tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-188710082024-03-14T04:56:38.371-04:00feminist chickUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-71481894471988009322010-07-10T14:31:00.002-04:002010-07-10T14:44:03.954-04:00Garden EnvyI do the best I can. I follow the experts' advice on nurturing. I ponder theories of growth, development, and healthy rearing. I invest quality time and am an active caretaker. But still, I feel like a failed parent lacking control over my brood.<br /><br />My brood of vegetables, I mean.<br /><br />My spinach bolted faster than a rabbit from a pack of wolves. My broccoli opted for an early glorious bloom before deciding otherwise. And some little jerk is eating my strawberries.<br /><br />It’s not all gloom and doom in my garden, though. My herbs have been fantastic. My jalapenos are growing beautifully (which the banana peppers would be wise to take note). My tomatoes do OK. The rest of my plants, however, cause me to stand in aisles of the hardware store tempted to abandon the organic strategy in order to blast my plants with enough poison to kill those bugs who eat my veggies before I do. Who knew gardening would bring such feelings of wrath and vengeance?<br /><br />My mom, as always, offers support and justification. It’s so hot, she says. It’s been awfully dry, she consoles. I’d believe her if not for the garden next door. My neighbor planted his first garden in a patch of yard next to ours, and it’s a masterpiece. The fencing around it is in danger of bursting at the seams from the force of massive vegetables unable to curtail their growth: cucumbers the size of my arm, banana peppers the size of zucchinis, zucchinis the size of small children. Clearly, his garden is mocking mine.<br /><br />His garden has even infiltrated the peace of my home. My favorite place to pass time in the summer is at the table on our back porch, which offers an unfortunate view of both gardens. I look at his. I look at mine. I look at his. It’s like the Old Spice commercial: “I’m the man your man could smell like.” His is the garden my garden could grow like.<br /><br />Making matters worse is that my neighbor is an extremely friendly, modest, and generous person. He drops by to bear gifts of gorgeous vegetables, and when I ask him his secret, he smiles, shrugs his shoulders, and supposes it’s luck. I want to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and yell, “TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE USING! GIVE IT UP, MAN!” But instead I smile wanly and thank him for the bounty, inwardly reminding myself to give my plants an earful about their comparative laziness.<br /><br />This morning, my neighbor emailed to say that he’s heading out of town, and I'm welcome to pick veggies from the garden while he’s away. As a token, he dropped off a huge, gorgeous cucumber on the table of our porch. Also on the table? My copy of “What’s Wrong With My Plant and How Do I Fix It?” along with one of my holey, bug-eaten tomatoes, left over from my diagnostic session the previous evening.<br /><br />I swear I heard that cuke laughing. The knife I used to cut it was unnecessarily large and sharp.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-83456739805570971912010-03-22T21:43:00.002-04:002010-03-22T21:58:37.780-04:00And the Oscar goes to...I made it my mission to see all movies nominated for the Best Picture Oscar this year. With ten movies nominated, an opportunity presented itself to look at these movies and wonder: what do these movies say about 2010? What themes emerge? Why these movies, why now? So as best as I could, I tried to extrapolate a little social theories from a whole lot of movie watching.<br /><br />The Other<br /><br />I rank the movies in this category on a spectrum. On the most responsible end is <strong>District-9</strong>, a sci-fi movie in which aliens come to earth only to be subjugated and marginalized by humans. It’s a movie dealing with The Other, and what happens when someone of the majority morphs into The Other and can finally see the ramifications of their old behavior. Sci-fi usually isn’t my genre, but I really liked the story and execution.<br /><br />In the middle of this spectrum is <strong>Avatar</strong>. Although an infinite amount of critical theories could apply and contradict each other, the most striking to me is an anti-imperialist one. But, like <em>Huck Finn</em>, the end wimps out: the Na-vi need the wisdom and leadership of a human to survive (whereas in District-9, the human needs the knowledge of the aliens to survive in their world). Although the story broke no new ground, Avatar did deserve every bit of praise for its visuals. For once, 3-D didn’t distract eyeballs but immersed them in a new world.<br /><br />The most egregious movie here was <strong>The Blind Side</strong>. Sitting through this movie was like awkwardly sitting through a conversation with elderly people who don’t realize their own racism. The movie makes caricatures out of its black characters: either scary and violent or passive and in need of white assistance. The mother in the film repeatedly refers to the 18-year-old black man as “boy” in her Southern drawl. Anyone else uncomfy? The main character is a large, quiet man (who fails abysmally all aptitude tests but the one for “protectiveness”) who does a book report on <em>Of Mice and Men</em>… anyone else uncomfy now?<br /><br />Get Thee to a University<br /><br />My favorite films of the year: <strong>An Education</strong> and <strong>Precious</strong>. Both feature young women with two different problems: one is stifled by a strict family and private school and the other suffers from a horribly abusive family and uncaring society. Although the problems of the former seem like luxuries compared to the problems of the latter, both are young women unable to hear their own voices, much less use them. In the end, their minds, their determination, their educations, and their English teachers save them. Swoon!<br /><br />All You Need is Love<br /><br /><strong>Up</strong>. How I adore Up. It’s a movie about contented solitude. Then love. Then loss. Then learning how to take that love and apply it in ways that you didn’t quite count on. <strong>Up in the Air</strong> has a similar plot arc and character progression. The movie is my long-awaited grown-up adaptation of <em>The Velveteen Rabbit</em> (a book which even appears in the film). While some viewed the movie as horribly depressing, I saw it as uplifting: even when love doesn’t last, it still transforms.<br /><br />The opposite example is <strong>The Hurt Locker</strong> in which a character’s main love is to an incredibly dangerous job in a war zone, and his only emotional attachments occur in that environment. Back home, the adoration of a partner and child cannot pierce him. Does this mean the true love of his life is his work? Or that his war experiences have emotionally damaged him so that he’s unable to accept or give love outside of that context? It was a new look at a war movie, it kept me staring at the screen without blinking. Well deserving of the big prize.<br /><br />A Dish Best Served Cold<br /><br />And in the end, two very different movies about coping with being wronged. <strong>Inglourious Basterds</strong> focused on revenge plots against the Nazis. I could not find the movie as satisfying as Tarantino seemed to mean it to be. Mass murder is meant as a tonic for vengeance, but it results in moral chaos that kept my heartbeat rising but created an emotional rift between myself and the film by the end. The first scene, however, was reason enough for the best picture nod. Whoa-my-goodness. I'd like to see more of this kind of Tarantino.<br /><br /><strong>A Serious Man</strong>. This deserved Best Original Screenplay. While it’s a quiet movie of soft conversations and uncomfortable silences, it’s troubled me since watching it. A man reacts to sudden bad news not with vengeance toward the ones who wronged him but with intense introverted reflection. In the end, his questions bear no meaning against the bigger question: How much of our lives do we make happen, and how much happens to us?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-72446988253626241412010-03-03T17:04:00.008-05:002010-03-04T08:48:09.180-05:00Jeepers, Creepers<p>Each artist has a preferred medium. Adams had his black-and-white film, Degas his pastels, Poe his creepiness. As for me, I create in Peep.</p><p>Three years ago the Washington Post launched the <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/gallery/2009/04/10/GA2009041001969.html">Peeps Show </a>contest, challenging readers to create a diorama of a famous scene using marshmallow Peeps for characters. Each year since has gotten increasingly out of hand: last year they had over 1,100 entries, many by professional artists and designers who were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">not</i> messing around. There have been Hopper and Escher paintings reimagined with Peeps, a marshmallow Marion Barry (memorably rendered in “Peep Set Me Up”),<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbiTb3oX1VlZKnkRBm60kf53NsgqCtNk4NlJXEDBlaH1Lar-u8w4YKbg3qveUE28W6tqH86r5tKjxSkdzgFqRzxZQlGFqgR6UgQdqhTY4moKFWmrGWc868lrU9-_d5Dn84ted/s1600-h/peeps_hopper.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 108px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444533417127921490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbiTb3oX1VlZKnkRBm60kf53NsgqCtNk4NlJXEDBlaH1Lar-u8w4YKbg3qveUE28W6tqH86r5tKjxSkdzgFqRzxZQlGFqgR6UgQdqhTY4moKFWmrGWc868lrU9-_d5Dn84ted/s200/peeps_hopper.jpg" /></a> and even a Peep Captain Sully bravely standing on a plane wing in the Hudson. Who would’ve known that a marshmallow with dots for eyes could capture such broad range of emotion?</p><p>This year, I threw my Peep into the ring. Seeking to start early, I began to lurk in candy aisles in early February to no avail. While one can buy a singing Santa doll in September, it is impossible to peek a Peep before Valentine’s. I got a reputation at Rite-Aid for my stubborn return visits – the manager saw me one day and asked, “Hey, aren’t you that lady who’s looking for Peeps? The rabbit kind?” He laughed and asked why I demanded Peeps, and I only shook my head and said that the real answer was stranger than anything he could guess. But on that glorious evening of February 15 when heart-shaped boxes of candy made room for cartons of Peeps, the work began.</p><p>During the following two weeks, the dining room table was covered in fabric, cardboard, glue, and Peeps. I spent a good deal of time pondering questions like: If Peeps had arms, how long would they be? Are googly eyes appropriate here? What about wigs? As a kind of casting call, I sat before a row of marshmallow rabbits to evaluate their facial expressions and shape (they’re all different, really). Unable to resist a creative challenge, Jimmy joined me. We had lighting strategy sessions: overhead, back, spot, and combinations of the three. He tinkered with shutter speeds, focus, and had the artistic revelation to incorporate chicks amid the rabbits in order to create an oppositional us-versus-them conflict in our scene. It became an obsession. One day when my mom called and asked what I was doing, I replied that I was trying to sew a dress for a Peep but was having a hard time given that Peeps lack waistlines and shoulders. (She was proud, I’m sure.) And I’m ashamed to say that I skipped a Gloria Steinem lecture in order to make finishing touches on the diorama to get it to the Post on time. I’m sure Mama Steinem would understand; I was a woman on a mission.</p><p>With any luck, this diorama will be posted as a finalist on the Post website on Easter. But for a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>sneak preview for my loyal readers (both of you), I present: “Nobunny Puts Peepy in the Corner,” a marshmallow tribute to Patrick Swayze.</p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCp0z0QkLQud2_8fpwvMmf9BTzdXsyQ1v0-59rChX9MPJNt68PTh-lNgNR9ULoNPWHr85CxV6PLAbEv9yLGNEqI_snDsBa1-10-Au4HNy8HjumRNO4372I-qLN3XDIJsNiEcOJ/s1600-h/dd_peeps.