Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Oh, Ira, Don't Do It!!
I guess I'm a bit behind on my This American Life news. According to several sources, TAL is moving from Chicago to New York because of the television series. I must admit, part of the charm of this particular radio show is that it is midwestern. I know that folks in New York have some of the same concerns and daily aggravations that we have in flyover land, but it was reassuring to know that what concerns us here also concerns them. I guess just moving it to another place won't change it, but I fear that the television show will be the death of my favorite radio show.
Armed and Ready
Okay, I hate to sound like a mouthpiece for an institution that makes serious mistakes and ends up on the defensive. But, forewarned is forearmed, and you should know that what is about to follow is a bit of a defense of such an institution.
Some cops in New York shoot fifty rounds into a car holding three black men, including a man who was to be married later that day. The would-be groom dies and his two sidekicks are seriously wounded. A 92-year old woman in Atlanta feels the need to arm herself to answer the door to cops who then shoot her twice, killing her. A man in Oregon is tasered by police over twenty times and eventually dies. The coroner rules it a heart attack from the stress of the repeated shock from the tasers.
We are shocked and appalled by events such as these. As well we should be. But only because we can afford to be shocked and appalled. Only in a place where police violence relatively unaccepted can we freak out when it happens.
Most police officers in this country are good people. I don't blindly follow authority figures. I don't blindly accept that police officers have all the right answers and make all the right decisions. But they have tough jobs. They are placed in difficult situations in which decisions must be made quickly; they are placed in difficult situations in which instincts are often what leads them, not well thought out, rational decisions. In some ways it's actually shocking that every American city doesn't have several stories every month about police overstepping their bounds. Street bureaucrats gone wild. Let's make it a television show and call it Cops. Oh, wait.
On the other hand, because of these news stories, the stories about suicide bombs, insurgent killings, beheadings, and military torture coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan disappear below the fold of our newspapers. Our 30-second news bites on NPR are all about how the narc squad in New York is suspended, rather than about how dozens of beheaded bodies are found every single week in Iraq. This is a country the size of two big western states (let's say two Idahos). Dozens of people die in a horrible way. And instead we're worried about one guy who gets killed by some cops? Don't get me wrong. It's horrible. I feel awful for his family and his would-be bride. But I feel like the constant numbers coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan and Darfur and all those other places in turmoil desensitize us to their power. Six dead in Iraq. Oh, well. A dozen killed by a suicide bomb. Why don't they just leave?
But take it out of Iraq. Six dead in Minneapolis. A dozen killed by a suicide bomb in Tuscon. That would shock.
So, perhaps this isn't a defense of police in the United States. Maybe it's a indictment about the insensitive nature of the media. I don't know. It's just so frustrating to listen to people call in to Talk of the Nation (if my NPR junkie nature was not clear to you before now, it should be abundantly clear at this point) and complain about how horrible the police are. I scream at my radio. Do they know how good they have it? It's not perfect, but if we're arming people we've trained to kill, how can we expect perfect?
Instead, let's discuss how the media could better handle it so that we can get a better understanding of the death and slaughter happening in our world.
Some cops in New York shoot fifty rounds into a car holding three black men, including a man who was to be married later that day. The would-be groom dies and his two sidekicks are seriously wounded. A 92-year old woman in Atlanta feels the need to arm herself to answer the door to cops who then shoot her twice, killing her. A man in Oregon is tasered by police over twenty times and eventually dies. The coroner rules it a heart attack from the stress of the repeated shock from the tasers.
We are shocked and appalled by events such as these. As well we should be. But only because we can afford to be shocked and appalled. Only in a place where police violence relatively unaccepted can we freak out when it happens.
Most police officers in this country are good people. I don't blindly follow authority figures. I don't blindly accept that police officers have all the right answers and make all the right decisions. But they have tough jobs. They are placed in difficult situations in which decisions must be made quickly; they are placed in difficult situations in which instincts are often what leads them, not well thought out, rational decisions. In some ways it's actually shocking that every American city doesn't have several stories every month about police overstepping their bounds. Street bureaucrats gone wild. Let's make it a television show and call it Cops. Oh, wait.
