From the previous post, I began to do a little research into the gender wage gap, and was floored by what I discovered.
%83.
A woman, working full time, earns on average eighty three percent what a man working the same job does.
Don't get me wrong; we're bringing it back up from the dark ages of the '60s, which I had assumed stood for the 1960's, but now it appears it also stands for what percent women earned of men's salaries. (%60) Although constant improvment has been recorded since then, we have lost the tremendous growth we saw in the years 1990-1994, where the average jumped a full 7 percent before easing back down over the next few years.
This statistic is the median weekly earning from wage and salaried positions, which of course might mean there is a smaller group of men skewing the statistics by having exorbitant salaries, but when salaries of the highest educated professionals were compared (master's, Professional, and above) the percent fell to %66. This is what I can look forward to by earning a PhD. (Oh, and also that "fulfilling job" stuff, but that's not the point) When the highest decile (tenth percentile) for median weekly earning was compared , men topped out at 1,971, women at 1,498, with a difference of 10, 000 men in this percentile.
This study was controlled for things like overtime, but there are many unresolved factors. Benefits were not considered, time off, vacations, and also the complicating factor of the difference in sex's ability to ask for a raise. We can only hope that this disparity is due to the speed at which society accepts new developments (On a societal scale, women's suffrage is still shiny and smells like leather), which is slow, but eventually we can expect progress. The gap is predicted to close with the next twenty years, but I do find one thing strange; The gap between black men and black women, is only about 7%. Black women earn about 92% of what black men earn. Other non-white races typically follow the same pattern, men and women earning close to similar amounts, but not close to white male earnings.
It is possible, then, that what we are observing is not a loss of earning for women and non-white races, but an overinflation of white men's earnings, that once this is adressed and equalized, we'll all be on the same field.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
F(l)eminism
Oh. Boy.
I thought of this post on my way home and I darn near didn't make it through the door before chucking down my bag and typing to get this little rant out. I'm still wearing my shoes, I haven't eaten, and I might be hyperventilating a little. That's how critical this post is.
But first; I've been thinking of using pictures for my blog. Certainly it would spice it up a bit, I guess. Not personal ones, obviously, giving the internet your personal likeness is a recipe for photo-shop related hi-jinks and great jimminy-jilkers I want to run for Prime Ministress one day. But perhaps some random pictures would spruce the place up. I suppose I would have to host them online somehow, though, which leads me to my question: What type of wine would you serve to pictures? I really should consult Martha Stewart's Hostess handbook but she only covers a few anthropomorphic niceties and I really need the full manual. Still, you can't go wrong with an Australian Red, and if they don't like it, then I don't need their low-class taste stinking up my blog, har har.
Now then: stereotypes. One in particular, to be exact; Ladies and the spending. I'm not entirely sure what "Sex and the City" has been teaching people but if I have to dodge one more joke about "spending my boyfriend's paycheck" I might have to have some strong words. Carved onto the side of a cleaver (the knife, not the kitschy American family). I'm fully aware how futile it is to try and refute a dearly held notion with one anecdotal argument, but I have few other options. Usually the situation goes the same way, myself and my boyfriend are loitering around the shop (just hoping to be useful; our favorite past-time) mid-conversation with someone else, when the discussion will amble over to finances, and someone will elbow Vic, hurr hurr, and ask how he manages to support my voracious shoe habit, or some such. It is always crouched in the form of a joke (Aren't they always?) and there is no polite way of correcting the joker without lowering the tone of the discussion several degrees and incurring the most hated phrase of accuracy-lovers everywhere: "I'm just kidding!!" Well Hardy-har-har chuckles! This phrase is the sneaky, self-serving, degenerate low-life phrase of the idiom family, and is usually delivered with a hurt infliction, occcasionally even with upraised hands. It exonerates the joker, who's just a fun-loving scamp, and places all responsibility for social niceness and further conversation-tone on the jokee. Any offense gathered from the "joke" instantly turns the jokee into a "self-righteous prig with (the worst charge) NO SENSE OF HUMOR". Worse, I don't think well on my feet, so of course my response is never witty or clever (which as every conversational fencer knows, lends more credit to your point than an actual argument) so my response is invariably something sputtered and denial-filled. The result? I look incredibly guilty, while my coworkers stare at me wondering how I can spend all Vic's money and still look so shamefully tacky when arriving at work everyday. (The answer, dear reader, is that I don't care to look good entering work. I wear those clothes for about 5 minutes in public view; I literally spend more time naked in the ladies change room, which is why, proportionally, more of my money goes to the gym and health food, than clothes.) The real truth, however poorly I make the point, is that Vic is more impulsive than myself. It is true. I'm frugal to almost a fault. Having decided to buy a netbook for classes and this very same blog, I spent over a month hemming, hawing, and finding the cheapest alternative, finally settling for "offensively cheap" because it had been returned already. Over the course of our relationship Victor has spent more on clothes, shoes, and hobbies, than I have. Now here's where I must back off, and hope that some small spark of trust will be lit in the reader, since to belabor my point (my fondest indulgence) would embarrass Victor, which I've no mind to do (I even tried to consider how to write the post without involving him, but it would be darn near impossible). He is thrifty, and not reckless with his money, my only point is that I'm much more frugal (again, almost to a fault), and I hate being labeled as a "loose-woman" because I'm a lady, therefore obviously I have no idea how to handle money. That's so wrong!
"Seriously though, Michelle, It's just some light ribbing!" I know, I know. (Dear Reader has had so much contribution to the blog, as of late, it may merit authoring credit) I should really learn to let it go. Laugh with the joke, content in my knowledge that I'm not some fluff-bunny, but sometimes virtue is not it's own reward. Sometimes a stand should be made. Women still don't make as much as men, even in the highest professions, and we're still gamely invading the higher echelons of career opportunities. We've won all our large battles, we have the vote, equal rights and no woman may be denied a position based on her gender. But there are still small problems, small fights that crop up, and if we don't talk about them, we're doomed to suffer them alone. I'm not saying we should whip out our bras and light 'em up every time someone makes a quip, but gentle pressure over time should slowly erode the dominant stereotype here. Besides, I'm a blogger, I'm meant to over-react.
P.S. This is the most current and unbiased of my sources. Enjoy!
I thought of this post on my way home and I darn near didn't make it through the door before chucking down my bag and typing to get this little rant out. I'm still wearing my shoes, I haven't eaten, and I might be hyperventilating a little. That's how critical this post is.
But first; I've been thinking of using pictures for my blog. Certainly it would spice it up a bit, I guess. Not personal ones, obviously, giving the internet your personal likeness is a recipe for photo-shop related hi-jinks and great jimminy-jilkers I want to run for Prime Ministress one day. But perhaps some random pictures would spruce the place up. I suppose I would have to host them online somehow, though, which leads me to my question: What type of wine would you serve to pictures? I really should consult Martha Stewart's Hostess handbook but she only covers a few anthropomorphic niceties and I really need the full manual. Still, you can't go wrong with an Australian Red, and if they don't like it, then I don't need their low-class taste stinking up my blog, har har.
Now then: stereotypes. One in particular, to be exact; Ladies and the spending. I'm not entirely sure what "Sex and the City" has been teaching people but if I have to dodge one more joke about "spending my boyfriend's paycheck" I might have to have some strong words. Carved onto the side of a cleaver (the knife, not the kitschy American family). I'm fully aware how futile it is to try and refute a dearly held notion with one anecdotal argument, but I have few other options. Usually the situation goes the same way, myself and my boyfriend are loitering around the shop (just hoping to be useful; our favorite past-time) mid-conversation with someone else, when the discussion will amble over to finances, and someone will elbow Vic, hurr hurr, and ask how he manages to support my voracious shoe habit, or some such. It is always crouched in the form of a joke (Aren't they always?) and there is no polite way of correcting the joker without lowering the tone of the discussion several degrees and incurring the most hated phrase of accuracy-lovers everywhere: "I'm just kidding!!" Well Hardy-har-har chuckles! This phrase is the sneaky, self-serving, degenerate low-life phrase of the idiom family, and is usually delivered with a hurt infliction, occcasionally even with upraised hands. It exonerates the joker, who's just a fun-loving scamp, and places all responsibility for social niceness and further conversation-tone on the jokee. Any offense gathered from the "joke" instantly turns the jokee into a "self-righteous prig with (the worst charge) NO SENSE OF HUMOR". Worse, I don't think well on my feet, so of course my response is never witty or clever (which as every conversational fencer knows, lends more credit to your point than an actual argument) so my response is invariably something sputtered and denial-filled. The result? I look incredibly guilty, while my coworkers stare at me wondering how I can spend all Vic's money and still look so shamefully tacky when arriving at work everyday. (The answer, dear reader, is that I don't care to look good entering work. I wear those clothes for about 5 minutes in public view; I literally spend more time naked in the ladies change room, which is why, proportionally, more of my money goes to the gym and health food, than clothes.) The real truth, however poorly I make the point, is that Vic is more impulsive than myself. It is true. I'm frugal to almost a fault. Having decided to buy a netbook for classes and this very same blog, I spent over a month hemming, hawing, and finding the cheapest alternative, finally settling for "offensively cheap" because it had been returned already. Over the course of our relationship Victor has spent more on clothes, shoes, and hobbies, than I have. Now here's where I must back off, and hope that some small spark of trust will be lit in the reader, since to belabor my point (my fondest indulgence) would embarrass Victor, which I've no mind to do (I even tried to consider how to write the post without involving him, but it would be darn near impossible). He is thrifty, and not reckless with his money, my only point is that I'm much more frugal (again, almost to a fault), and I hate being labeled as a "loose-woman" because I'm a lady, therefore obviously I have no idea how to handle money. That's so wrong!