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444534514150625266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCp0z0QkLQud2_8fpwvMmf9BTzdXsyQ1v0-59rChX9MPJNt68PTh-lNgNR9ULoNPWHr85CxV6PLAbEv9yLGNEqI_snDsBa1-10-Au4HNy8HjumRNO4372I-qLN3XDIJsNiEcOJ/s320/dd_peeps.jpg" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-3019733816540429682010-02-23T15:36:00.007-05:002010-02-23T18:30:46.465-05:00Stupid, Smiling ClydeI hate to admit this, but a message in a dream from a talking dog has changed the way I live.<br /><br />On New Years Eve, full of filet mignon, champagne, and 2010 optimism, I went to bed unaware that a crazy dream was about to cause trouble. It was about <a href="http://www.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=10928467" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Clyde</a>, a smiling oaf of a dog at the animal control shelter. I adored this dog so much when I volunteered there that I returned to visit him. Just something about his smile. Shortly after, a no-kill shelter rescued Clyde from death row and placed him in foster care. Clyde lives!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnb1M5PjVPK0hYTqyXxjAPdvAxL7TI9Nt8hs-JCiQjC7PLZoY-VX-mV7sgzmhOt9lHocYjwHXcD5PBONviGS5euQ8MROzHg-yw1doRB0NXAF_D0Tr2iBBqOxpt1Dt61xj5xnuJ/s1600-h/clyde.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 134px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 127px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441541110788931682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnb1M5PjVPK0hYTqyXxjAPdvAxL7TI9Nt8hs-JCiQjC7PLZoY-VX-mV7sgzmhOt9lHocYjwHXcD5PBONviGS5euQ8MROzHg-yw1doRB0NXAF_D0Tr2iBBqOxpt1Dt61xj5xnuJ/s200/clyde.jpg" /></a>In my dream, I chewed on Clyde’s leg like it was a turkey leg. He was delicious. I asked Clyde if this hurt him, and he smiled and replied not to worry, people do it all the time, please enjoy. I took a bite out of his side but began to feel guilty. No worries, Clyde told me, he was just an animal and everyone does it, please enjoy. I tried to take another bite, but couldn’t bring myself to do so. Clyde smiled and encouraged me to keep going, but I knew that if I ate any more, Clyde would die.<br /><br />I woke up horrified. I didn’t eat meat that day. Or the next.<br /><br />Since then, I’ve had meat twice. Once a relative made a chicken dinner, and I didn’t want to explain my talking dog dream to my meat-loving family. Another time, I began daydreaming about red meat and assumed my body wanted some. So last Sunday, two months since I had eaten red meat, I ordered a juicy burger. Turns out, my body didn’t want that at all.<br /><br />But -- I insist in my best temper tantrum voice -- I <em>like</em> meat! I like Italian beefs in Chicago, pulled pork in Carolina, pastrami-on-rye in New York! I like to finish a day of yard work with Jimmy's grilled steaks, to celebrate summer with burgers or New Years with a filet. Meat is delicious! Since that dream, though, I’ve lost the taste for it -- it brought a long-simmering moral dilemma to a boil. When I look at meat, I see Clyde. Stupid, smiling Clyde. Whether I’m vegetarian, flexitarian, or whatever now, I don’t know. I only know that I didn’t have meat yesterday, I don’t want it today, and I’m not shopping to buy any for tomorrow. I harbor hope, however, that this is a passing fad that’ll have me eating corned beef by St. Paddy‘s Day.<br /><br />Recently Jimmy and I went to a <a href="http://www.ammanyc.com/">fantastic Indian restaurant</a> in New York and asked the server to choose something great for us to eat. He asked for our parameters, and I asked for something spicy and without meat. “Oh, are you vegetarian?” he asked innocently.<br /><br />I don’t know, I wanted to tell him, but what I do know is that there’s a trouble-maker of a dog available for adoption in Charlotte if you want him.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-12980467340422798592010-02-16T22:05:00.003-05:002010-02-16T22:15:08.146-05:00Can Beauty Transcend the Ordinary? - Pt. 2I flipped a coin this morning over how to spend my lunch hour: writing at a coffeehouse or running at the gym. My head beat my tail. Writing won.<br /><br />My favorite coffeehouse can make my day with a good batch of snickerdoodle joe, so imagine my glee when they offered a better surprise: an impromtu performance by two violinists. The music was beautiful! I’d love to share the name of the song I swooned over as I walked in, but I only know it wasn’t included in my early study of classical music (the Tom & Jerry School of Music). When they finished to applause, they asked their quiet, coffee-sipping audience, “Does anyone here like AC/DC?” Um, yeah! These two violinists proceeded to rock out “Back in Black.” <em>Rocked</em> it.<br /><br />I settled into a table and began my usual struggle to write (one page! why is one page so hard to write one damn page?), but my words provided weak competition against the music, which segued from the “Love Story“ theme to Guns N Roses. I remembered the Washington Post article about a renowned classical violinist playing one of the world’s most valuable violins in a Metro station while most people only scurried past. <a href="http://feministchick.blogspot.com/2007/04/can-beauty-transcend-ordinary.html">The Post’s experiment: Can beauty transcend the ordinary? </a>It didn’t. I shamefully recognized myself in the story -- the person sometimes too distracted to notice pretty things -- and vowed to reform. So while sitting in Dilworth Coffee amid beautiful music, I set my work aside to listen and enjoy. Despite my less-than-sophisticated palette for classical music, I recognized this as amazing work. All guilt about skipping the workout and the writing disappeared.<br /><br />During a break, one of the violinists approached me with the line, “So I’m happily married and not looking for anything like that, but you seem into music, and we’d like to talk to you.” Have a seat, fellas! These were classically trained musicians who went to conservatory together then toured internationally for fifteen years. As their careers sucked the joy out of music, they each broke out on their own. One traded downtown Chicago for a West Virginian farm, then bought a bus and took his family on the road as he performed smaller shows. Now that they’ve partnered, these two musicians perform everywhere from concert halls to dinner parties and play the music they like (“for some reason, our conductor frowned upon performing AC/DC”). We exchanged information, and I promised to see them play when they returned to town. They asked if I found it weird to come across two violinists randomly playing in a coffeehouse. I shook my head and asked if they read the Post article about a famous violinist playing in a Metro station. The guys laughed and said, “Yeah, Josh Bell is a friend of ours.”<br /><br />Ever the skeptic, I hit Google. The name of the violinist in the 2007 WaPo story? Joshua Bell. The story about a famous musician leaving Chicago to move to a farm in West Virginia? Recounted in news articles. The instrument played by this musician? A rare Bernardus Calcanius violin made in 1750. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cksvLRO8YaY">Check him out yourself</a>. I’d be lucky to hear these guys play Carnegie, much less a tiny coffeehouse in Charlotte.<br /><br />Three years ago, I tortured myself with the question posed by the Post: would I stop my routine to appreciate a classically trained musician playing a rare violin during an ordinary moment? It seemed an experiment impossible to replicate, but today I got my reassuring answer. And the bonus? Unexpected moments of beauty do wonders against writer’s block. I finally had something to fill my one page. You just read it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-74595052501154743972010-02-02T10:43:00.007-05:002010-02-02T22:25:06.459-05:00Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't Bother"This year, I will work with Congress and our military to finally repeal the law that denies gay Americans the right to serve the country they love because of who they are."<br />President Obama, State of the Union, January 2010<br /><br />Because of WHO THEY ARE. Obama recognizes homosexuality as an inherent part of WHO THEY ARE. Sexual orientation is not a choice, but it's as natural to gay people as it is to straight. Yet this recognition makes his other views seem unthinkable -- that while being gay is just part of who people are, it's still a part that prevents their right to marry and have families and equal rights under American law.<br /><br />Obama's "Don't Ask" reversal is not even for full integration, but for the military to stop aggressively pursuing disciplinary action against gay servicemembers who are outed by third parties. This is being discussed today on Capitol Hill, as if there's anything here that needs discussion. Integration of openly gay servicemembers is still years away and requires -- you guessed it -- further discussion. To call this equal rights for homosexual Americans is like calling an end to the Salem Witch Trials a final victory for feminism.<br /><br />The arguments against allowing gay servicemembers to serve openly are similar to the fights against racial or gender integration of the armed forces. What is the new fear? That openly gay servicemembers will introduce sexual harrassment into the ranks? As someone who interned at the Pentagon and wrote for a military-related company, I'll attest that sexual harrassment IS prevalent in the ranks. Cat calls and propositioning during professional situations were commonplace. Why weren't these offenses of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell"? Too many see sexual harrassment against women by men as nothing serious (even flattering!), while sexual harrassment against men by men is an abomination of nature. Let's have a military that allows the best and brightest to serve in a professional environment, shall we?<br /><br />Obama started his gay rights fight with the military. Why would a gay person volunteer to fight and die for a country that doesn't grant equal rights? A country that sees a gay person as too morally unfit for the human experience of marrying, having children, and being recognized as a legal family with all rights therein? A country where most states make it legal to fire someone due to sexual orientation? At least when gay people get fired for being gay they can join the Marines, provided they hide a sexual orientation that straight people can flaunt, and when they get assigned to a base they'll go alone because the government doesn't recognize their families as legal spouses or dependents. This is the Obama version of gay rights.<br /><br />This country doesn't treat gay Americans as full American citizens with equal rights. Instead of a gesture that plays lip service to gay rights but only adds retention numbers to a military struggling with enlistment, Obama should start treating gay Americans as the real Americans WHO THEY ARE.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-61959899213191441672010-01-07T20:49:00.003-05:002010-01-23T20:21:33.260-05:00These Boots Are Made For Travelin'A new year. A new trip. It’s become my classic combination, akin to wine with cheese or Doritos with M&Ms (trust me, it works). My earlier fascination with travel has grown into a nearly physical need for it. The signs of the craving are now familiar: I’m restless, I peruse travel websites during work, I look at stamps on my passport and reminisce as if they’re old family photos.<br /><br />I don’t know where this year will take me, but I hope it will be across the Atlantic. In anticipation, I’ve amassed stashes of travel porn: Budget Travel magazine, Rick Steves DVDs, <a href="http://www.vrbo.com/">VRBO</a>, and my beloved weekly Kayak travel deals email. While I may look like the same old me, I focus on my potentially awesome versions of me in 2010: the me who hikes through Croatia to see waterfalls! The me who sips Bohemian beer after a day of sightseeing in Prague! The me who watches for giraffe and lion on the plains in South Africa! I salivate at the idea that by year’s end, I might know my way around Salzburg or dicker for prices in a Budapest market or learn basic phrases in Dutch.