back town. Larry's would be fine.

Of course, they shut that shit down about a year later, which did wonders for My Bitch's air of superiority.

Anyway, in the spirit of compromise, we'd hit Larry's sometimes and we'd hit Neighbors sometimes, which was a mixed-orientation club tending toward the techno tunes. I'd had enough of techno in Hungary to last me a lifetime, but the crowd was fun. We hit a few other places too, in search of a 70s soul music, and would go out about every couple of weeks or so.

The last year and a half, two years, I've been passing on the party more and more. This has a lot to do with the whole Seasonal Affective Psychosis I'm pretty sure I've developed here, and my ass going from phat to fat in the space of three years. And Larry's being shut down. There's that. Anyway, we've kind of turned into first rate duds.

Which pretty much horrifies me.

Goodgoddamn, but I do digress.

Okay, karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant: we actually had a group, actually a foursome -- a veritable crowd for me and My Bitch. The other two ladies and I had been there twice before, after our fledgling advocacy group's first meetings. We were so charming that we are already "regulars" for our favorite waitperson, a feisty Brazilian hottie, and the manager -- also a hottie of the male persuasion -- who keeps us happy by bending the musical selections to our desires. Feisty hooks us up with the right booth, titillating conversation, and fast service, and MixMaster keeps the tunes flowing, much to My Bitch's delight.

Would that MixMaster was not quite so young. Or my ass not quite so fat. Anyway...

Karaoke was interesting. Whole lotta country going on. But there was one chick who did a few non-country songs. We were liking her. One lady did The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. Now I love me some Roberta, y'all, but don't sing that slow shit on karaoke night.  About that time, our two compatriots decided to call it a night. There was one petite white girl who did The Humpty Dance. Girl did a great job. She also did Rapper's Delight. You just never know. Her boyfriend did a country number. He was real twangy, now. You just never know. She told us to gear up for Ice Ice Baby, and we decided to order a shot while waiting for that great American classic.

Hey, you takes what you can get. If it's Vanilla Ice or Conway Twitty, my ass is all about some Ice.

Now My Bitch isn't much for drinking. When she does, nursing a Lemon Drop is her thing. But every great once in a while, she'll do a shot. Last Friday it was a Pink Pussy. Which turned out to be sickeningly sweet, and sat neglected on our table. Now, it's not like My Bitch to neglect a Pink Pussy, but I guess the shot is nothing like its namesake. I went for a Blow Job.

We're still talking shots here, people.

As many of you may know, you don't just pick up a Blow Job like any old shot. That wouldn't be in the spirit of the drink. You have to go down on it. My Bitch was making all kinds of noise about how big and heavy the shot glass was, and how maybe she's safer on the Pink side of the fence, when I knocked it back, hands free. My Bitch was suitably impressed and was about to take notes, when some dude suddenly appeared at our booth.

I mean, really, the shot glass hadn't been back on the table a full minute. Show some restraint, man.

First time a guy's flirted in 20 or 30 lbs -- gee, ladies, I guess a good blow job really does cancel out the poundage. Bastards.

Kevin was drunk. That was his first mistake. Hook-up tip: slurring your words, not attractive. Kevin also veiled his baldness with a Kangolesque hat that looks sexyhot on some people, but looked like my grandpa's on him. That was his second mistake, trying to hide the bald with a hat.

In fact, let's stop and talk about bald, because it needs to said:

Men --especially straight men: bald is sexy. It's true. We like it. If you're upset over that receding hairline or that donut ring, shave the shit off. Sex-say. Hot.  Just shave the shit off and call it a day. A field of lonely hairs waving over your dome is not fooling us. We can see your scalp. Patrick Stewart? Sexy. Sexier than a guy 20 years younger who thinks he's fooling me with his lonely hairs or sloppy donut ring. A comb-over is a definite no-go. You can just stop reading if you think a comb-over is a viable option for thinning hair. If my man had a comb-over, I'd lop that shit off while he slept. Growing it long in the back and making a ponytail out of it? Well, I won't say it can't work, but if you choose this option, make sure you can carry that shit off. You'd best be one sexy motherfucker to go with the balding ponytail option. The hat? This is the male version of wearing falsies. Someday that shit is going to come to light. You're not fooling anyone, honey, and you may well piss a woman off with that little ruse. Now a hat can be hot, and I'm not saying you can't do the hat AND the bald. Just don't wear the hat specifically to hide the bald. It does not work.
Moving on. So, Kevin:

"Hello Ladies ... may I interest you in some conversation?"