"Seriously though, Michelle, It's just some light ribbing!" I know, I know. (Dear Reader has had so much contribution to the blog, as of late, it may merit authoring credit) I should really learn to let it go. Laugh with the joke, content in my knowledge that I'm not some fluff-bunny, but sometimes virtue is not it's own reward. Sometimes a stand should be made. Women still don't make as much as men, even in the highest professions, and we're still gamely invading the higher echelons of career opportunities. We've won all our large battles, we have the vote, equal rights and no woman may be denied a position based on her gender. But there are still small problems, small fights that crop up, and if we don't talk about them, we're doomed to suffer them alone. I'm not saying we should whip out our bras and light 'em up every time someone makes a quip, but gentle pressure over time should slowly erode the dominant stereotype here. Besides, I'm a blogger, I'm meant to over-react.
P.S. This is the most current and unbiased of my sources. Enjoy!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Canadian Tired
I had a flat the other day. Right when I came out to get my car to go to work, I did a walk-around on impulse and discovered it laying there like a sad poodle. Fortunately I had a jack and spare tire in the trunk and took less than 10 minutes to change that sucker, even though I had to jack it up using my fingers and a spare appropriately-sized twig. Wasn't even late for work.
I dropped the tire off at the canadian tire near my girlfriend's place and they said it would take a full day to patch. How it was flat is even more curious.
Vic and I park differently, I pull in, he backs in. His new tracker had a flat tire on the front left, the farthest tire from the house, caused by a nail dug in. My car had a flat right, rear tire, again the farthest from the house, caused by a nail. Now, we did drive in from Calgary, going over the same roads the whole way, but I can't help but wonder if some of the patrons of the nearby bar maybe thought it would be funny to punch holes in our tires. Excuse me a second, my tinfoil hat needs tape.
The next day, I arrived at the Canadian tire, in a bit of a rush because I was on my way to my sister's place where my mom's cooking (Joy!) and my new baby nephew (Glee!) awaited me. I paid for the patch, and the older man behind the counter asked if I needed it installed (which was weird because they asked when I dropped it off and I said no) and I said no, he could just bring it round, and I'd change it in the parking lot (I jacked a car up with a twig, aren't I radiating competence?). He told me to walk through the shop to leave, but when I went in, no one brought me my tire. The older man told me to pull my car in, and I shrugged and thought, shop jack ought to be faster. So I brought my car round, but when I pulled in, some other mechanic said he would change it for me. "Whatever" I thought, "maybe they'll be faster". It should be noted I also could not find my tire. The mechanic dissappeared and I waited, and waited. Checked my oil and waited...loosened the lug nuts....and waited.
Finally I went out to the front counter and, as murphy's law predicts, right as I asked where the mechanic was, he appeared in the shop behind me so the older counter guy could point to him and tell me to wait, he'd get to me soon, just wait out here.
I wasn't about to leave my baby in the shop by itself so I muttered that I needed to tell him something and fled back into the shop, where the mechanic had jacked up the car. I whipped off the tire and he stuck on the new one, bolting it on with an airgun (so cool). I thanked him and high-tailed it, but I was sort of annoyed. I don't like to make a fuss, but I should have when I first entered the shop, just said, "Where's my tire?" and absconded. Sometimes I am concerned that people assume that as a lady I'd just mess it up; Also there is a difference between "Can't do it myself" and "Don't want to do it myself" because, let's face it, occasionally it's nice to let someone else do things. This was, however, a perfect example of a psychology concept known as "In for a penny" or the commitment-bias. It was never one point where I said "yes change my tire", just a series of small concessions. It's also the same principle as the boiling toad. Put a toad in hot water and it will jump out, but put a toad in cold water and heat it, and it won't notice. (Yah, right, but it illustrates the point). I always get blindsided by this tactic.
I dropped the tire off at the canadian tire near my girlfriend's place and they said it would take a full day to patch. How it was flat is even more curious.
Vic and I park differently, I pull in, he backs in. His new tracker had a flat tire on the front left, the farthest tire from the house, caused by a nail dug in. My car had a flat right, rear tire, again the farthest from the house, caused by a nail. Now, we did drive in from Calgary, going over the same roads the whole way, but I can't help but wonder if some of the patrons of the nearby bar maybe thought it would be funny to punch holes in our tires. Excuse me a second, my tinfoil hat needs tape.
The next day, I arrived at the Canadian tire, in a bit of a rush because I was on my way to my sister's place where my mom's cooking (Joy!) and my new baby nephew (Glee!) awaited me. I paid for the patch, and the older man behind the counter asked if I needed it installed (which was weird because they asked when I dropped it off and I said no) and I said no, he could just bring it round, and I'd change it in the parking lot (I jacked a car up with a twig, aren't I radiating competence?). He told me to walk through the shop to leave, but when I went in, no one brought me my tire. The older man told me to pull my car in, and I shrugged and thought, shop jack ought to be faster. So I brought my car round, but when I pulled in, some other mechanic said he would change it for me. "Whatever" I thought, "maybe they'll be faster". It should be noted I also could not find my tire. The mechanic dissappeared and I waited, and waited. Checked my oil and waited...loosened the lug nuts....and waited.
Finally I went out to the front counter and, as murphy's law predicts, right as I asked where the mechanic was, he appeared in the shop behind me so the older counter guy could point to him and tell me to wait, he'd get to me soon, just wait out here.
I wasn't about to leave my baby in the shop by itself so I muttered that I needed to tell him something and fled back into the shop, where the mechanic had jacked up the car. I whipped off the tire and he stuck on the new one, bolting it on with an airgun (so cool). I thanked him and high-tailed it, but I was sort of annoyed. I don't like to make a fuss, but I should have when I first entered the shop, just said, "Where's my tire?" and absconded. Sometimes I am concerned that people assume that as a lady I'd just mess it up; Also there is a difference between "Can't do it myself" and "Don't want to do it myself" because, let's face it, occasionally it's nice to let someone else do things. This was, however, a perfect example of a psychology concept known as "In for a penny" or the commitment-bias. It was never one point where I said "yes change my tire", just a series of small concessions. It's also the same principle as the boiling toad. Put a toad in hot water and it will jump out, but put a toad in cold water and heat it, and it won't notice. (Yah, right, but it illustrates the point). I always get blindsided by this tactic.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Half review, half PSA, all awesome!
I went to go see the movie Inception a while ago, and then always intended to write a review of it, but then I enjoyed telling people about it so much I never ended up writing it. It has recently come to my attention, however, that people should be forewarned about it so they do not suffer the same fate I did. This won't contain any spoilers (like there's anything to spoil...)
This movie has been pushed as a mental-thriller, a headtrip, or a thinking movie. It's not. If you can wrap your mind around the notion that sometimes people run out of ideas for fiction and resort to "But it was all a dream!" and then sometimes that gets overplayed so people say, "No, THAT was a dream" then you have a pretty good basis to watch Inception on. If you can further tax your mental resources and continue one step further to conclude "No, THAT was a dream!"Then congratulations, you've just watched Inception. The movie plot suffers from a form of "Dragonball Z"-kosis where they assume it furthers a script to continually shout "No I'm going down 3 dream levels" and "Well, I'm going down 4 dream levels!" but no one has the ability to go super-sayan.