<br /><br />I recently read Alain de Botton’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Art-Travel-Alain-Botton/dp/0375725342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1262915460&sr=8-1">Art of Travel</a> in which he examines why and how we travel. Parts are refreshingly unromantic: I sympathized with the feeling of arriving to a foreign location expecting to find both the city and myself there to be postcard perfect (see above) and feeling let down initially. But the gap between the ideal and the real -- in regards to both the place and myself in the place -- seems the most valuable part. I love the discovery of it all. I travel because I know that the person I’ll be on the return flight will be more enlightened (albeit tired) than the starry-eyed one on the outbound trip, that I’ll have learned more about my world and myself largely due to the gap between my expectations of the trip and the reality of it.<br /><br />It’s funny -- in a humiliating way -- to remember predictions of my past trips. Upon booking our Paris trip, I fancied I’d become a Parisian Carrie Bradshaw, breezing through streets wearing a dress with a flirty, full skirt (I don’t even <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">own </span>dresses like that!), scarf around my neck, while speaking my few phrases so convincingly that the locals would be shocked -- shocked! -- to learn I wasn’t a native. The reality? I was my usual jeans-clad persona, only the people on the Metro stared so disapprovingly at my boots that I knew they set me apart in a bad way, and I couldn‘t figure out how. In cafes, after I’d stammer my order and a couple niceties in French, I’d wait for the waiter to escape earshot before exclaiming to Jimmy, “I did it!! I ordered us coffees!” And unfailingly, the waiter would return -- not with coffees but with espressos because I ordered the wrong damn thing. Again. Luckily, I had many opportunities to learn to love espresso in Paris. The boot thing really bothered me, though. C’mon, black leather boots! What could be wrong with black leather boots?<br /><br />Travel changes me. Improves me. Each new place demands humility, an open mind, and a willingness to learn what it has to teach. Paris -- despite its reputation -- taught me to be more polite to strangers, to greet and bid <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">au revior</span> to shop owners and to respect a local language at the cost of my ego and desire to appear effortlessly chic while abroad. Italy taught me to slow down while eating and walking, to stop rushing and start noticing, and in the name of all things holy, to use fresh foods and herbs when I cook. Ireland taught me to cherish ties and time with friends and family. London, like the rest, taught me to ditch my preconceived notions and to accept a place on its terms -- or, as it were, to mind the gap.<br /><br />So where will this year take me? Which me will I become? What place will offer its own lessons that will forever change me? I don’t know, but I just hope where ever it is, black leather boots will be OK there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-43941594299322455552009-12-22T16:15:00.003-05:002010-01-07T10:47:49.260-05:00All I Want For Christmas... is a healthcare bill. While this is not the bill I hoped to see (I <em>reeeeally</em> wanted that public option), I still smile at the prospect of these changes coming to the U.S. Although his name isn’t brought up in polite conversation, John Edwards deserves much credit for this: during the 2008 primary, he was the first candidate to test the waters of universal healthcare months prior to Clinton and Obama dipping their toes in. This was during a time when <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/07/18/AR2007071801434.html">Bush vetoed the health insurance plan for poor children</a>, and not many people got all that upset about it.<br /><br />I admit, I experienced 11th-hour doubt thanks to my political crush, Howard Dean. His <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/12/16/AR2009121601906.html">WaPo editorial </a>raised compelling points, and he (like myself) wondered if this bill was worthwhile without that public option. Should we wait for a more perfect bill? After more reading and thought, I decided this bill should be passed. Does it do the most good possible? No. But it does a hell of lot more than our current system does. (Here’s back-up from <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/18/opinion/18krugman.html">Paul Krugman</a>) Reasons why this bill gets the coveted FemChick seal of approval:<br /><br /><strong>30 million people:</strong> The <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/22/opinion/22tue1.html?_r=1">number of currently uninsured Americans who will gain coverage </a>under this act! That will mean 94% of legal citizens under Medicare age will have healthcare coverage in 2014, up from 83% currently. That’s a lot of people about to live healthier lives, about to be less scared about a medical mishap slipping them into bankruptcy.<br /><br /><strong>Higher taxes on wealthy:</strong> The difference between this program and Bush-era spending programs? <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/13/opinion/13sun1.html">This administration plans to pay for it</a>. Some will come from cost-cutting measures, and some will come from higher taxes on those making over $200k a year. My heart does not break: because of recent tax laws, the gap between the wealthy and poor is wider than it has been in generations. The expansion on the vacation home just might have to wait until the poor can go to a doctor for an annual physical.<br /><br /><strong>Mandatory coverage:</strong> Without this, we’d continue the broken system of the insureds paying an invisible tax to cover the uninsureds' unpaid ER bills -- and those uninsured Americans have preventable ER visits due to lack of basic and preventative care. Voluntary coverage doesn't work fairly -- we all must be required to have coverage.To those who bemoan this get-covered-or-get-fined approach, I’d like to ask them whether they comply with mandatory car insurance laws and are happy that other drivers must as well.<br /><br /><strong>And the rest of us can keep our coverage:</strong> No more discrimination on pre-existing conditions, no more terminations of coverage upon illness. Although progressives such as Dean are not happy with the amount that coverage costs can increase with age, this bill does cap those increases more than current runaway costs. It seems only fair (and right and good) that the elderly and sick can keep their health insurance.<br /><br />Each party can point to abuses on either side, even by those seemingly opposing their own party's mission: Democratic Senator Schmucky from Nebaska holding out for special favors, Republicans stalling a Pentagon spending bill in order to delay the healthcare bill. It’s been a messy process and as always, politicians begin to resemble bratty second graders at recess. But I hope 60 senators come together to do the right thing: to pass a bill that will enable millions of Amercians to have affordable health insurance for the first time. During a time of so many Scrooge specials, let’s stick up for the “surplus population.”<br /><br />And God bless us, everyone.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-51361494022757901802009-11-10T15:52:00.005-05:002010-01-07T10:47:49.261-05:00Where Have All The Bibles Gone?As always, a lot of personal belief masquerades as religious dictate: the “it’s not me, it’s God” defense of a political argument. Recently though, it’s shocking how the Bibles have gone missing. We are in the midst of political debates regarding core moral issues – healthcare for the poor, higher taxes for the rich, war – and I haven’t heard much scripture. I am no theologian, but I know my New Testament fairly well, especially the Sermon on the Mount. Those pages contain many words (especially in red) regarding poverty, charity, and killing. Where are those Bibles now? Why do the <em>WWJD?</em> signs disappear when the conversation turns to taxes, healthcare, guns. and war? The criteria switches: while it’s “un-Christian” to support reproductive rights or gay marriage, it’s “un-American” to support public healthcare or to oppose war.<br /><br />I don’t mean to insinuate that one cannot be religious and support war or oppose a public healthcare option. What I mean is that if the Bible is the core argument in one political debate, consistency demands that the Bible returns for the next one. If someone uses a Bible to defend an opposition to gay marriage, they need to use it when the debate moves onto healthcare for the poor or the war in Afghanistan. Otherwise that book is no longer a sacred text guiding a belief system but becomes a mere prop.<br /><br />My point, of course, is that religion does not belong in government policy for this reason: it’s used as a convenient and nearly unassailable way to bolster personal opinion as divine truth. Now that we see many political conservatives shelving Bibles when their particular causes would not be helped by them, let’s keep religious texts where they belong: in homes and places of worship, guiding lives but not policy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-72432727184006328242009-09-29T21:57:00.008-04:002009-10-03T09:35:08.375-04:00Literature CzarLast weekend during the National Book Festival, the <em>Washington Post</em> asked authors this question: If you were named literature czar and could make all Americans read one book, which book would it be?<br /><br />What a great question! More than any other hypothetical – more than wondering what I would do with a million dollars or what first law I'd pass as president – the book czar question put me in touch with my inner power tripper. It was an easy call: <em>Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.</em> A book about loyalty, adventure, humanity, and personal moral compass (and a hilarious read, no less). How cool it would be to turn to the person beside me in the grocery store and ask, “So what did you think about that ending? Did Huck fail Jim, or did Twain wimp out?” As book czar, I’d hope that the entire country would be kept awake at night obsessing over questions like that. (I’d be an <em>eeeevil</em> book czar.)<br /><br />I posed this question to a cross-section of people today: lawyers, fulltime moms, Marines, business owners, professors, creative professionals, students, etc. Their responses were immediate and enthusiastic. These are my friends, family, neighbors, and colleagues. I look at our collective list and wonder: What do these books say about us? What do they say about our views of America?<br /><br /><em>All the King's Men</em><br /><em>For Whom the Bell Tolls</em><br /><em>Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass </em><em><br />The Great Gatsby</em> (2 votes)<br /><em>To Kill a Mockingbird</em> (3)<br /><em>Ferdinand</em> <em>the Bull</em><br /><em>The Last Tortilla and Other Stories<br />Rise to Globalism</em><br /><em>For the Common Defense, A Military History of the United States </em><br /><em>The Illustrated Man<br />Huck Finn</em> (4)<br /><em>The Giving Tree<br />Amazing Fantasy #15 - Marvel Comics<br />All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten<br />Fahrenheit 451<br />Where the Red Fern Grows<br /></em>And one deserate plea that the book be anything but <em>Grapes of Wrath.</em><br /><br />Your turn: If you were named literature czar, which book would <em>you</em> want Americans to read?<br /><br /><br />And until that glorious day when my reign begins, enjoy this preview:<br /><br />"It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened."<br /><em>The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn</em>, Mark TwainUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-3110969225531316802009-09-27T19:02:00.017-04:002009-10-03T09:35:08.375-04:00Why English?During my twenties, I assumed that work would provide all the intellectual stimulation necessary in life. If I worked hard enough, I thought, I’d grow wise and become the kind of wit who regales crowds at cocktail parties. Not quite. The longer I worked, the dumber I felt.<br /><br />The fault wasn't with the job. I’ve been fortunate to work in web development and design, a creative career that forces the left and right halves of my brain to play nice. The deeper I dug into my field, however, the more shallow I felt beyond it. I was smart at one point, right? Didn’t I once think, you know, like things and stuff? I decided to do what confused people do: go to grad school.<br /><br />When I told my boss that I wouldn’t be able to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays because I started my Masters, her eyes lit up. She reached for the company’s tuition reimbursement form and asked what program I began: IT? Business? “No,” I replied, “English!” Hopped up on idealism and three cups of coffee, I shared my vision with her: nights of discussing Shakespeare or laughing over Twain, reading great books and hearing wise professors! Didn’t it sound like so much fun? She supposed it did and then took back the tuition reimbursement form.<br /><br />Some of my well-intentioned colleagues attempted an intervention. Why English? Did I know that choosing a degree in my field meant that the company would pay for it? I did. Did I realize that this degree offered no hope of a raise and only qualified me for a teaching career which paid woefully little in NC? Yep.<br /><br />The friends who got it, though, really got it. One friend smiled and replied, “Good. I think that when people go to school for the purpose of making more money, we shouldn’t even call it education.” Ouch. (But amen.)<br /><br />The following three years were exhausting, stressful, and absolutely wonderful. I felt like me at my best. My professors were among the most inspiring and knowledgeable (and funny!) teachers I've had. Class discussions were so engaging that I’d come home too excited to sleep. My paper on <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Moby Dick</span> was published, making me feel as if I made my own small contribution to the world of books. Most importantly, I awoke my brain.<br /><br />The morning after my final class, I awoke early out of habit to begin my time-to-make-the-donuts routine. Still half asleep, I made coffee, let the dogs out, grabbed a pen, and sat at the dining room table where a slew of open notebooks, journal articles and books awaited me for the past few years. Not this time. The books and papers on the table were closed and neatly stacked. I was done. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation, perhaps it was sentiment, but either way, I looked at my closed books and cried. I cried because I was sad to see it end; I cried because I pulled it off. I recalled one of my favorite lines from <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">A Tree Grows in Brooklyn</span> which reads, “Eyes changed after they looked at new things.” Grad school took me on walks along Walden Pond, shipped me off with Ishmael, sent me running away with Sethe. Grad school introduced me to so many characters and places that I’d otherwise need ten lifetimes to know them. Grad school changed how I saw the world, my future, myself. So why an English degree? If there’s a better use for time or money than that, I’d love to hear it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-87737744089026959622009-09-16T10:43:00.013-04:002010-01-07T10:47:58.869-05:00It’s Not You, It’s Me: Dumping The 24-Hour News Networks“Taking a break from news” seems to be 2009’s staycation of choice. After a while, watching screaming matches and listening to red herring, alarmist arguments becomes infuriating and depressing. No wonder people walk away. I can't accept that this is a matter of attention to current events, though, but the consumption of irresponsible news. I single out the 24-hour news networks as a main culprit.<br /><br />Twenty-four hour cable news networks are a bad idea. Watching them is a worse one. The sure-fire way to keep eyeballs on screens is to promote fear and sensationalism; to gain broad viewership, issues become dumbed-down dichotomies of pro versus con that even the laziest viewers will grasp; to beat the competition, stories aren’t properly verified before the rush to air; to create famous “news personalities,” cleavage and bad behavior are rewarded with regular appearances (or sometimes even their own shows). These networks do offer good journalists like Zakaria and Amanpour, but they seem too few and far between. Twenty-four programming relies on quantity of words over quality of reporting. Although the American marketplace of ideas is one of the best ideas we’ve had, its success relies on responsible judgment. Most programs on the 24-hour news networks are at the 99-cent table at the marketplace of ideas, and it’s up to us to invest in something better. It seems that many people watch these channels not to learn about their world but to solidify their belief that they are smarter or more ethical than the people on screen, an easy feat against such competition.<br /><br />The big issues are as tough as they are critical, and to respond wisely we must appreciate their complexities. Healthcare, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, immigration, free trade, alternative sources of energy, education quality and affordability: none of these provide an easy option free of unfortunate consequences, and (to quote <em>Princess Bride</em>) anyone who says differently is selling something.<br /><br />Quality journalism is out there. We must choose it. If your means of gathering news makes the issues seem black and white or makes humanity seem either wise or stupid, then it’s not the right choice. If your means of gathering news propels you to mock more than you learn, it’s not the right choice. If your means of gathering news involves raised voices or name calling, again, it’s just not it. Although I cringe when I come across these methods and realize that committing any of them would have failed me out of my college journalism program, I blame the people who refuse to change the channel or turn off the TV more I blame those on the air. These networks are like the fast food of news: fine to consume every once in a while, but only alongside a steady diet of healthier fare.<br /><br />As for me, I love settling into my reading chair with a big cup of coffee and my <em>New York Times</em> or <em>Atlantic Monthly</em>, to work with NPR in the background, to check in with <em>NBC Nightly News with Dreamy Brian Williams </em>most evenings, and to end my night with <em>BBC World News</em>. This is a good balance for me: these outlets are thorough, informative, and don't freak me out with apocalyptic predictions or crazy CGI. They don't pander to ego; I don’t want news to make me feel like the smartest person alive, and I don’t wish to believe that people I disagree with are simpletons or evil-doers. Instead I want my news to compel me to think, “Well crap, I didn’t think about it that way.”<br /><br />The 24-hour networks are making us stupid, making us depressed, and at times, making us hate. How we process information affects the functioning of the brain, which needs exercise like any other muscle. Not much mind-flexing occurs while listening to yelling matches consisting of “I’m right, and you hate America!” coming from either side. Let’s not be in such a rush to consume news that we turn to the 24-hour networks. Let’s not be in such a rush to call someone an idiot that we forget to make ourselves intelligent.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-80521512448557719182009-08-20T10:57:00.005-04:002009-09-26T21:06:38.922-04:00The Healthcare Debate is Making Me IllI'm disheartened to see the healthcare debate de-evolve into a chaotic, uninformed mess. People who oppose Obama on other grounds use this debate as a vehicle for anger and indignation. The great majority of the public, myself included, lack the expertise to definitively suggest a solution. Physicians, economists, insurance executives, and patients all must contribute knowledge and learn from each other. I have an opinion based on what I've researched so far (a public option must be available to truly offer universal coverage and to challenge the private insurance companies' inflated pricing; regulations must force insurance companies not to discriminate in coverage, especially against the sick and elderly; all people must be encouraged to consider and plan for end-of-life options so that their wills are carried out so a family is not bankrupted by medical methods that a patient would oppose anyway). I also know, however, that I need to continually learn and adjust my opinion accordingly. No one's learning when everyone's yelling, though. Here are some of the reasons why protesters are clouding the debate and not helping it.<br /><br /><em>Note: A lot of my blog harkens back to the previous administration. I hate to examine the current situation by looking back on Bush (I hate to look back on Bush in general), yet the credibility of so many protesters is up for scrutiny when the main focus of their hatred is not big government or a deficit (which most conservatives previously ignored or supported) but a gripe against Obama himself. I want a productive debate and not a grudge match based on convenient and newly acquired values.</em><br /><br /><strong>Nazi Germany/Communist China/Remember the Soviet Union?</strong><br />Holy monkey, what is with all of the ignorant comparisons? You'd think there were two models in the world: American model versus total tyranny. The public insurance option is not a slippery slope to the Fourth Reich. The closest resemblance this proposed program bears to an existing healthcare program is Switzerland. Ooh, scary, tyrannical Switzerland! We'd be stripped of all personal freedoms but the right to great skiing! For this, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/17/opinion/17krugman.html">Paul Krugman puts it far better than I can: <em>The Swiss Menace</em></a>.<br /><br /><strong>Big Government Haters<br /></strong>We have people decrying big government. Fair enough. Yet most of these people turned a blind eye to the Patriot Act which granted government the right to access Americans' medical and tax records, see what books they borrow from the library, and even conduct secret searches. Envision the resulting outrage if Obama announced he'd allow the government to search our homes without a warrant or our knowledge that a search occurred. Yet Bush and Cheney did that without garnering a raised eyebrow from most conservatives. While I understand conservatives' concern over big government, I cannot take this concern seriously from anyone who supported the previous administration, which exercised the greatest amount of government authority in recent American history. It's ideologically inconsistent.<br /><br /><strong>Deficit Spending</strong><br />Again, I understand that people who are conservative oppose high government spending, even during a time of recession. I don't agree, but I get it. <a href="http://www.mcclatchydc.com/227/story/20767.html">What I don't get is where the outrage was when Bush took the budget from a surplus into staggering deficit spending</a>? Where was the outrage when Bush and Paulson began the government bailout system? (Why don't people remember that drastic stimulus spending did not begin with Obama?) Where was the conservative outrage when Bush passed over twenty of the first spending bills that hit his desk? <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2003/ALLPOLITICS/12/08/elec04.medicare/">Where was the outrage in 2003 when Bush passed the largest expansion of Medicare in its history?