On the other hand, because of these news stories, the stories about suicide bombs, insurgent killings, beheadings, and military torture coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan disappear below the fold of our newspapers. Our 30-second news bites on NPR are all about how the narc squad in New York is suspended, rather than about how dozens of beheaded bodies are found every single week in Iraq. This is a country the size of two big western states (let's say two Idahos). Dozens of people die in a horrible way. And instead we're worried about one guy who gets killed by some cops? Don't get me wrong. It's horrible. I feel awful for his family and his would-be bride. But I feel like the constant numbers coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan and Darfur and all those other places in turmoil desensitize us to their power. Six dead in Iraq. Oh, well. A dozen killed by a suicide bomb. Why don't they just leave?
But take it out of Iraq. Six dead in Minneapolis. A dozen killed by a suicide bomb in Tuscon. That would shock.
So, perhaps this isn't a defense of police in the United States. Maybe it's a indictment about the insensitive nature of the media. I don't know. It's just so frustrating to listen to people call in to Talk of the Nation (if my NPR junkie nature was not clear to you before now, it should be abundantly clear at this point) and complain about how horrible the police are. I scream at my radio. Do they know how good they have it? It's not perfect, but if we're arming people we've trained to kill, how can we expect perfect?
Instead, let's discuss how the media could better handle it so that we can get a better understanding of the death and slaughter happening in our world.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Bacon Wars
When I wake up in the morning, I need about an hour to become normal. And by normal I mean not extremely sensitive to smells and sounds. If I wake up to a loud noise, not only does my heart race, like a normal person, but I swing into a full panic attack. Furthermore, if the smell of cooking meat in the morning is what wakes me, I will wake up and run to the bathroom to puke. The smell of meat in the morning is like the smell of a recycling plant, the smell of a garbage can next to a wharf, the smell of a sewage treatment center, the smell of the men’s room in a bar. You get it. It’s bad. I had a roommate once in DC who thought that eating bacon every fucking morning was a good thing. I think there were only two or three mornings that I didn’t vomit while I lived in DC. After I’ve been awake about an hour, it’s fine. But until then, you’ll find me staying far away from Bob Evans.
So my roommates have decided that bacon in the morning is a good thing. Apparently they bought a huge rasher of bacon at Costco. But it makes me sick. Really sick. I honestly could not remember the last time I had puked until last weekend, when they made bacon in the morning. I had warned them, repeatedly, that if they wanted to make bacon, they should warn me the night before so I could wake up with that one hour window. This warning was not heeded and they were forced to listen to me coughing, gagging, and other assorted icky things in the bathroom.
So then ANOTHER roommate, not one of the ones who made the foul pig in the morning, suggested that I have a lot of sensory issues that make it quite possible that I am autistic. Hee. Okay, I’m not autistic, but here are some of my sensory issues.
1) Cotton balls. I can’t touch them. They squeak. And they feel all weird. Ditto for velvet. And corduroy. As a child, I would only wear synthetic fibers from the age of seven to about twelve. I was a polyester queen.
2) The smell thing in the morning. Enough said. (Just to add, this is why all of my bathroom products are as scent-less as I can find. Imagine being a woman trying to find a body wash with no scent. It’s hard to be me sometimes.)
3) I can’t eat in the dark. Especially in the dark in front of a television. The flickering. The noise. I guess I think Freddie’s gonna come get me. (One of my roommate’s can’t stand the sound of chewing. If someone’s eating, she insists that either the tv or radio be on. Even if it’s her. So I don’t think the not eating in the dark thing is that bad.)
4) Okay, this is one that isn’t as bad as it used to be. The strangers touching me thing. I hate it when strangers touch me. Hate it. I start to panic. And the hyperventilating is bad. But since I’m now a mass transit aficionado, this little sensory thing isn’t as bad as it used to be. I don’t go out of my way to touch random people, but if they brush against me, I don’t freak out.
5) I don’t have many weird taste issues, but texture stuff is totally fair game. I can’t eat cold bread because it changes the texture of the bread. When I first moved into my house, the cat would get into my food cupboard (he’s stupid about everything except how to get to food) and eat my bread. My roommates suggested I put the bread in the fridge and I stared at them in horror. I don’t eat cold bread. It’s gross. Peas have that weird texture, too. I don’t eat them.