Not to say it isn't a good movie. There are interesting notions and some cute visual effects (yes, I said "cute"), and a pretty good fight scene in a hallway, but since I had expected thinking, I kept expecting twists, and was sorely disappointed. In fact,my overactive brain came up with several mind-assaulting twists that I debating sending in the direector, even one that plays very heavily on the notion of "it was all a dream!!" that they present, while still, in my opinion, knocking your socks off.
All in all, it's an okay movie. Something you'd go see if the tickets were free, or you could borrow it free of charge from a friend. It does what people expect from movies now; it entertains. It is entertaining. Sometime just recently, I blame "Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali" for this, but that is no longer sufficient for me.
One final note: I do not want to hear "Let's see you do better!" or any variation thereof. My job is not to make movies. If I was given the same resources, heck yah, I'll make a head-case of a movie. But just because I have not made a movie does not mean I can not judge them. I've never raised a child, but I know when I think people are scum.
see more Epic Win FTW
This movie has been pushed as a mental-thriller, a headtrip, or a thinking movie. It's not. If you can wrap your mind around the notion that sometimes people run out of ideas for fiction and resort to "But it was all a dream!" and then sometimes that gets overplayed so people say, "No, THAT was a dream" then you have a pretty good basis to watch Inception on. If you can further tax your mental resources and continue one step further to conclude "No, THAT was a dream!"Then congratulations, you've just watched Inception. The movie plot suffers from a form of "Dragonball Z"-kosis where they assume it furthers a script to continually shout "No I'm going down 3 dream levels" and "Well, I'm going down 4 dream levels!" but no one has the ability to go super-sayan.
Not to say it isn't a good movie. There are interesting notions and some cute visual effects (yes, I said "cute"), and a pretty good fight scene in a hallway, but since I had expected thinking, I kept expecting twists, and was sorely disappointed. In fact,my overactive brain came up with several mind-assaulting twists that I debating sending in the direector, even one that plays very heavily on the notion of "it was all a dream!!" that they present, while still, in my opinion, knocking your socks off.
All in all, it's an okay movie. Something you'd go see if the tickets were free, or you could borrow it free of charge from a friend. It does what people expect from movies now; it entertains. It is entertaining. Sometime just recently, I blame "Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali" for this, but that is no longer sufficient for me.
One final note: I do not want to hear "Let's see you do better!" or any variation thereof. My job is not to make movies. If I was given the same resources, heck yah, I'll make a head-case of a movie. But just because I have not made a movie does not mean I can not judge them. I've never raised a child, but I know when I think people are scum.
see more Epic Win FTW
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Here a blog, there a blog
Although I have been aiming at producing more original fare lately, rather than just writing "This is cool, go here!" I do want to tell people about one of the other blogs I've found that is just too hilarious and I want to be just like her except the bad part is I usually console myself by thinking "when I'm as old as (the person I'm admiring) I'll do awesome stuff too" but I'm as old as this other chick and not doing as awesome stuff so I consoled myself by thinking she's ugly (Don't judge me everybody rationalizes like this) but she's posted some pictures and she's pretty cute so now I'm all confused like a semi-retarded dog with a cup and a treat. (Which, when Vic the bf and I read about the dog tests, we gave the doggy IQ tests to our dogs Faith and Pixie and they each shoved the cups across the floor but never tipped them and then Vic took pity on them and tilted the cup over so they could get the treats, then he concluded they were smart and I concluded they were retarded. We chased the cat around for two hours trying to get her to take the test but she refused cause "humans are stupid", then Vic concluded she was retarded and I concluded she was brilliant so stalemate.) Anyway she's smart AND funny, and I've only got one out of two (bet everybody's trying to figure out which one know, which is win-win for me, and my mom thinks I'm modest so win-win-win!) But I guess it's good to have someone to look up to. A goal to shoot for.
Anyway, Vic and I with a couple of friends went out to Fort Edmonton Park the other day which was really neat because I couldn't remember being there before. We got menaced by loose geese and rode the train, and played in the kids playground, but my favorite part was the blacksmith. Everyone else was in period gear and all "Good day" and "How fare you?" But the blacksmith had in yellow plastic earplugs and acted like his primary job was making metal things, and we were a regretable byproduct, like soot. Hilarious. He griped about the quality of coal they gave him, and spoke to us all very matter-of-fact about the heat of the stove and durability of his iron, so at ease in his environment that I expected him to pull out a "world's best boss" mug of coffee and take a swig. The other bit I liked was seeing the 1920's world and imagining my great grandma living in it. Its amazing how far the world came since then, and even more amazing to imagine where its going (unless the Russians kill us all-more on that later). Finally we settled in for a beer at the old-fashioned bar they had there, and I had a coffee martini. (Cold coffee, vodka, drambuie, and lemon. Ludicrously tasty). True I had only two hours of sleep before work, but that's what makes this new position awesome. It didn't matter.
One final bit of good news, I got into a political science class. Let me paint the scene for everyone; the university of alberta has a program called beartracks that is used fo enrolling and monitoring classes. Since the four poli sci classes were all full, (80 person classes that are a manditory prerequisite for an entire major of classes are high in demand) I put them all on the watch list, which sends me an email when the class space becomes available, and waited for the profit. The first notice came and I saw it four hours late, and of course, the spot was full. I shrugged it off. The second notice came, and I saw an hour later and it was full. I shook it off. The third notice came, and I saw ten minutes later, and it was full, and I began to get annoyed. The fourth notice came, and it took me 5 minutes to log on and it was full. I recruited my brother at this point so we both received notifications. Another notice and in the thirty seconds it took us to log on, it was full. I then noticed that the turn around time from when the message was sent to being delived was about 6 minutes, so obviously I could no longer use the notification system and contented myself to keeping my netbook open, handy and logged in, just in case. I had in my past, laughed at people who just sat online, refreshing their inbox, but now, no more. I sat and reefreshed the beartracks page so often it might be burned into my retinas. But it finally paid off and I have my precious precious course. Just remember this saga when I'm posting in a month about how much I hate my poli sci course. Because irony prevents anemia. heheh.
Anyway, Vic and I with a couple of friends went out to Fort Edmonton Park the other day which was really neat because I couldn't remember being there before. We got menaced by loose geese and rode the train, and played in the kids playground, but my favorite part was the blacksmith. Everyone else was in period gear and all "Good day" and "How fare you?" But the blacksmith had in yellow plastic earplugs and acted like his primary job was making metal things, and we were a regretable byproduct, like soot. Hilarious. He griped about the quality of coal they gave him, and spoke to us all very matter-of-fact about the heat of the stove and durability of his iron, so at ease in his environment that I expected him to pull out a "world's best boss" mug of coffee and take a swig. The other bit I liked was seeing the 1920's world and imagining my great grandma living in it. Its amazing how far the world came since then, and even more amazing to imagine where its going (unless the Russians kill us all-more on that later). Finally we settled in for a beer at the old-fashioned bar they had there, and I had a coffee martini. (Cold coffee, vodka, drambuie, and lemon. Ludicrously tasty). True I had only two hours of sleep before work, but that's what makes this new position awesome. It didn't matter.
One final bit of good news, I got into a political science class. Let me paint the scene for everyone; the university of alberta has a program called beartracks that is used fo enrolling and monitoring classes. Since the four poli sci classes were all full, (80 person classes that are a manditory prerequisite for an entire major of classes are high in demand) I put them all on the watch list, which sends me an email when the class space becomes available, and waited for the profit. The first notice came and I saw it four hours late, and of course, the spot was full. I shrugged it off. The second notice came, and I saw an hour later and it was full. I shook it off. The third notice came, and I saw ten minutes later, and it was full, and I began to get annoyed. The fourth notice came, and it took me 5 minutes to log on and it was full. I recruited my brother at this point so we both received notifications. Another notice and in the thirty seconds it took us to log on, it was full. I then noticed that the turn around time from when the message was sent to being delived was about 6 minutes, so obviously I could no longer use the notification system and contented myself to keeping my netbook open, handy and logged in, just in case. I had in my past, laughed at people who just sat online, refreshing their inbox, but now, no more. I sat and reefreshed the beartracks page so often it might be burned into my retinas. But it finally paid off and I have my precious precious course. Just remember this saga when I'm posting in a month about how much I hate my poli sci course. Because irony prevents anemia. heheh.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Paperbork
Hey there, Little Timmy! Why the long face?
Aw shucks, Mister Narrator, I don't know how to do all that cool paperwork origami all the other kids do. Nobody's gonna like me.
Would you like to know a secret,Timmy?
Yah, yah!
All that rolling and crumpling is just a waste of time. All the really cool kids just fold it in half.