</a><br /><br /><strong>Gun Toters<br /></strong>And then there are the crazies who show up to healthcare rallies -- HEALTHCARE RALLIES -- with loaded weapons. They cite their Constitutional right to bear arms, but fail to cite why that particular right feels threatened by a public insurance plan. Imagine what most Americans would think of a group of Americans of Arabic descent protesting against the American government bearing automatic weapons, <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090817/ap_on_re_us/us_obama_protesters_guns">just as protesters bore automatic weapons at an Obama event recently</a>. Would we be talking about protecting Constitutional rights or talking about a clear and present danger to a president and everyone present?<br /><br /><strong>Yellers of Fury</strong><br />These are the people at town halls and protests proving that people compensate for ignorance with volume. They yell about Obama killing their grandma, they yell about the government taking over Medicare (??), they shout over their congressperson or senator. They remember that the Bill of Rights guarantees their right to free speech while forgetting that it allows other people the ability to speak as well. The Supreme Court ruling citing the unlawfulness of shouting fire in a crowded theatre seems to apply here: personal freedoms are not protected when they interfere with others' freedoms. When these protesters are asked to leave, they talk about this country becoming Nazi Germany. Do they remember that <a href="http://www.boston.com/news/nation/articles/2004/08/09/bush_backers_only_policy_riles_voters_at_rnc_rallies/">the Republican National Committee required people attending rallies to sign loyalty oaths to Bush</a>? Where was their righteous indignation then? Again, I cringe at the inconsistency: Bush can insist that only his supporters are allowed in a room with him and somehow come off as patriotic; when protesters who are strapped to loaded weapons arrive at Obama's speeches and people frown upon that, Obama's somehow socialist.<br /><br /><strong>Speaking Of...</strong><br />Can we please offer a civics class and teach Americans what socialism is?<br /><br /><strong>The "I'm as good as you are" Syndrome</strong><br />There is something poignant and beautiful about our political system -- that our votes all count the same, that we're all equal. There's also something dangerous about this. I cringe to see people spouting views that are not factually accurate who believe that opinion is equally valid to researched conclusion of an expert. Perhaps we need to respect the intelligence of those who have spent their lives devoted to their causes, that we need to listen more than we speak, that we need to recognize the gaps in our knowledge. Many people pretend to shun intellectual elitism or snobbery when their true opposition is knowledge itself. Experts know more about healthcare and economics than I do, even though I've invested a good deal of time into trying to understand this issue. At this point in the debate, my job is to listen and learn, even when (and especially when) intelligent and reasonable people explain why they oppose my view. I've protested in the past, will protest again in the future, and respect people who do so; yet I only respect protesters who have done their homework first.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-63290957733613844842009-07-11T11:48:00.010-04:002009-09-26T20:53:44.860-04:00"Un tavolo per due, per favore."When talking about my big trips, the subject invariably returns to food. Advice we received in Italy seems applicable to every place we‘ve been: the best meals you’re going to eat are not in expensive restaurants, but in small, unassuming places tucked away. Finding these places have been highlights of our travel.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span>Jimmy and I pass many an evening on the back porch reminiscing upon great meals we've had while traveling. Some are obvious (the Guinness and lamb stew of Ireland, the curry of London), some were surprises (our favorite pizza spot? Paris!), some were so blissful that we stop and sigh when we remember. Our trip to Italy still inspires such moments of silent, blissful reverence.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Rome. </span>I’m putting Rome down as the location for the best meal of my life. It came courtesy of Osteria Ponte Sisto in the Trastevere neighborhood, a place that we spent an hour walking to because it came highly recommended by our trusty friend Rick Steves. It was the only time I’ve let so much of my order up to the discretion of the restaurant owner and humbled myself enough to ask stupid questions like, “How do I eat this? Do I eat <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">this </span>part, too?” Glad I did. L‘antipasto: Fried artichoke. The owner told us that in Italy, you eat every bite, down to the stem. Delicious! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs47JEaY9H5g_fol_DXInmkgGl6eQsjpjZGpf0IWXvaH5qxbCi1LipBBba19lRyCYxENWf65-jRCH-NtOuMihXgvb-Pe2iDwECVuliA5xSFHgiqYoaFy-3Q8XU1bnO_g2r2ffd/s1600-h/ponte.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 208px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357253990716822386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs47JEaY9H5g_fol_DXInmkgGl6eQsjpjZGpf0IWXvaH5qxbCi1LipBBba19lRyCYxENWf65-jRCH-NtOuMihXgvb-Pe2iDwECVuliA5xSFHgiqYoaFy-3Q8XU1bnO_g2r2ffd/s320/ponte.jpg" /></a>Primo: spaghetti with grilled mussels, octopus, and cherry tomatoes. Everything was so fresh! The flavors so vivid! Secondo: fried octopus. Yummy down to the last tentacle. And throughout the meal (which lasted over two hours), we sipped away a bottle of local white wine while sitting at a table on a quiet side street in Rome, lined with scooters and across from a small church. We spent the long walk home in culinary afterglow, walking arm and arm, smiling, and reminiscing on the meal we had just minutes earlier.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Gelato</span>. And, of course, the gelato! Before I knew the Italian words to ask where to find a bathroom or how to ask the price of an item, I knew how to ask for various kinds of gelato (in a cone, in a cup, two scoops, maybe three), how to ask for a small taste to sample, and how to ask which flavors “married” well for an ultimate flavor combination. (Food is a great motivator for my foreign language skills.) I used these phrases frequently -- most days I had three cones with two flavors on each. We were there eight days, so you do the math. My goal was to determine the ultimate flavor combinations for each time of day: a lovely breakfast gelato (espresso and dark chocolate), mid-day snack (mint-chocolate chip and stracciatella), and post-dinner cone for the stroll home (stracciatella and tiramasu). Rice-flavored gelato? Surprisingly delicious. To prove just how much walking we did in Italy, I ate nothing but gelato, pizza, pasta, and bread for a week and still came home a few pounds lighter. Who says eating well is not hard work?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-32037213286206937302009-06-27T08:03:00.011-04:002009-09-19T11:23:38.102-04:00Florence (Site of the Battle of the Beetle)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeCK5IMnrmbzd0X38Nv41KqiVFl8IrTCo1TAre_bKw3kqaF5Y-vxmpVUblATM8RtwhO79J2RlV5aXzPi9OG-_VnQ0cFWbMJG9mueFJamhRMj4QA2AEhVL1JbYxuAp_vQ99El4/s1600-h/florence2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352000312051921026" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZeCK5IMnrmbzd0X38Nv41KqiVFl8IrTCo1TAre_bKw3kqaF5Y-vxmpVUblATM8RtwhO79J2RlV5aXzPi9OG-_VnQ0cFWbMJG9mueFJamhRMj4QA2AEhVL1JbYxuAp_vQ99El4/s200/florence2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Florence felt more like home than the other cities we visited in Italy. This was mainly an issue of time (we spent the most nights here) and location (we opted for an apartment over a hotel). It allowed us to get into the groove of the town. Each morning, we lingered over cappuccino and pastry at the bar across the street (they had a signature donut that ruined me on the idea of any other donut) and shopped at the neighborhood market for produce and necessities (ask Jimmy about his Italian underwear). In the evenings, after we played tourist all day, we’d duck into a café for a drink or two, stop by the grocery and gelateria, stroll through the piazza on the corner filled with people enjoying conversation and a nightcap, and return home to finish the night lounging on our patio. It was a great routine.<br /><br />This, however, paints an all-too-quaint picture of our stay in our Florence apartment. While hotels offer a cheery, English-speaking concierge to make transportation and other arrangements, we had no such advantage. Instead, we humiliated ourselves daily in a language that could only be described as Spanitalgish. No nearby restaurants offered menu translations; the local market didn‘t bail us out in English like the tourist one did. But I really dug this! It was an interesting -- and humbling! -- experience to flail about in another language. I used what little Italian I knew to attempt conversations, I carried my guidebook and phrase book with no shame, and I tried to feel at peace with appearing like a simpleton. At least I was a simpleton who earnestly tried. My self-administered final exam was wandering the local market alone, shopping for clothes, produce, and attempting small talk with merchants. This little exercise was exhausting, but I came away with one shirt, two tomatoes, two cloves of garlic, and half a pound of mozzarella di bufala -- all of which, luckily, I meant to ask for.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_nftYmEaqk2Hs896wm-J5tcGQU6nxUY9xFYUHO6J-RbDT8lDo3WNCAB4UNmmvIPndp6F9aJDsbLIam3ELbW1VNY0XTNTr_Eq8tJNnLewVWjFDmPQRN4jhJI-0MJ-8qroHVHb/s1600-h/florence_apt.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351995133097280018" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_nftYmEaqk2Hs896wm-J5tcGQU6nxUY9xFYUHO6J-RbDT8lDo3WNCAB4UNmmvIPndp6F9aJDsbLIam3ELbW1VNY0XTNTr_Eq8tJNnLewVWjFDmPQRN4jhJI-0MJ-8qroHVHb/s200/florence_apt.JPG" border="0" /></a> Then there was the issue of unexpected apartment guests: the mega-bugs. Picture a giant beetle wearing patent leather armor. The singular qualities of these mega-bugs was their assertiveness and resistance to death. We would wail on them with heavy shoes and no mercy (sorry, PETA), yet they would go on, dented but undaunted. One night, I awoke to find one climbing on the sheet atop Jimmy’s shoulder, scampering toward his face. (Note to self: waking Jimmy by tapping his forehead and whispering, “Don’t move” alarms him.) The next morning we shopped for mega-bug death spray. No big deal, right? Try shopping for insect repellent without knowing the language! The directions never included our handy memorized Italian phrases (“We would like a bottle of red wine,” “Where is the bathroom?” or “Yes I am American, but I voted for Obama.”). Luckily, one can offered an illustration of our culprit with a red line through it. Bingo.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0qxEdsc46sxqWAVb3-6G1hCJyyvXRw-K4nj9YYmHskJYXHcBq7c6SQZlcDuRew_AT9tiMz0vto0wFTSpbOo3pnu_4DxmccjZ0qHklWN8aOQSFBjK65mc1vzzNiBFV7-V4bOn/s1600-h/florence_breakfast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351995594369294578" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0qxEdsc46sxqWAVb3-6G1hCJyyvXRw-K4nj9YYmHskJYXHcBq7c6SQZlcDuRew_AT9tiMz0vto0wFTSpbOo3pnu_4DxmccjZ0qHklWN8aOQSFBjK65mc1vzzNiBFV7-V4bOn/s200/florence_breakfast.jpg" border="0" /></a>It’s interesting to see how a week’s worth of vacation experiences become condensed into a few key tales to tell friends back home. It’s interesting to see which details are included, which omitted, and which will be slowly forgotten over time. I’m ashamed to admit that when I reminisce over Florence, it rarely is about the art, palaces, or cathedrals, which were stunningly beautiful and reason enough to visit the city. I usually smile and describe what it felt like to be in Florence, to slow down, to stroll streets lined with incredible architecture while eating my third gelato of the day, to attempt Italian with dubious results, to sit each morning with a cappuccino and world’s best donut while watching the neighborhood around me slowly come to life. And somehow, I laugh the most over those damn bugs. My apologies to Raphael.