Blank stares.

Kevin would not be dissuaded. Now I'm sorry, but when two women hesitate, look at each other, and come back with, "Um, we're actually leaving before too long, but thanks," they're really not that into you. I won't even go into how many times he asked if he could sit down. Again, guys: if the answer is not a definitive YES, assume that means NO. I decided, fine, you want to push yourself on us, let's have some fun. I'm fucking with you, Kev, and not in a good way.

I asked, "So, Kevin, what brings you over to our table?" Knowing full well it was the now-empty shot glass with whipped cream lingering on the rim. Kevin stammered and stared and finally came back with some lameass shit about true conversation and connections. Right.

"So, ladies ... what's your story? I'm a bit of a philosopher. Why are you here? Ah you're friends. Of course. The question should be, 'Why are we friends?' (ha ha ha) Are you married? Out with the girls? May I sit down?"

We did not scoot over.

We gave fake names. I was Shania, in honor of the karaoke pouring through the speakers. Kevin didn't make the connection. My Bitch was Jasmine, which apparently is some sort of street name she'd had back in the day. I believe it was actually "Sweet Jasmine", but Kevin didn't need any encouragement.

We asked Kevin about his philosophy. His philosophy was "true connections" and "real people". Right. Like I've never heard that before. At least be original, dude. I'm surprised he didn't whip out the always-impressive I Like Walks on the Beach deal. He did, however, drop the fact that he takes care of his sick father, and that he's pretty much solvent, as he's got some sort of business selling windbreakers, which allows him to pursue his passions. Including philosophy.

I told Kevin that we'd actually met through My Bitch's brother, and she caught on and chimed in that she had stolen me away from him. Kevin was looking a bit uncertain at this point. I let him know that My Bitch tended to get pretty jealous, so ...

Kevin blinked. He responded smartly with, "She does? Tha's okay ... I'm drunk too!"

Me: "No. JEAL-OUS, not drunk. I said jealous."

Kevin blinked some more. He raised himself half way out of his chair, rubbed his face, eyes darting nervously around the room. Good, I thought. That freaked him out -- he's so out of here. I underestimated the power of testosterone. (Fool!) Kevin sat back down. "I like it!" he confessed, breathlessly. "I've got to hear about this!"

Typical. I am out of practice. When has the possibility of lesbians ever freaked a guy out enough to get rid of him? What am I, a rookie?

Kevin eyed us with new interest and respect. Whatever. Like that whole "I'm so down with lesbians" bit is any kind of original.

"Do you ladies like Faith Hill? Tim McGraw?" he asked, whipping out his cell phone.

"Um... NO," in stereo.

"Oh." he shrugged, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Then there's no point in it..."

We didn't take the bait. Kevin held out for about 10 seconds. "Oh, I just have to show you this ... I'm not trying to intrude, but when you ladies see ..." he flips open the phone and proudly reveals a picture of some chick's back on a stage with a bunch of lights. "That's Faith Hill!" He reverently confides.

"Oh. Mm-hmm." (again with the stereophonics)

At this point, Kevin gets a bit emotional. His barefaced desperation is clutching at our sleeves. "No, ladies ... I met her. Faith Hill. I was on stage with her. I gave her my windbreaker. We were all together -- everyone -- this was after 2001, after 9/11." Kevin shuts his eyes tightly and takes a moment. "9/11, ladies ... it was ... we were all there," Well shit. Now he's whipped out 9/11 on our asses. What is he, George Bush? Fuck. "To this day, she still has my windbreaker. I gave it to her."

My Bitch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. Mainly, "This motherfucker is just too damn pathetic to mess with. Let's blow this pop stand." I told Kevin I needed to get home to my kids. I was tempted to tell him I had nine kids, but this shit wasn't even entertaining. Plus, that probably wouldn't have fazed him.

Kevin was just on this side of tears. Goddamn. "But ... I'm real! I'm true! I showed this to you," waving the phone. Yeah. About that...

We were out of there. On the way out, I told Li'l Humpty that we were sorry to be missing her rendition of Ice Ice Baby after all.

She understood.