Fold it in half?
That's right Timmy, fold it in half. If you lack the manual dexterity to mash your route-sheet into an unintelligible heap, you can achieve fame and power by just folding it in half!
Golly Jeepers! How's that work, mister?
Well, Timmy, you take the top corners and the bottom corners and you put them together.
Yah? Yah?
Yessir. And then you don't touch it.
You don't touch it?
That's right, Timmy! Any further folds, crumpling, rolling, creasing or mangling is unnecessary and contributes to an ulcer in the turret lady.
Wowee! I'm gonna fold my papers in half so I can be cool too!
Well done, Timmy! That's the true Canadian Spirit!
Paperwork: Is your paperwork "one fold cool"?
Aw shucks, Mister Narrator, I don't know how to do all that cool paperwork origami all the other kids do. Nobody's gonna like me.
Would you like to know a secret,Timmy?
Yah, yah!
All that rolling and crumpling is just a waste of time. All the really cool kids just fold it in half.
Fold it in half?
That's right Timmy, fold it in half. If you lack the manual dexterity to mash your route-sheet into an unintelligible heap, you can achieve fame and power by just folding it in half!
Golly Jeepers! How's that work, mister?
Well, Timmy, you take the top corners and the bottom corners and you put them together.
Yah? Yah?
Yessir. And then you don't touch it.
You don't touch it?
That's right, Timmy! Any further folds, crumpling, rolling, creasing or mangling is unnecessary and contributes to an ulcer in the turret lady.
Wowee! I'm gonna fold my papers in half so I can be cool too!
Well done, Timmy! That's the true Canadian Spirit!
Paperwork: Is your paperwork "one fold cool"?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
G(aging)
I'm literally only making this blog post because my boyfriend doesn't read the blog so a)I know he cannot tease me about it later and b)I don't have to roll myself in misery and embarrasment that he knows about it. Now that's settled, let's get down to furry brass tacks.
I have a hair on my face. An errant stray hair on my chin/cheek area. It grows about an inch and a half and it's horribly mortifying. The first time I was made aware of it my sister tried to brush it off my face and when she realized it was attached, her face contorted in the sort of catatonic disgust that I reserve for watching the saw movies, or a new driver parallel park. When I realized what was going on, I pretty much just shut down in complete embarassment and we stood there, in our apartment, marinating in discomfort like a thick curry sauce. We tamped down the hysterical terror pretty quick after that (Thank God for sisters) but I've been pretty paranoid about people finding it ever since, and I tend to check for it periodically. The latest time I found it marked a new chapter in irritation, however. Trying to yank out thin hairs is a trial in itself. Usually you drag your fingers along it, trying to get purchase, and it stings like a gunshot(someone should do a study on the increased nerve endings surrounding embarassing hairs because I'm sure there's a correlation). Usually you desperately resort to gripping it with a nail pressed against a finger pad, but even this is sporadically successful. Once the painful procedure is complete your face usually feels especially swollen and I often wonder if I have some sort of glowing hole, obvious to coworkers, passerbys, and astronauts.
Michelle, you say, this is disgusting, did you have a point to nauseating us all?
Why yes, dear reader, I do. It is to inform. A public service announcment, if you will.
The last time I found it,it was grey. Now, I am a grounded, logical person, who is not prone to jumping for conclusions, so I am afraid there is only one rational explanation: I'm turning into a werewolf. I have finally spent so much time out at night, instead of the day, also neglected shaving my legs, and had only the two pooches for company for so long, that I have, in fact, contracted Lycanthropy. I tell you this because I care about you all and wish you to be prepared. So definately stock up on lint rollers; between my voracious overeating, tendancy to prefer grunts to actual speech, and erratic behavior during the full moon (thanks menstral tides!) the only thing people will notice is the increased shedding.
If Meg McBlogger can have a signature, why can't I?
-Michelle
I have a hair on my face. An errant stray hair on my chin/cheek area. It grows about an inch and a half and it's horribly mortifying. The first time I was made aware of it my sister tried to brush it off my face and when she realized it was attached, her face contorted in the sort of catatonic disgust that I reserve for watching the saw movies, or a new driver parallel park. When I realized what was going on, I pretty much just shut down in complete embarassment and we stood there, in our apartment, marinating in discomfort like a thick curry sauce. We tamped down the hysterical terror pretty quick after that (Thank God for sisters) but I've been pretty paranoid about people finding it ever since, and I tend to check for it periodically. The latest time I found it marked a new chapter in irritation, however. Trying to yank out thin hairs is a trial in itself. Usually you drag your fingers along it, trying to get purchase, and it stings like a gunshot(someone should do a study on the increased nerve endings surrounding embarassing hairs because I'm sure there's a correlation). Usually you desperately resort to gripping it with a nail pressed against a finger pad, but even this is sporadically successful. Once the painful procedure is complete your face usually feels especially swollen and I often wonder if I have some sort of glowing hole, obvious to coworkers, passerbys, and astronauts.
Michelle, you say, this is disgusting, did you have a point to nauseating us all?
Why yes, dear reader, I do. It is to inform. A public service announcment, if you will.
The last time I found it,it was grey. Now, I am a grounded, logical person, who is not prone to jumping for conclusions, so I am afraid there is only one rational explanation: I'm turning into a werewolf. I have finally spent so much time out at night, instead of the day, also neglected shaving my legs, and had only the two pooches for company for so long, that I have, in fact, contracted Lycanthropy. I tell you this because I care about you all and wish you to be prepared. So definately stock up on lint rollers; between my voracious overeating, tendancy to prefer grunts to actual speech, and erratic behavior during the full moon (thanks menstral tides!) the only thing people will notice is the increased shedding.
If Meg McBlogger can have a signature, why can't I?
-Michelle
Saturday, August 07, 2010
What do dinosaurs and Lady Gaga have in common?
Answer: They're both in this blog post!
When did it stop being cool to work with dinosaur bones? Little kids are still interested in dinosaurs (duh) but being a palaeontologist seems to have faded into the background. Did word get out that it is actually really boring, and also they frown upon stuffing skulls into your pants?
When I was a kid I had this concept of careers that you could be when you grew up; I ranked them in terms of difficulty and awesomeness. Doctor, firefighter, policeman, all factored quite highly, but up there with them was palaeontologist and there’s no logical reason for it. I don’t even know how much they make. I still imagine sometimes that a world-class university will phone me up and some grandiose excuse will result in me gaining a medical license, or some equally improbably situation will result in me working free-lance for the Edmonton Police Service. Hell, I’m even still considering becoming a volunteer firefighter, if I had not recently gained so much weight my belt has become more of a tattoo upon which my gun is slung like an overly expensive torso piercing. Somewhere along the way the more stereotypical professions (ballerina, scientist, inventor) were replaced by more reasonable ones (writer, human resources, loser) but some stayed. I’m sorry to see dino-wrangler left, but it might resurface during my anthropology classes this coming semester because, guess what? I’m going back to class! Yes. Paid my tuition (ouch) and everything! There are a few mandatory courses I’m not that interested in, read: math and economics, but also a few I’m super-keen on like: Biologically coordinated social psychology, classics, political science and anthropology! Hopeful I can post a few interesting summaries of the classes in question!
Oh yes, one quick note to Lady Gaga; Darling, we all love you and are fascinated by you like we are about fireflies and space shuttles, but you should really stop worrying someone will “steal your creativity through your vagina”. Your creativity comes from the most noble of locations, handed to you by a loving God: Rampant Schizophrenia. Go forth and blossom lobsters upon your fanatic audience.
When did it stop being cool to work with dinosaur bones? Little kids are still interested in dinosaurs (duh) but being a palaeontologist seems to have faded into the background. Did word get out that it is actually really boring, and also they frown upon stuffing skulls into your pants?
When I was a kid I had this concept of careers that you could be when you grew up; I ranked them in terms of difficulty and awesomeness. Doctor, firefighter, policeman, all factored quite highly, but up there with them was palaeontologist and there’s no logical reason for it. I don’t even know how much they make. I still imagine sometimes that a world-class university will phone me up and some grandiose excuse will result in me gaining a medical license, or some equally improbably situation will result in me working free-lance for the Edmonton Police Service. Hell, I’m even still considering becoming a volunteer firefighter, if I had not recently gained so much weight my belt has become more of a tattoo upon which my gun is slung like an overly expensive torso piercing. Somewhere along the way the more stereotypical professions (ballerina, scientist, inventor) were replaced by more reasonable ones (writer, human resources, loser) but some stayed. I’m sorry to see dino-wrangler left, but it might resurface during my anthropology classes this coming semester because, guess what? I’m going back to class! Yes. Paid my tuition (ouch) and everything! There are a few mandatory courses I’m not that interested in, read: math and economics, but also a few I’m super-keen on like: Biologically coordinated social psychology, classics, political science and anthropology! Hopeful I can post a few interesting summaries of the classes in question!