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-77872216333154131052009-05-28T18:34:00.006-04:002009-09-14T20:46:48.624-04:00Venice (Or, In Piazza San Marco With No Baedeker)Open sewer. Stinky. Crowded. These were the general impressions of Venice given to us ahead of our trip. Close to our departure, though, a few well-trusted sources told us to stay in Venice because we’d never be anywhere like it again. It’s hard to turn down such advice.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguufm3Y37eII45zwoqmUQgVTUW-ZXo8VWgQ03j1wP-y28fJQuaM3xjKEbW-UWcXpyZV4CVn2KUm6aB7wdghbrXfXvf43JNcQ86cODhYfMOxNIQtsYgdK_0SyeRwdVCYhqqgL3z/s1600-h/venice_boat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341071108178596114" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 168px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguufm3Y37eII45zwoqmUQgVTUW-ZXo8VWgQ03j1wP-y28fJQuaM3xjKEbW-UWcXpyZV4CVn2KUm6aB7wdghbrXfXvf43JNcQ86cODhYfMOxNIQtsYgdK_0SyeRwdVCYhqqgL3z/s200/venice_boat.jpg" border="0" /></a>It was true: Piazza San Marco was insufferably crowded when we arrived in the morning. It was easy to miss the beauty because it took too much energy to walk five steps. After maneuvering through the crowds, we reached our hotel (kudos to Jimmy for finding it; I was never not lost in Venice). The concierge advised his two weary travelers to go to the Rialto Bridge: to the left, tourists; to the right, Venice. He was right. Within a five-minute walk was a tranquil Venice. We had no agenda but to explore. We had no guidebook but only our eyeballs to decipher surroundings. Walking aimlessly meant constant surprises. Some surprises charmed us: rooftop gardens, cool architecture, and the sweet elderly woman who didn't seem to mind that we couldn't understand her conversation. The bigger surprises wowed us: one unassuming street opened to a piazza flanked by two cathedrals where a man performed an impromtu opera for the enjoyment (and euros) of onlookers. In a papershop, an enthusiastic owner took us to the back room to demonstrate the centuries-old Italian technique to design painted papers. In a public park, we explored a garden with time-worn statues peeking out from ivy,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hGAP7jFKvlD5cwldkkH0uo6_PqWWfP9jGcrgAniZth7Bn7DIydosBUS2CFdkHmHogxhHymwAHfvgaRLpupiEcXDdX0JUiKPDqJZABuiq_QOum3DC-fNHpx5z-Y_CAe5oGA1M/s1600-h/venice_park.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341070733017203490" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 122px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hGAP7jFKvlD5cwldkkH0uo6_PqWWfP9jGcrgAniZth7Bn7DIydosBUS2CFdkHmHogxhHymwAHfvgaRLpupiEcXDdX0JUiKPDqJZABuiq_QOum3DC-fNHpx5z-Y_CAe5oGA1M/s200/venice_park.jpg" border="0" /></a> we ducked into shady alcoves enclosed by tree branches. Then we saw another beautiful sight: cruise ships and their hordes departing for the evening, making it safe to return to Piazza San Marco. Ciao, crowds. Buena sera, Venice.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnD-bDHntQ_f868NZZbwVZqYy-j3g8n4D1_1aLDEz0QI0NQOZB6HDPnSbB2WC7rKuAwMpKiEjCJ9feFQ5wKGHxiUJv88I7R2JbZVXZDKEx6di120G2Cd40Bb_GhhIO4Q0eHaX/s1600-h/venice_night.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341072173571241250" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 134px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnD-bDHntQ_f868NZZbwVZqYy-j3g8n4D1_1aLDEz0QI0NQOZB6HDPnSbB2WC7rKuAwMpKiEjCJ9feFQ5wKGHxiUJv88I7R2JbZVXZDKEx6di120G2Cd40Bb_GhhIO4Q0eHaX/s200/venice_night.jpg" border="0" /></a>Venice at night was splendid. The narrow streets were only partially lit by the glow of shop and restaurant windows. Lights danced across water. Music was everywhere. Piazza San Marco seemed more majestic when not under the duress of crowds. The restaurants along the piazza had outdoor stages for bands; each band took a turn to wow the crowd and even compelled couples and groups to dance. Jimmy and I sat on steps in a far corner of the piazza, enjoying the music, the dancers, and those out for a stroll, all with San Marco as a backdrop. It was a perfect moment.<br /><br />We missed the big Venetian sights suggested in most guidebooks: we didn't enter San Marco or the Doge's Palace, we skipped the gondola ride. But we did debunk the theory of Venice as stinky and crowded. Not even. Perhaps it took losing the guidebook to see it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-17707558008445494672009-02-20T20:23:00.005-05:002009-09-26T20:49:54.739-04:00Friendly Fire (or, The Personal is Political, Part II)Recently I made the unfortunate decision to join women I didn't know well for a day trip, despite knowing that such adventures should be ones that allow for quick bailing. During the car ride to our destination, I learned why I hadn't spent more time with these women. They terrified me. Their favorite topic of conversation was their husbands, whom they loved to talk about but didn't seem to like very much. They shared stories of husbands who were so stupid they couldn't do laundry or who were so inept that they could not "babysit" their own children. What bothered me more than what these women said, though, was how they spoke: they seemed proud to one-up each other in stories of clueless men, beginning tales with, "Oh, you think THAT is dumb! Well MY husband..." They showed no sense of injustice or any desire to change the situation. Seeing their husbands as clueless seemed to give them a role, a sense of power. I tried to wipe the incredulous look from my face while I wondered why anyone would marry someone they didn't respect or why I had the great idea to go on a day-long outing with people I barely knew.<br /><br />Yet these supposedly stupid husbands seemed cunning to me. They had someone to do laundry, cook, raise children, and also work a job to provide half of the household income. If I could somehow convince my husband that my wee little lady brain lacked the ability to comprehend the sorting of laundry or the cleaning of toilets, I'd be tempted to give it a shot. Credit for egalitarian relationships is not only due to the non-knuckle-dragging men who cook and clean (and please, it's not "pitching in" when it's their own home), but to women who resist outdated gender roles and require men to do their share. Merely complaining about it has all the effectiveness of breathlessly clutching at pearls.<br /><br />When venturing beyond my egalitarian-loving social circle (where men do laundry without expecting a merit badge), I realize that a good deal of the inequality women face is perpetuated by women themselves; we're going down by friendly fire. The chaos is understandable, though -- the enormity of the social shift that our generation finds itself in cannot be overstated. Many of us born in the 70s were born during a transitional time of mixed messages. While many of us were raised with the idea we could be anything we wanted to be, any professional success came along with a duty to marry, have children, and handle the duties of the home. Most of us were not raised with the expectation of becoming as professionally successful or as financially savvy as our husbands. Yet our generation was the first where women not only outnumbered men in the college classroom, but outperformed them as well; some sociologists believe women now show greater professional ambition and work harder in the workforce (my offices have shown anecdotal evidence supporting this). Women are in unchartered marital territory full of options but not much precedent; taking on new responsibilities seems easier than delegating old ones. Venting with girlfriends is easier than insisting on new rules with husbands. I read a quote from the 70s in which a feminist (Steinem, I believe?) offered a married woman the advice to pretend she was dividing household duties with her best friend and then not to lower that standard with her husband. While this 30-year-old advice seems forehead-smackingly obvious, apparently this memo has not been widely circulated. It's easier for some women to think of their husbands as stupid than to realize they're victims of the patriarchal systems of their own making.<br /><br />There's an email forward that gets passed around every few years in which a wife details the average night in her home. The wife announces she's going to bed and then bathes the baby, does the dishes, folds the laundry, makes tomorrow's lunches, prepares for a morning meeting, and THEN goes to bed. The man says he's going to bed and then just goes to bed. Somehow, there are women who find this email hilarious, who add smiley faces and "Isn't <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">this </span>the truth??" before forwarding on. I sit there screaming at this fictional woman who doesn't tell this dude to get his butt off the couch and make some lunches, which is not prevented by the presence of a Y chromosome. I usually direct much of my feminist angst towards laws and policies which place women in unfair and subordinate positions. Yet during times like my fun little day trip, I realize that my little group of progressive friends doesn't always represent who's really out there, and more of my feminist angst should go toward the women themselves who are more comfortable confronting a boss about a promotion than a husband about the laundry.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-63464496942083772462009-02-03T10:45:00.005-05:002009-09-22T19:11:53.160-04:00You like me! You really, kind of, sort of like me!I find that the gap between who we pretend to be and who we really are is an area infinitely interesting to examine in others and terrifying to notice in ourselves. It seems to be our most telling detail: that gap is where we’re exposed for the flawed, hypocritical creatures we really are; it’s where we look into the magnified mirror under florescent lighting and shudder a little at the truth. But I believe it’s good to know our whole selves, who we’re dealing with on a daily basis, and this is a good place to start.<br /><br />One such gap I have deals with likeability. I believe that women are sold a false bill of goods when we’re girls -- that, above all, we should be pleasing and likeable to all. Cinderella craved the acceptance of the horrid step-sisters; Snow White made it her mission to win over seven distinctly different personality types. We use code words like "charm" and "etiquette" for the true goal: to make girls universally pleasing, liked, and utterly and sadly generic. Boys should be respectable, girls should be likeable. And if you think that doesn't hold true through adulthood, just listen to the different adjectives used to describe the men and women of politics or even your workplace.<br /><br />That’s why I dug the Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart of yore. These women were too busy living to vie for our acceptance. Clinton (and I mean the pre-candidate Clinton) seemed to give a flying flip whether she was liked. Respected? Sure. Listened to? Absolutely. Liked? Whatev. Martha Stewart (and I mean the pre-prison Stewart) cut the chit-chat short and got to her work of running a business empire. She was trying to build a brand, not her Facebook friend list. (Sadly, both women have faced the choice of irrelevancy or learning to adopt behavior more suited to The View. That's another topic for another blog.)