6) Baby products don’t smell nice on anyone but babies. The smell of baby powder kind of makes me gag. Biker Boy recently tried out a perfume (he’s trying to find a signature scent) and told me it smelled like baby powder and sure enough, it did. I made him go wash his wrist. Likewise, baby oil should be limited to infants. Johnson and Johnson would be a horrible place for me to work
So my roommates have decided that bacon in the morning is a good thing. Apparently they bought a huge rasher of bacon at Costco. But it makes me sick. Really sick. I honestly could not remember the last time I had puked until last weekend, when they made bacon in the morning. I had warned them, repeatedly, that if they wanted to make bacon, they should warn me the night before so I could wake up with that one hour window. This warning was not heeded and they were forced to listen to me coughing, gagging, and other assorted icky things in the bathroom.
So then ANOTHER roommate, not one of the ones who made the foul pig in the morning, suggested that I have a lot of sensory issues that make it quite possible that I am autistic. Hee. Okay, I’m not autistic, but here are some of my sensory issues.
1) Cotton balls. I can’t touch them. They squeak. And they feel all weird. Ditto for velvet. And corduroy. As a child, I would only wear synthetic fibers from the age of seven to about twelve. I was a polyester queen.
2) The smell thing in the morning. Enough said. (Just to add, this is why all of my bathroom products are as scent-less as I can find. Imagine being a woman trying to find a body wash with no scent. It’s hard to be me sometimes.)
3) I can’t eat in the dark. Especially in the dark in front of a television. The flickering. The noise. I guess I think Freddie’s gonna come get me. (One of my roommate’s can’t stand the sound of chewing. If someone’s eating, she insists that either the tv or radio be on. Even if it’s her. So I don’t think the not eating in the dark thing is that bad.)
4) Okay, this is one that isn’t as bad as it used to be. The strangers touching me thing. I hate it when strangers touch me. Hate it. I start to panic. And the hyperventilating is bad. But since I’m now a mass transit aficionado, this little sensory thing isn’t as bad as it used to be. I don’t go out of my way to touch random people, but if they brush against me, I don’t freak out.
5) I don’t have many weird taste issues, but texture stuff is totally fair game. I can’t eat cold bread because it changes the texture of the bread. When I first moved into my house, the cat would get into my food cupboard (he’s stupid about everything except how to get to food) and eat my bread. My roommates suggested I put the bread in the fridge and I stared at them in horror. I don’t eat cold bread. It’s gross. Peas have that weird texture, too. I don’t eat them.
6) Baby products don’t smell nice on anyone but babies. The smell of baby powder kind of makes me gag. Biker Boy recently tried out a perfume (he’s trying to find a signature scent) and told me it smelled like baby powder and sure enough, it did. I made him go wash his wrist. Likewise, baby oil should be limited to infants. Johnson and Johnson would be a horrible place for me to work
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Blatant Attempts to Justify My Existence
BB: Why are you stressed out?
NGS: Didn’t get any work done on my dissertation today.
BB: Why didn’t you get work done?
NGS: I’m stressed out.
BB: But why are you stressed?
NGS: Dissertation stuff.
BB: Ummm…
_________________________________________________________
NGS: (intently watching Laguna Beach on MTV)
Roommate: (walking in, sitting on the couch next to me) What are you watching?
NGS: Laguna Beach. Shut up. It’s great. They’re beautiful. They’re young.
Roommate: (staring at the tv, staring at me staring at the tv) What is this?
NGS: Look at how pretty they are. That’s Tessa. She’s friends with Rocky. Who is trying to be friends with Breanna again, although I don’t know why because Breanna is ugly and Tessa and Rocky are not. And Tessa likes Rocky’s boyfriend. But I don’t know how I feel about them dating when Alex is away at college. But why are Cameron (that’s him – the ugly one) and Cami popular? Some things are mysterious. And Chase. Tessa loves Chase. But Chase is going away. To be a rock star.