Oh yes, one quick note to Lady Gaga; Darling, we all love you and are fascinated by you like we are about fireflies and space shuttles, but you should really stop worrying someone will “steal your creativity through your vagina”. Your creativity comes from the most noble of locations, handed to you by a loving God: Rampant Schizophrenia. Go forth and blossom lobsters upon your fanatic audience.
Cher and cher alike
Hello readers. Look at your music video, then to her video, then back to your video, then back to hers. She's on a horse.
Clone High
Sometimes when I get particularly Emo and think back to my high school days I wonder why it never worked out like you see on TV or hear about from other people. I never had a strong group of friends to hang out with, I have few to no memories of strange hijinxs while we should have been in class, just the leftover memories of a surprisingly large portion of my life that I’ve mentally boxed up and shoved to the basement of my brain. It’s sad, in a way, you never can go back, and I’ve missed out on those iconic years.
One thing that always consoles me, however, is the old show clone high. It was perfect. The right balance of strange dark humour, intellectual observations, and reality combined with a soundtrack that was melancholy and yet bright. The opening song is the only song from a show that I listen to on a regular basis and it still puts a lump in my throat. Although 90% of what I say on a regular basis is pulled from some other source, I have yet to find a situation where a clone high quote is inappropriate. It’s usually the case that no-one knows what the hell I’m talking about, but the day that I am deterred by that is the day I hang up my gilded humour pants.
Now It’s not the case that I ever turned to it for problem solving advice, but on multiple occasions it did make me feel a hell of a lot better about whatever I was going through. It was on late at night, and just inappropriate enough that I wasn’t sure I should have been watching it, but I’d turn it down really low, and hold the remote the whole time, just in case (Don’t read that bit, k mom?) and I think that atmosphere contributed to the all-over experience of watching the show. It’s not a show you could watch with other people, it was something sort of consoling to your loneliness.
I even consider it, loosely, the first reality show from television. The actions and motivations were all human and understandable, even when it lost it’s train of thought and became completely ridiculous, it always carried the ridiculousness of everyday existence. Cause real life is ridiculous, and it really helped me realize that. Wish I’d taken more of it’s relationship advice to heart though. There really is no reason to blow them out of proportion.
Anyway the point I’m not making in any way shape or form is that the blog recommended for me recently has become the new clone high of my life. 2birds1blog is written mostly by a 24 year old college graduate who is funnier than a stick in the eye and seems to have the inside track to my brain and the ability to write it humorously, which makes me hate and love her at the same time. It’s just about one of the funniest things to read in the world and validates my life choices because she’s in almost the exact same place I am in life now. Shame her soundtrack is so poop. “I’ve never been to me”? I know she posted it just to mock it, but for crying out loud, really?
I want to be just like her when I age sideways.
Also; first post from mmy new eee pc!
One thing that always consoles me, however, is the old show clone high. It was perfect. The right balance of strange dark humour, intellectual observations, and reality combined with a soundtrack that was melancholy and yet bright. The opening song is the only song from a show that I listen to on a regular basis and it still puts a lump in my throat. Although 90% of what I say on a regular basis is pulled from some other source, I have yet to find a situation where a clone high quote is inappropriate. It’s usually the case that no-one knows what the hell I’m talking about, but the day that I am deterred by that is the day I hang up my gilded humour pants.
Now It’s not the case that I ever turned to it for problem solving advice, but on multiple occasions it did make me feel a hell of a lot better about whatever I was going through. It was on late at night, and just inappropriate enough that I wasn’t sure I should have been watching it, but I’d turn it down really low, and hold the remote the whole time, just in case (Don’t read that bit, k mom?) and I think that atmosphere contributed to the all-over experience of watching the show. It’s not a show you could watch with other people, it was something sort of consoling to your loneliness.
I even consider it, loosely, the first reality show from television. The actions and motivations were all human and understandable, even when it lost it’s train of thought and became completely ridiculous, it always carried the ridiculousness of everyday existence. Cause real life is ridiculous, and it really helped me realize that. Wish I’d taken more of it’s relationship advice to heart though. There really is no reason to blow them out of proportion.
Anyway the point I’m not making in any way shape or form is that the blog recommended for me recently has become the new clone high of my life. 2birds1blog is written mostly by a 24 year old college graduate who is funnier than a stick in the eye and seems to have the inside track to my brain and the ability to write it humorously, which makes me hate and love her at the same time. It’s just about one of the funniest things to read in the world and validates my life choices because she’s in almost the exact same place I am in life now. Shame her soundtrack is so poop. “I’ve never been to me”? I know she posted it just to mock it, but for crying out loud, really?
I want to be just like her when I age sideways.
Also; first post from mmy new eee pc!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The evening
Well, I knew this would happen, right from the moment Neal suggested it.
He had perfect timing, as always, the same timing he has when he's playing tennis; he knows I hate it when he uses it on me. It's why we can't play doubles anymore. Which might have strained the problem in the first place. But he didn't have to suggest it.
I'd just thrown my keys in the hand-made bowl we left on the side-table, barely taken my Gucci's off when he brought it up. So casual, so airy, so what-a-great-idea-y. He thinks he's clever, and I was so blindsided, so happy to be home that I agreed. I always go along with his stupid ideas, like that time we were taking a road-trip and I needed to pee and I was going to wait until we found a proper place to stop, but he insisted everything would be fine, we brought toilet paper, I could just relieve myself (like an animal!) in the bushes on the shoulder. I'd had a little chocolate cake for dessert, usually I'm on a diet, but I threw caution to the wind on this trip, so I was in a crazy mood and I agreed. There I was, fifty feet in the bush pants and panties around my knees, squatting when a whole bus-load of students on spring break drove by. Some of them whistled!
So I should have been more on my guard, I know the tone he takes, it gets a little high because he's nervous, but he shrugs more because he wants it to seem like it's not a big deal, but it really is, and I missed it, and I fell for it and so now we have the Bedermans over for supper.
Frank and Hernia (Who, honestly, names their child Hernia?)Bederman. Neal had known him through college and they had reconnected on the golf course. Thick as thieves my mother would say. She was so right. Neal said I'd "love" his wife, we were so similar, great personalities, huge hearts; I tried. Lord knows I tried. I extended the hand of friendship many times, but that woman is just so unreasonable! She's so deliberate and pushy and arrogant! Last time we opened a bottle of good white wine, and she just sniffed and said she didn't drink Pinot Grigio. Apparently since some movie came out it's been too mainstream. She sniffed a little as she said it, too. Wrinkling the lines around her mouth.
I hoped they would be busy as Neal dialed on our fabulous little spin-dial phone, such a steal at $300. I was sure they wouldn't pick up, and then, when they did, I just "knew" they would have plans, or be too tired (she blew us off once with that lame excuse) but accept they did, and show up too. Even just inside the door, she was criticizing the short-notice (She could have not come...) and making sure I saw her expensive new Jimmy Choo's that Frank bought her.
The food was, of course, over-salted, over-fattening, and under-done, but I was pleased when I saw her scarf down my dessert Tiramisu, she didn't have anything bad to say about that, huh? Then Neal suggested we watch the latest thriller on our new 3-D television, the Bedermans, inconsiderate boors that they are, did not bring their own set of glasses!
They laughed a touch nervously, said it might be a bit far to drive just for one pair of glasses, we don't have more than two pairs, ha ha? It took every ounce of strength I possessed to keep smiling and say that it didn't matter I didn't need a pair, I'd already seen the movie (which I hadn't).
So now, here we sit, clustered on our leather sofa, the three of them enjoying the movie, and I battle a headache. Some people just have no idea how to behave.
He had perfect timing, as always, the same timing he has when he's playing tennis; he knows I hate it when he uses it on me. It's why we can't play doubles anymore. Which might have strained the problem in the first place. But he didn't have to suggest it.
I'd just thrown my keys in the hand-made bowl we left on the side-table, barely taken my Gucci's off when he brought it up. So casual, so airy, so what-a-great-idea-y. He thinks he's clever, and I was so blindsided, so happy to be home that I agreed. I always go along with his stupid ideas, like that time we were taking a road-trip and I needed to pee and I was going to wait until we found a proper place to stop, but he insisted everything would be fine, we brought toilet paper, I could just relieve myself (like an animal!) in the bushes on the shoulder. I'd had a little chocolate cake for dessert, usually I'm on a diet, but I threw caution to the wind on this trip, so I was in a crazy mood and I agreed. There I was, fifty feet in the bush pants and panties around my knees, squatting when a whole bus-load of students on spring break drove by. Some of them whistled!