<br /><br />As much as I may fancy myself otherwise, a Hillary or Martha I am not. I’ve taken strides since my early twenties, back when I found it a talent to meld into any number of groups; however I still experience moments of wanting to be liked by all. This is not a reasonable or admirable goal. Despite being generally amiable, social, and up for a laugh, I have personality traits that prevent universal friendship, as does anyone with a hint of personality or self awareness. Yet appallingly I’ve realized that I have the nerve to become offended when someone I don’t even like doesn’t like me back. I know that popularity is a poor indicator of substance, as indicated by Nicholas Sparks’ eternal presence on the bestseller lists, but despite everything I know to be true, it sometimes bugs the crap out of me not to be liked.<br /><br />When this gap emerges between who I claim to be and who I really can be, it’s an immediate indicator that I’ve fallen away from my center. That’s when I return to the Gospel of Didion (Joan Didion’s excellent essay, “On Self Respect”): “The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others--who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without… Character--the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life--is the source from which self-respect springs.”<br /><br />So there it is. Placing value upon being liked is the cheap, knock-off version of respecting and liking oneself. The gap that appears in my psyche from time to time is merely an indicator that something is off elsewhere, and that something has everything to do with me and not with you. And although recognizing that the "official" versions of ourselves don't always match the real deal is not a fun exercise, it's a meaningful one nonetheless.<br /><br />But I really am a nice person. Really.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-31647240220277875482009-01-22T15:15:00.002-05:002009-03-10T14:17:44.356-04:001-20-20091-20-2009.<br /><br />This date has been a rallying cry for so many of us who have spent the last eight years as unwilling hostages in Bush country. The date was a promise of an end and, better yet, a promise of a beginning. I have to admit, though, that “1-20-2009!” became an empty phrase for me, akin to “Peace in the Mideast!” The concept sounded perfectly lovely, but it's nothing I ever really envisioned.<br /><br />But then on Tuesday, it really was 1-20-2009.<br /><br />I had gotten so used to hearing horrible news that anything seemed possible. If I woke up that morning to hear that Bush proclaimed himself Emperor-for-life and his first act was to arm children and tell them to hunt polar bears, I’d probably go about my day thinking, “Well, that sounds about right.” But no… millions of jubilant Americans filled DC. Obama was sworn in. Nobody blew anyone up. Bush flew home. Obama stayed. I felt like a kid whose parents just brought home a puppy: “You mean we can KEEP him???”<br /><br />I cried quite a bit. It was a thawing of cynicism, a realization that hope isn’t foolish. As the leaders filed into the Capitol, I looked at the forlorn-looking Bush and the wheelchair-bound Cheney and felt sorry for them. I thought how awkward it must be to be so widely despised, to give eight years of your life for failure, to… <span style="font-style: italic;">NO! NO! NO!</span> Reason slapped me in the face and reminded me that these are the men who defended torture, who spoke of global warming as a kooky conspiracy theory, who caused so much loss of life, nature, money, and morale. But for a moment, I was so touched by the day that I almost felt sorry for them. President Barack Obama made me drunk on hope.<br /><br />Although I’ve cast a worried eye at Obama since the election, I’m starting to see things fit together. No, he will not be my liberal kick-ass president. He won’t flip righties the bird and save the world while wearing a biodegradable cape and NPR t-shirt. The dude’s going to compromise with people I don‘t like. I worry about the effectiveness about someone who compromises with so much at stake, but yet I see the genius in it when I hear hard-core Republicans giving him a chance and seeming to genuinely hope for his success. Obama just might be a great American statesman. I haven’t seen this during my lifetime, and I’m rather confused about it.<br /><br />Or he might not be. He might fail, we might fall deeper into economic and international ruin, we might look back on this time as foolish and naive. Yet we really did have our 1-20-2009. I felt what it was like to listen to a president and feel proud, giddy, and hopeful, and I want to stay this way as long as possible. So here's to 1-20-2009 and beyond...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-49447980391184966072009-01-05T20:19:00.003-05:002009-03-10T14:17:44.356-04:00Change I Want To Believe InNow that Obama conquered the moderate and progressive vote, he seems to be making the odd choice of turning to those who went McCain’s way. He named Clinton to the Cabinet (yay!), but as Sec of State (huh?). Clinton’s biggest about-face came when she suddenly turned against her earlier strong support of a Palestinian state to the more politically savvy position of unflinching support of Israel. Naming a vehemently pro-Israel Sec of State right now seems like taking a note from the George W. Bush school of diplomacy.<br /><br />And why, pray tell, is Obama wavering on his earlier pledge to reverse the Bush tax cuts on the wealthy before their 2011 deadline? I’m hardly Paul Krugman here, but it seems as though we’re in desperate need of extra funds in this country and this is an obvious way to raise cash. Despite the hand-wringing over redistribution of wealth, this country has grown quite comfy with redistributing the wealth to the already wealthy. Step up, Obama, and make the wealthy pay what they should have been paying over the past eight years.<br /><br />Following a decisive national victory from voters who demanded big change seems an odd time for Obama to shift right. He needs to be the president we elected him to be: one who values diplomacy over fightin’ words, who returns to the middle- and lower-classes what is theirs. Perhaps he’s wavering, perhaps he’s managing expectations, or perhaps he’s putting unity over conviction. We can’t know yet. As I read <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/04/opinion/04rich.html?_r=1&em">Frank Rich’s editorial on President Bush</a> yesterday, I felt guilty for finding fault with Obama. We’ve spent eight years with an administration that defends legalized torture and logging in national parks with a straight face, and I’m finding qualms in a tax strategy? Yet it’s time to take our old standards of decency from that high shelf and dust them off. That isn’t to say Obama will be the messiah some make him out to be. Expectations for a second coming of FDR are rampant, and that scares me. We shouldn’t want FDR, but many of us do want that guy who gave the acceptance speech in Grant Park last November.<br /><br />So, Mr. President-Elect Obama, I’ll still be psyched to watch you sworn in on the 20th. I’m sure I’ll smile all day, and knowing me, probably cry a little as well. But along with the giant foam “Obama’s #1” finger I’ll raise will be a raised eyebrow, as I wait with healthy skepticism to see that promised change.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-5305985177890422912008-10-10T23:08:00.007-04:002009-03-10T14:17:44.357-04:00Voting McCain? Read this first.People who convince others to change their political views have all the effectiveness and likeability of those who aim for religious conversion. It’s clear that I’m voting for Obama, but I get that Obama is not for everyone. When people vote against Obama because they want us to continue our strategy in Iraq or because their income bracket means lower taxes with McCain, I can respect their vote while not sharing their views (or income bracket).<br /><br />However, I cannot respect a vote based on misunderstanding. The following are reasons I’ve heard people voting against Obama and why I believe these to be largely a result of bad information and bias.<br /><br /><strong>Reason 1: Obama will raise my taxes.</strong><br />If you make under $112,000, you’ll pay less taxes under Obama than McCain. If you make over $161,000, you’ll pay more. Obama’s tax increases on the wealthy are actually a reversal of the Bush tax breaks set to expire in 2011, returning the tax code to its Reagan state. Because of the Bush cuts, America now has the widest gap between rich and poor since the Great Depression. If you support the Bush tax code, McCain is your candidate. (For a nonpartisan breakdown on how the proposals would affect you, click <a href="http://money.cnn.com/2008/06/11/news/economy/candidates_taxproposals_tpc/index.htm">here</a>.)<br /><br /><strong>Reason 2: Obama lacks experience.<br /></strong>I concede this as the most valid criticism of the Obama candidacy. I don’t believe, however, that experience equals effectiveness. George W. Bush has had eight years of presidential experience; enough said. McCain has had an effective tenure in the Senate, but he’s shown himself to be a victim of his bad temper and one who rewards yes-men while shunning any who disagree. Such a man hasn’t served us well these past eight years. I’ll turn to conservative columnist George Will, who blew me away with <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/09/22/AR2008092202583.html">this column</a>:<br />“It is arguable that, because of his inexperience, Obama is not ready for the presidency. It is arguable that McCain, because of his boiling moralism and bottomless reservoir of certitudes, is not suited to the presidency. Unreadiness can be corrected, although perhaps at great cost, by experience. Can a dismaying temperament be fixed?” <em>McCain Loses His Head</em>, WaPo, 9/23/08<br /><br /><strong>Reason 3: I’m a Republican/Libertarian. I favor small government.</strong><br />I’m the wrong person to defend this, as I’m not a fan of minimizing government. I hear people calling universal healthcare socialistic and I recall that Medicare was opposed on the same grounds. I hear people calling for no taxes whatsoever, and I wonder who would pay for roads or public schools. So to break away from my bias, I’ll turn again to conservative George Will:<br />“The political left always aims to expand the permeation of economic life by politics. Today, the efficient means to that end is government control of capital. So, is not McCain's party now conducting the most leftist administration in American history? The New Deal never acted so precipitously on such a scale… Does McCain have qualms about this, or only quarrels?” <em>McCain Loses His Head</em>, WaPo, 9/23/08<br /><br /><strong>Reason 4: I don't vote Democrat because I oppose abortion.<br /></strong>The next president will likely select a Supreme Court justice. With a Court that currently has four justices opposed to <em>Roe v. Wade</em>, this would spell doom to reproductive freedom in America. Please note: Supporting <em>Roe v. Wade</em> does not mean supporting abortion as quick-stop birth control. Almost all of us can agree that the goal is to minimize the need for abortion via sex education and affordable birth control, both of which are shunned by McCain and soon-to-be-grandma Palin. Obama has stated his commitment to age-appropriate sex education, prevention of unintended pregnancies, and access to legal and safe abortions for those who need them.<br /><br />My criticism of many anti-choice voters is that their concern for human welfare largely ends when one leaves the womb. For those who oppose Obama because they respect life, I’d like to ask them:<br /><br />• What about the lives of soldiers and Marines in Iraq who are dying for a war waged on very precarious grounds and still lacks an exit strategy? McCain wants to keep them fighting.<br />• What about the lives of the sick who are unable to obtain health insurance because they have a pre-existing condition? The McCain proposal does nothing to help them.<br />• What about the uninsureds who fill ERs with illnesses that could have been avoided with preventative care or been handled by a GP? There is a hidden tax on all of us when uninsureds turn to the ER for care, leaving the tab for taxpayers.