So I should have been more on my guard, I know the tone he takes, it gets a little high because he's nervous, but he shrugs more because he wants it to seem like it's not a big deal, but it really is, and I missed it, and I fell for it and so now we have the Bedermans over for supper.
Frank and Hernia (Who, honestly, names their child Hernia?)Bederman. Neal had known him through college and they had reconnected on the golf course. Thick as thieves my mother would say. She was so right. Neal said I'd "love" his wife, we were so similar, great personalities, huge hearts; I tried. Lord knows I tried. I extended the hand of friendship many times, but that woman is just so unreasonable! She's so deliberate and pushy and arrogant! Last time we opened a bottle of good white wine, and she just sniffed and said she didn't drink Pinot Grigio. Apparently since some movie came out it's been too mainstream. She sniffed a little as she said it, too. Wrinkling the lines around her mouth.
I hoped they would be busy as Neal dialed on our fabulous little spin-dial phone, such a steal at $300. I was sure they wouldn't pick up, and then, when they did, I just "knew" they would have plans, or be too tired (she blew us off once with that lame excuse) but accept they did, and show up too. Even just inside the door, she was criticizing the short-notice (She could have not come...) and making sure I saw her expensive new Jimmy Choo's that Frank bought her.
The food was, of course, over-salted, over-fattening, and under-done, but I was pleased when I saw her scarf down my dessert Tiramisu, she didn't have anything bad to say about that, huh? Then Neal suggested we watch the latest thriller on our new 3-D television, the Bedermans, inconsiderate boors that they are, did not bring their own set of glasses!
They laughed a touch nervously, said it might be a bit far to drive just for one pair of glasses, we don't have more than two pairs, ha ha? It took every ounce of strength I possessed to keep smiling and say that it didn't matter I didn't need a pair, I'd already seen the movie (which I hadn't).
So now, here we sit, clustered on our leather sofa, the three of them enjoying the movie, and I battle a headache. Some people just have no idea how to behave.
Friday, July 02, 2010
Medical call-out
Hey Mr. Lesner!
If you feel our health-care is inadequate because they didn't feed you while you had a hole in your intestines, feel free to come be a doctor! Were you expecting a country of pampering house-slaves? You are welcome for fixing you now get out of my country!
Perhaps if the thickened clot he calls a neck had not earned him so much money off people who admire his "talent" he would realize our health-care is more human to those who weren't blessed with fifteen inch biceps. We like it just fine.
If you feel our health-care is inadequate because they didn't feed you while you had a hole in your intestines, feel free to come be a doctor! Were you expecting a country of pampering house-slaves? You are welcome for fixing you now get out of my country!
Perhaps if the thickened clot he calls a neck had not earned him so much money off people who admire his "talent" he would realize our health-care is more human to those who weren't blessed with fifteen inch biceps. We like it just fine.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Pay as you drive
So here's the idea, in case you don't want to watch this handy video
The first year, you pay your premiums, based on 20,000 kms, or so most insurance companies claim. They check your odometer. If in the next year, you drive less, you receive a rebate off your previous years 20,000. The next year, you can choose to pay the lesser amount, and assume you will drive the same amount.
Personally, I know I would strive to drive less if I knew it would save me more money. Studies show that people drive approximately %10 less if they pay closer attention to how much they drive. It would also help people who routinely carpool, but occasionally require a second vehicle.
If you like this idea, please sign the petition. You do not need to donate afterward, although ipetition automatically transfers you to a donation page, the shysters. After only three days it has seventy signatures. They've implemented this system in Ontario, let's get it here!
The first year, you pay your premiums, based on 20,000 kms, or so most insurance companies claim. They check your odometer. If in the next year, you drive less, you receive a rebate off your previous years 20,000. The next year, you can choose to pay the lesser amount, and assume you will drive the same amount.
Personally, I know I would strive to drive less if I knew it would save me more money. Studies show that people drive approximately %10 less if they pay closer attention to how much they drive. It would also help people who routinely carpool, but occasionally require a second vehicle.
If you like this idea, please sign the petition. You do not need to donate afterward, although ipetition automatically transfers you to a donation page, the shysters. After only three days it has seventy signatures. They've implemented this system in Ontario, let's get it here!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Ayaan Hirsi Ali grew up in some of the world’s most strict Islamist countries, but after running away from an arranged marriage and claiming refugee status in Holland, she flourished and become a powerful political force, with a steady personal perspective and a spine of solid steel. Her autobiography humanizes the struggles in many other countries, most notably Somalia, and awakens a zeal in anyone who has even wanted to make a difference in the world. Her story is called Infidel.
The most philosophical aspect of her story raises questions of cultural and moral relativism. My initial reactions include a feeling that it is wrong to intrude and judge other cultures, especially one I know little about.
One objection is that we may judge a culture if the culture itself permits judgment, but this is quickly reduced to absurdity. It makes the two cultures equivalent in that we must submit to a higher will, but excuses us from the notion that we are accountable to our own culture, in which judgment is unacceptable. This becomes a battle of cultures, the struggle of a hare and a fox on an epic scale. We must ensure that we preserve our essential hare-ness, for it is no good to become another fox.
Another objection was a cry to the loss of the culture, a cultural preservation so we maintain our humanity, and every aspect thereof, while we abandon notions that prove incompatible or counter to an acknowledged goal. Respect for other cultures is good, but our world is a world of action. It is a temptation of many nihilist to reduce all to a state of “true nature”, to find a basic sense of rightness or meaning reflected within the Zen nature around us; but as humans we are playing a new game now. As we make rules to play with our newfound intellect and sense of individuality, above all, we must be conscientious.
But our “war”, the new “game” is unique in that victory does not preclude destruction. This is not a decision of right or wrong, good or bad, but of fit or unfit. We may carry the parts of another culture with us, as a memory, to respect each aspect, but the majority must move on, evolve. To become stagnant is to perish.
This lesson can, of course, become internalized. As one passes stages in life, one must learn new, and abandon old, recognizing the stages in others, to lend assistance where necessary, but never to degrade or disrespect, but to honor and remember in fondness. But only to remember, for if we become mired in the past, we ignore our future.
The most philosophical aspect of her story raises questions of cultural and moral relativism. My initial reactions include a feeling that it is wrong to intrude and judge other cultures, especially one I know little about.
One objection is that we may judge a culture if the culture itself permits judgment, but this is quickly reduced to absurdity. It makes the two cultures equivalent in that we must submit to a higher will, but excuses us from the notion that we are accountable to our own culture, in which judgment is unacceptable. This becomes a battle of cultures, the struggle of a hare and a fox on an epic scale. We must ensure that we preserve our essential hare-ness, for it is no good to become another fox.
Another objection was a cry to the loss of the culture, a cultural preservation so we maintain our humanity, and every aspect thereof, while we abandon notions that prove incompatible or counter to an acknowledged goal. Respect for other cultures is good, but our world is a world of action. It is a temptation of many nihilist to reduce all to a state of “true nature”, to find a basic sense of rightness or meaning reflected within the Zen nature around us; but as humans we are playing a new game now. As we make rules to play with our newfound intellect and sense of individuality, above all, we must be conscientious.
But our “war”, the new “game” is unique in that victory does not preclude destruction. This is not a decision of right or wrong, good or bad, but of fit or unfit. We may carry the parts of another culture with us, as a memory, to respect each aspect, but the majority must move on, evolve. To become stagnant is to perish.
This lesson can, of course, become internalized. As one passes stages in life, one must learn new, and abandon old, recognizing the stages in others, to lend assistance where necessary, but never to degrade or disrespect, but to honor and remember in fondness. But only to remember, for if we become mired in the past, we ignore our future.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
life updates
It started at a black desk. I'd sat to write, sipping coffee and a small soup, running ideas like carrots across the cheese grater of my mind. The dogs were running, ridiculously, under my feet, their favorite game. When I asked if they would like, "outside?" they charged for the door like maniac children; I smiled as I let them out.
Only one returned.
The other, neatly removed from our lives like an unwanted afterthought, prised out of our delicate shell like a shot from a wound.
In brief glimmers now, I miss her, see her out the windows, can feel how a parent feels when their child fails to return home. Waiting for their safety, to see their haired head bob just above the window frame. Picturing them, forever looking away, and wondering.
Reading something one does not want to read is always a challenge. There is, of course, the disbelief. An internal force of will so strong, so palpable, that it tears the psyche in two; one must remain in the truth, but the other is pleased to go into fancy, where life continues unabated as though a terrible calamity had not suddenly befallen us. But no matter how we cling, we must be pulled away.
I have a sore. Several across my body. Small round traces in my skin that sting to touch.
She put down the letter, holding her breath, 'lest the wind blow away the spider-web holding her to her past moment, her last second of hope, breaking the worst finish line ever, pushing her through it to, "another failure"
She felt like a pebble in a valley of tremendous monoliths. the minutes ticked by, she floated home, pulled by the dog, the letter dangling from one finger, as if she did not own it, it was not hers, this? No. Not mine.
Use it, was her advice, given like a crust from a man in a thick fur coat. But all the words were out there, used, and scrubbed, and reused, dull, they could never be new. Another failure, even her grief taken from her. Even sunk in the mire, her own personal horror was mundane, not worth anything. Glued to the dirt like a bug, thrashing stupidly in the bitter knowledge, feeling so foolish that a million tragedies were happening everywhere, and were so much worse, but they could not touch her like this, the spike in her bubble, the rape of hope., So ridiculous, then, to cry, wail, heave, but each light has a darkest hour, all united in sorrow. Tadpoles of misery, glistening in turmoil.
Fine. She bellows.
Throw me to ruin.
Complete loss.
Bring the horror.
Just do not consign me to wallow in this sick tepid nothing. Cast me to shadow or let me stand in the light. Just don't stand me in the twilight and promise me the sun.
Only one returned.
The other, neatly removed from our lives like an unwanted afterthought, prised out of our delicate shell like a shot from a wound.
In brief glimmers now, I miss her, see her out the windows, can feel how a parent feels when their child fails to return home. Waiting for their safety, to see their haired head bob just above the window frame. Picturing them, forever looking away, and wondering.
Reading something one does not want to read is always a challenge. There is, of course, the disbelief. An internal force of will so strong, so palpable, that it tears the psyche in two; one must remain in the truth, but the other is pleased to go into fancy, where life continues unabated as though a terrible calamity had not suddenly befallen us. But no matter how we cling, we must be pulled away.
I have a sore. Several across my body. Small round traces in my skin that sting to touch.
She put down the letter, holding her breath, 'lest the wind blow away the spider-web holding her to her past moment, her last second of hope, breaking the worst finish line ever, pushing her through it to, "another failure"
She felt like a pebble in a valley of tremendous monoliths. the minutes ticked by, she floated home, pulled by the dog, the letter dangling from one finger, as if she did not own it, it was not hers, this? No. Not mine.
Use it, was her advice, given like a crust from a man in a thick fur coat. But all the words were out there, used, and scrubbed, and reused, dull, they could never be new. Another failure, even her grief taken from her. Even sunk in the mire, her own personal horror was mundane, not worth anything. Glued to the dirt like a bug, thrashing stupidly in the bitter knowledge, feeling so foolish that a million tragedies were happening everywhere, and were so much worse, but they could not touch her like this, the spike in her bubble, the rape of hope., So ridiculous, then, to cry, wail, heave, but each light has a darkest hour, all united in sorrow. Tadpoles of misery, glistening in turmoil.
Fine. She bellows.
Throw me to ruin.
Complete loss.
Bring the horror.
Just do not consign me to wallow in this sick tepid nothing. Cast me to shadow or let me stand in the light. Just don't stand me in the twilight and promise me the sun.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Dada-ictions
It's a strange thing, then, addictions. the original inspiration for this article spurred from a reading of Cracked's "5 creepy ways video games are trying to get you addicted", and I will save myself time later by apologizing for the amount of times I am forced to use the word, or variants thereof, addiction.
When I wake, I try to cook something, breakfast I prefer to be varying and different, something original but familiar. The reason why is unknown to me, it's just a compulsion. Certainly I only require the base amount of nutrition but there is a feeling that I need a difference, a change, some control.
I try not to watch T.V. I read, instead, but even free magazines suck me in with the strange siren of meaning and autonomy. The thrill obtained just from accomplishing whatever goal (Bake the Perfect Frittata!) the hamster in my head tells me to aim for is momentary, until the horrible secondary voice in the back of my head tries to place the puzzle piece of success in the larger picture of the jigsaw I'm completing, which has no sides, no reference, and no end in sight; the puzzles of my youth where we had lost a few key pieces and were now ignobly stored in Ziploc bags.
Even eschewing the virulent sources of consumer pop-culture does not spare me the usual cravings for asinine garbage. I had the craving the other day for a new purse, for what reason I could not possibly document. Even as I write this, it is plugged into a laptop with freshly manicured nails. The woman who owned the salon the nails were duchessed at was a small-business owner, something you could sense about her within a few minutes of meeting her, the bustle and competence scurrying around her sensible shoes. Hearing her story, her history, a few words of interest made me think and wonder. As a child I was forever saying what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that nebulous time has undoubtedly arrived and I find myself disenfranchised.
When so much in life has been reduced to a series of drop-down selectable menus and replaceable facades, the overall governance of our own life is still shrouded in mystery and, dare I say, peril. It is the biggest game of poker you will ever find: the stakes, all-in; the rules, incomprehensible; the penalties, eternal. We array a platter of pop-ups, we construct mazes of challenges and struggles, we convince ourselves, froth ourselves into a frenzy, to appeal to the ruthless master of our internal measure that it matters, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about.
Even the culture we swim through, when we wish to break free of the presiding "reality t.v." or video game, or what-have-you, addiction, there is another culture there to catch us, to show us, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about. Even the conspiracy theorists, (Why the Government is Out to Get You) or the artists, (This Represents the Sadness of Love Lost) have a specially designed web, net, cradle, to hold us softly to spare us from what Sartre called Anguish; the uncomfortable realization that we are indeed, wholly responsible for our individual spiraling existence.
Perhaps it is, then within this overarching sand heap of ants, that we are found, we can rest assured that everything does matter within the larger context. But many days it feels as though I am breaking the game of truth or dare, that I have peeped behind the massive curtain behind the sets, and instead of production gear or lights, have found - nothing, but my fellow actors keep playing, and I have lost my part, my lines, where's my mark? The query now, do I keep playing, hold my breath, hope the magic holds, assume it matters not, or do I acknowledge the empty, hold to it, to what end? I suspect I know the end of that route, and I like both my ears. Oddness, for certain to assume my place is to be some sort of traveling meta-player, rollicking across the stage while the audience, (is there an audience?) tries to ensure I don't spill their cosmic drinks?
Scarier still, is the thought of the realist, non-realist debate. If a realist perspective holds, this angst has no point other than to keep me awake for sleepless nights, which no doubt, makes the problem worse. But should a non-realist perspective hold, my answer is solved, within the relief that the only things which exist are those that I choose to focus on, 'meaning' can go stuff itself, and I can sleep soundly with no worse fear than should I die in my sleep everything I've ever known would be obliterated (buh?), which will likely keep me up.
It is to this problem I return, like a dog to a rope toy, time and again, with about as much success. Elegantly simple, yet fiendishly engaging, with no end in sight, no way off the hamster ball of this obsession. I shelve it, time and time again, like a book that I read which has contented itself to seat one the main character in a bland room with no theory as to why or when it will cease. I have hurled it across the room, but faithfully return panting.
When I wake, I try to cook something, breakfast I prefer to be varying and different, something original but familiar. The reason why is unknown to me, it's just a compulsion. Certainly I only require the base amount of nutrition but there is a feeling that I need a difference, a change, some control.
I try not to watch T.V. I read, instead, but even free magazines suck me in with the strange siren of meaning and autonomy. The thrill obtained just from accomplishing whatever goal (Bake the Perfect Frittata!) the hamster in my head tells me to aim for is momentary, until the horrible secondary voice in the back of my head tries to place the puzzle piece of success in the larger picture of the jigsaw I'm completing, which has no sides, no reference, and no end in sight; the puzzles of my youth where we had lost a few key pieces and were now ignobly stored in Ziploc bags.
Even eschewing the virulent sources of consumer pop-culture does not spare me the usual cravings for asinine garbage. I had the craving the other day for a new purse, for what reason I could not possibly document. Even as I write this, it is plugged into a laptop with freshly manicured nails. The woman who owned the salon the nails were duchessed at was a small-business owner, something you could sense about her within a few minutes of meeting her, the bustle and competence scurrying around her sensible shoes. Hearing her story, her history, a few words of interest made me think and wonder. As a child I was forever saying what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that nebulous time has undoubtedly arrived and I find myself disenfranchised.