<br />• What about prisoners in Guantanamo Bay who are denied legal representation by their American captors? Haven't we prided ourselves in how we treat our friends AND enemies?<br /><br />Being "pro-life" should mean protecting and defending the lives and health of those around us.<br /><br /><strong>Reason 5: But Obama’s black and will likely be assassinated.<br /></strong>Holy crap, I actually heard this one and nearly lost all faith in humanity. For people with this amount of reason and logic, I beg of them to stay home and not vote at all. Ugh.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-13750380513560818352008-08-31T17:31:00.003-04:002009-09-22T19:32:20.062-04:00On Palin and FeminismThe selection of Palin as Republican VP nominee pulled me in several directions. As a Democrat, I was thrilled. (An inexperienced Alaskan governor known for ethical reform who is currently under investigation in an illegal firing? Are you serious?) McCain’s pick of someone whom he proudly proclaimed as an unknown within the Beltway completely discredited his criticism of his opponent as inexperienced. The idea of a Biden-Palin debate gave me a maniacal laugh and a Mr. Burns-esque proclamation of, "Eeeeex-cellent."<br /><br />But as a feminist, the selection of Palin left me angered and embarrassed. It didn’t anger me so much for her socially conservative views; although they are far from my own, they make sense for McCain’s running mate. The selection of Palin angered me because she is so ill-prepared for the job. This 44-year-old former beauty queen with a BS in journalism became a television sports reporter upon graduation. She began in the city council of Wasilla, a town of 6,000, and worked her way up to mayor, where she was two years ago. She’s now spent a year and a half as governor of Alaska. Good for her. A good start to a political career. <em>But good enough to be president?<br /></em><br />This unknown and largely untested woman with not a day of foreign policy experience would serve as VP under a man in his 70s with recurrent cancer. She'd be a heartbeat away from leading a country mired in economic recession and two wars (perhaps three or four, if McCain gets elected). McCain would rather pander for the female vote than to select someone who would effectively manage this country upon his death. It speaks volumes about his judgment.<br /><br />And it speaks volumes about his views on women. He seems to believe that women will support a candidate not based upon record, but upon the ever-important issue of who has a hoo-hoo or a wee-wee. McCain seems to bank upon we Clinton supporters bailing Obama to support the new potential hoo-hoo in office -- never mind that her meager record stands in opposition to the core values Clinton represents. Having my rights taken away by a woman leaves me no more empowered.<br /><br />Talking heads ponder how a Republican female nominee will affect the feminist vote. I’ll fill you in on a secret: we feminists don’t meet in secret weekly meetings to determine the choices we will make en masse. This will be largely made up of individual decisions across the country, and this is my own.<br /><br />As a feminist, I’m embarrassed that the first Republican female name on the presidential ballot will be an utterly inexperienced candidate who was chosen for her gender, not her record.<br /><br />As a feminist, I’ll stick with the candidate promoting universal healthcare, reproductive rights, equal pay, increased funding to education, and an end to the Iraq War – issues that impact women’s public and private roles.<br /><br />As a feminist, the past few days have left me wanting to take a long nap.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-13462181708657467742008-07-30T21:36:00.004-04:002008-07-31T11:16:41.106-04:00The Non-Traditional StudentAs an undergrad, few things annoyed me more than sharing a class with a “non-traditional student.” I figured the term was a nice way of saying, “too old to be here,” which I supposed was kind, supposing non-traditional students were probably sensitive to other concerns, like their crows’ feet, trick knees, and impending deaths. Nontraditional students usually popped up in evening courses, and if you didn’t spot them by their old person smell, you could identify them by the way they inhabited the front row and kept their hands raised. They were obnoxious, annoying. They were <em>those</em> students who would ask an in-depth question five minutes before class would end. We traditional students would stare daggers into their gray little heads during the four extra minutes we were detained in class. The only reason we took once-a-week evening classes was to make the rest of our weeks easier, not to actually learn at night.<br /><br />Fast forward ten years, and the predictable occurred. It began easily enough as I discussed my course of study with my grad school advisor. She said that my time in school wasn’t very long considering I was (wait for it…) <em>a non-traditional student</em>. Ho-leeeee crap. Me??? Until then, I convinced myself that I fit right in, that a 31-year-old full-time working professional blended right in with the 23-year-olds who have never written a resume and still live with Mom. Yet it became so horribly clear that I had “non-traditional student” written all over me: I’m an overeager student who sits towards the front of the class and who is no stranger to the end-of-class question.<br /><br />I’ve since realized that the difference between traditional students and nontraditional students is largely a matter of math. While traditional students may deal with student loans, those are checks that magically appear with no concept of how hard one must work to repay them. We nontraditional students, however, have done our share of work and can do the math. I can name countless other ways I could spend the $20,000 I’m forking over for this degree. I’ve calculated that each night’s class costs approximately $90 and how much I have to work at a job I don’t enjoy in order to earn the privilege to attend each one. Younger students ask before class if I’ve finished the reading; you’re damn right I have. And if I have a question to ask at 9:14 p.m., you’re going to hear it.<br /><br />I’ve begun to detest traditional students with the same ire that I once reserved for the nontraditional ones. They whine about having no time to write papers, but then say things like, “Oh my god, do you watch <em>Rock of Love</em>? I’m, like, obsessed with that show.” I haven’t had the time or opportunity to be, like, obsessed with any show during the past few years. I don’t know what <em>Rock of Love</em> is, who’s in it, or what channel it’s on. Young students bemoan all-nighters and how they, “seriously, have NO time at all,” but then discuss <em>Grey’s Anatomy</em> with more insight than they use to discuss assigned books in class.<br /><br />And I know I sound like someone’s grumpy old Depression-era grandparent, bemoaning the cost of bread and decrying the state of kids today. But perhaps we’ve judged those cantankerous old souls too quickly. For if I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that those whom we judge might very well be those whom we become. Ten years from now, I just might be standing on my front step, hoisting a rake and yelling at kids to get off my lawn. Ten years after that, I’ll likely have a drawer full of wrapping paper I’ve carefully saved after each holiday. Because if I can become an ornery old non-traditional student, anything is possible.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-6689017416626806242008-07-02T14:19:00.002-04:002008-07-02T14:21:14.354-04:00Passport? Check. Money for outrageous airfares? No check.Another video. Another realization that I need to get my butt to more places.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zlfKdbWwruY&hl=en"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zlfKdbWwruY&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18871008.post-64141113771314146172008-06-18T08:32:00.007-04:002008-07-30T21:53:30.433-04:00If It's Sunday, It's Meet the Press.Around my office, Monday morning means several things. It means wasting time writing status reports. It means pretending to review new numbers that were crunched from the week before. And it also means the after-action report that my boss and I share over the previous day’s <em>Meet the Press</em>.<br /><br />Although <em>Meet the Press</em> is watched by a good deal of the DC area, I only know my boss and I to be the non-politicos who have a near-obsession with the show. We’re one step away from becoming <em>Meet the Press</em> groupies. My coworkers referred to Tim Russert as my boyfriend, bemused over how the joking would make me giggle and blush. Many Monday mornings, my boss would call and we’d passionately discuss that week’s show and guests.<br /><br />The call she made last Friday afternoon was much different. The phone rang shortly before 4, just when I learned of Tim Russert’s death. “Are you seeing this?” she asked. “Ugh. This sucks. Bad,” I said, losing any shred of professional demeanor. We sat at our respective computers, staring at our CNN Breaking News banners, willing them to change. It’s not often that a stranger’s death can make such a personal impact.<br /><br />I met Tim Russert at a book signing in 2004. I think I scared him. Suffice it to say, he was unaccustomed to such enthusiasm on his book tour. During the reading, I grinned like Charlie Brown in the presence of the little red-haired girl and cherished my front row-center seat as if I were at a Stones concert. When Tim Russert signed my book, I gushed about how much I admired him and enjoyed his program. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUrOzClQImkb978Ac7wNJj4UydJxvTRo9sdOr8QWncGWFn6_RIdEviA2Q-oKqnDLZI-NPSmhJJjV3s1TuweWZSUU2XuCdZUVjah07QOh0_t_NpU5Oj-rD3ZuPUQKNMGmvVcNR/s1600-h/tim&me.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213199767712802370" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUrOzClQImkb978Ac7wNJj4UydJxvTRo9sdOr8QWncGWFn6_RIdEviA2Q-oKqnDLZI-NPSmhJJjV3s1TuweWZSUU2XuCdZUVjah07QOh0_t_NpU5Oj-rD3ZuPUQKNMGmvVcNR/s200/tim&me.jpg" border="0" /></a>He was very gracious. I then asked him if he wouldn’t mind if I got a picture with him. His gratitude soon turned to wariness, and I realized that I just weirded out my news crush. But we got our picture, me and my kinda freaked-out hero. I brought it into work the next day. My boss taped it to her door.<br /><br />When I see the tributes being paid to Tim Russert, I get all the more angry that he died. He was a good one. We needed him. The style he gave to <em>Meet the Press</em> was more productive, civilized, and thorough than almost any other news show on television. Plus, he just seemed so damn nice. But the coverage is taking a turn that appalls me. What bothers me about the recent coverage of his death is the interrogation into matters of his health. His doctor has been on television all day, defending Russert as a “model patient” and insisting he enjoyed cycling. I hate that. It seems like whenever someone dies, we look for ways to prove to ourselves it won’t happen to us. If someone dies in a car crash, we want to know that they weren’t wearing a seat belt or that they were drunk. If someone dies of lung cancer, we need to know they smoked. The questions only seem to show that in a time of tragedy, we seek reassurance regarding our own survival. How horribly egotistical. We want death to make sense in a way that will allow us to use our wits to escape it. So when Tim Russert died of a heart attack, the questions quickly began: Did he watch what he ate? Did he exercise? Did he listen to his doctor? We seek explanations, reasons, causality. When death really comes down to a matter of this: someone is no longer with us; it’s sad.<br /><br />And in this case, we lost Tim Russert. And it sucks. Bad.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0