When so much in life has been reduced to a series of drop-down selectable menus and replaceable facades, the overall governance of our own life is still shrouded in mystery and, dare I say, peril. It is the biggest game of poker you will ever find: the stakes, all-in; the rules, incomprehensible; the penalties, eternal. We array a platter of pop-ups, we construct mazes of challenges and struggles, we convince ourselves, froth ourselves into a frenzy, to appeal to the ruthless master of our internal measure that it matters, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about.
Even the culture we swim through, when we wish to break free of the presiding "reality t.v." or video game, or what-have-you, addiction, there is another culture there to catch us, to show us, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about. Even the conspiracy theorists, (Why the Government is Out to Get You) or the artists, (This Represents the Sadness of Love Lost) have a specially designed web, net, cradle, to hold us softly to spare us from what Sartre called Anguish; the uncomfortable realization that we are indeed, wholly responsible for our individual spiraling existence.
Perhaps it is, then within this overarching sand heap of ants, that we are found, we can rest assured that everything does matter within the larger context. But many days it feels as though I am breaking the game of truth or dare, that I have peeped behind the massive curtain behind the sets, and instead of production gear or lights, have found - nothing, but my fellow actors keep playing, and I have lost my part, my lines, where's my mark? The query now, do I keep playing, hold my breath, hope the magic holds, assume it matters not, or do I acknowledge the empty, hold to it, to what end? I suspect I know the end of that route, and I like both my ears. Oddness, for certain to assume my place is to be some sort of traveling meta-player, rollicking across the stage while the audience, (is there an audience?) tries to ensure I don't spill their cosmic drinks?
Scarier still, is the thought of the realist, non-realist debate. If a realist perspective holds, this angst has no point other than to keep me awake for sleepless nights, which no doubt, makes the problem worse. But should a non-realist perspective hold, my answer is solved, within the relief that the only things which exist are those that I choose to focus on, 'meaning' can go stuff itself, and I can sleep soundly with no worse fear than should I die in my sleep everything I've ever known would be obliterated (buh?), which will likely keep me up.
It is to this problem I return, like a dog to a rope toy, time and again, with about as much success. Elegantly simple, yet fiendishly engaging, with no end in sight, no way off the hamster ball of this obsession. I shelve it, time and time again, like a book that I read which has contented itself to seat one the main character in a bland room with no theory as to why or when it will cease. I have hurled it across the room, but faithfully return panting.
Friday, March 05, 2010
When the Loss was Noticed
Out of my mouth
a sound
only part of me cares to own
a hollow roar
from the small child in my belly
who has never truly silenced
wailing like a barrel
the grief of the young
smuggled away as an adult
coughed out in tiny burps
this cry
like a plucked string
resonance from my bones
from the holes in my marrow
the cosmic pulse
my own existence exerts
a sound
only part of me cares to own
a hollow roar
from the small child in my belly
who has never truly silenced
wailing like a barrel
the grief of the young
smuggled away as an adult
coughed out in tiny burps
this cry
like a plucked string
resonance from my bones
from the holes in my marrow
the cosmic pulse
my own existence exerts
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Hide and go seek life
I remember, on occasion, an incident when I was young, sleeping-over at my girlfriend's house. We had decided to play Truth or Dare, and I, having nothing interesting to report, chose dare. I was instructed to borrow ice cubes from a neighbor, who turned out to be a young girl close to our age, who handed me some with a minimum of fuss or odd glances. When I returned to triumphantly throw them in my drink, my compatriots wailed that I had 'done it wrong' by revealing to the unwitting neighbor that I was under duress, in the form of a dare. This, of course, made no sense to me; the confession had made the whole affair easier, and I didn't poke fun at a neighbors ignorance, taking advantage of the innate hilarity of others confusion. This caused my girlfriends to pout, and declare we should play another game, since I had obviously ruined this one, by my insistence that I had done nothing wrong.
In retrospect, I suppose it was not really entering into the 'spirit of the game', since without ulterior explanation she would assume that there was 'something wrong' with me, in the finest tradition of the fundamental attribution error, this result being the intention of the game truth or dare. But the feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks I am a lunatic, without a cause I have wholeheartedly embraced, is one I have never been able to come to peace with. Sometimes I wonder if, since the concept of who a person really consists of, is shrouded and subjective, that it may be also defined by what other people think. Certainly the primary energy left behind by an individual when they depart this world, is encapsulated within others memories. The difference between a fond, correct remembrance, and an unflattering, false one is invalidated when the potential to correct the unflattering one is erased by the removal of the original subject.
Whether one believes the opinions of others matter when 'evaluating' self-worth, is negotiable, but the dynamic at work between the girl's and their beliefs of the 'spirit of the game' is undeniable. It seems, in life, especially in relationships that too many times we try to play 'a game', where the rules are not defined, other than by sheer subjective speculation. We cannot let others win, so we hide, we equivocate, and scheme. When a goal is identified, we will strive, and endeavor, through any means, to achieve it, and then look down on others who refuse to play the way we play, because it does not validate and justify our actions, and we begin to wonder and guess, if there is a better way to play, which perhaps could achieve more. The games we play in childhood just teach us the steps required to play the bigger games in adulthood, to deny ourselves, tease ourselves, even misinform ourselves. We live in a world of self-delusion, and it is all set in motion so others can dance to the steps that everyone knows, in a huge coordinated two step of activity. When someone begins to waltz, there is chaos as things become disorderly. Our society is increasing becoming obsessed with the streamlined, the efficient, the ordered. And this obsession drives out creativity and seeks to squash novelty. But whether it is good or bad, is again, subjective.
In retrospect, I suppose it was not really entering into the 'spirit of the game', since without ulterior explanation she would assume that there was 'something wrong' with me, in the finest tradition of the fundamental attribution error, this result being the intention of the game truth or dare. But the feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks I am a lunatic, without a cause I have wholeheartedly embraced, is one I have never been able to come to peace with. Sometimes I wonder if, since the concept of who a person really consists of, is shrouded and subjective, that it may be also defined by what other people think. Certainly the primary energy left behind by an individual when they depart this world, is encapsulated within others memories. The difference between a fond, correct remembrance, and an unflattering, false one is invalidated when the potential to correct the unflattering one is erased by the removal of the original subject.
Whether one believes the opinions of others matter when 'evaluating' self-worth, is negotiable, but the dynamic at work between the girl's and their beliefs of the 'spirit of the game' is undeniable. It seems, in life, especially in relationships that too many times we try to play 'a game', where the rules are not defined, other than by sheer subjective speculation. We cannot let others win, so we hide, we equivocate, and scheme. When a goal is identified, we will strive, and endeavor, through any means, to achieve it, and then look down on others who refuse to play the way we play, because it does not validate and justify our actions, and we begin to wonder and guess, if there is a better way to play, which perhaps could achieve more. The games we play in childhood just teach us the steps required to play the bigger games in adulthood, to deny ourselves, tease ourselves, even misinform ourselves. We live in a world of self-delusion, and it is all set in motion so others can dance to the steps that everyone knows, in a huge coordinated two step of activity. When someone begins to waltz, there is chaos as things become disorderly. Our society is increasing becoming obsessed with the streamlined, the efficient, the ordered. And this obsession drives out creativity and seeks to squash novelty. But whether it is good or bad, is again, subjective.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Recent Ruminations
At the heart of an onion
I was born
wrenching open layers,
silky filaments
coat my lips
which, when ripped
burst forth a spring of new sorrow
filling my old cocoon
with tears
I thought of
nothing
today, threw it
behind my face
thinking it would stick
to the billboard of my thoughts
but watched it drop straight down,
past, into the vast dark pool
of my eyes with a tremendous
gasp
silver shoals
darting in
a brown stream
Now that November is over, while the National Novel Writer's Month novel I created is being edited, I'm unsure whether to post it online, or simply post parts.
I was born
wrenching open layers,
silky filaments
coat my lips
which, when ripped
burst forth a spring of new sorrow
filling my old cocoon
with tears
I thought of
nothing
today, threw it
behind my face
thinking it would stick
to the billboard of my thoughts
but watched it drop straight down,
past, into the vast dark pool
of my eyes with a tremendous
gasp
silver shoals
darting in
a brown stream
Now that November is over, while the National Novel Writer's Month novel I created is being edited, I'm unsure whether to post it online, or simply post parts.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
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