They’re so pretty. Look at that perfectly manicured hand. It must take a lot of time for them to look like that. But their problems - they are problems that I had in high school. Boys. Friends graduating. Boys. And, you know, the giant SUV getting a nick in it.
Roommate: Ummm…what?
NGS: It’s Laguna Beach. I only watch two trashy shows. This is one.
Roommate: Who is - ?
NGS: Ssshhhh….what is Alex saying to Rocky?
Roommate: (sighs and waits until commercial) Why do you do this?
NGS: I can’t watch Gilmore Girls or America’s Next Top Model. Since Top Chef isn’t nearly enough trash for me, I have substituted this show in for one of the others.
Roommate: Okay, I’m going to go away from you now, crazy person.
_______________________________________________________
Sprint Guy: Can I help you?
NGS: I dropped my phone into water.
Sprint Guy: Okay, so are you going to get a new one today?
NGS: Yes. My current phone will not stop vibrating once you put the battery in. If you turn it on, it vibrates and vibrates and won’t stop.
Sprint Guy: Can I see it?
NGS: Of course. (Hands him the toilet water phone. He didn’t ask what kind of water it had been dropped into.)
Sprint Guy: Okay, well, here are the models that meet….holy cow, you’re right!! It won’t stop. Hey guys (calls over two other salesmen), look at this phone!
NGS: I’m happy to know my trouble entertain the shop today.
NGS: Didn’t get any work done on my dissertation today.
BB: Why didn’t you get work done?
NGS: I’m stressed out.
BB: But why are you stressed?
NGS: Dissertation stuff.
BB: Ummm…
_________________________________________________________
NGS: (intently watching Laguna Beach on MTV)
Roommate: (walking in, sitting on the couch next to me) What are you watching?
NGS: Laguna Beach. Shut up. It’s great. They’re beautiful. They’re young.
Roommate: (staring at the tv, staring at me staring at the tv) What is this?
NGS: Look at how pretty they are. That’s Tessa. She’s friends with Rocky. Who is trying to be friends with Breanna again, although I don’t know why because Breanna is ugly and Tessa and Rocky are not. And Tessa likes Rocky’s boyfriend. But I don’t know how I feel about them dating when Alex is away at college. But why are Cameron (that’s him – the ugly one) and Cami popular? Some things are mysterious. And Chase. Tessa loves Chase. But Chase is going away. To be a rock star.
They’re so pretty. Look at that perfectly manicured hand. It must take a lot of time for them to look like that. But their problems - they are problems that I had in high school. Boys. Friends graduating. Boys. And, you know, the giant SUV getting a nick in it.
Roommate: Ummm…what?
NGS: It’s Laguna Beach. I only watch two trashy shows. This is one.
Roommate: Who is - ?
NGS: Ssshhhh….what is Alex saying to Rocky?
Roommate: (sighs and waits until commercial) Why do you do this?
NGS: I can’t watch Gilmore Girls or America’s Next Top Model. Since Top Chef isn’t nearly enough trash for me, I have substituted this show in for one of the others.
Roommate: Okay, I’m going to go away from you now, crazy person.
_______________________________________________________
Sprint Guy: Can I help you?
NGS: I dropped my phone into water.
Sprint Guy: Okay, so are you going to get a new one today?
NGS: Yes. My current phone will not stop vibrating once you put the battery in. If you turn it on, it vibrates and vibrates and won’t stop.
Sprint Guy: Can I see it?
NGS: Of course. (Hands him the toilet water phone. He didn’t ask what kind of water it had been dropped into.)
Sprint Guy: Okay, well, here are the models that meet….holy cow, you’re right!! It won’t stop. Hey guys (calls over two other salesmen), look at this phone!
NGS: I’m happy to know my trouble entertain the shop today.
A Nightmare Comes True
I was in a public restroom when I dropped my cell phone right into the toilet. It was like a bad, bad, bad comedy sketch. I swore. I danced around in grossness. I used Lysol on both the phone and my hands. I lied to the guy at the store that I dropped it into a sink. And, I lost everyone's phone number.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
The Boy Took This Picture
He entitled it,"my girlfriend being my girlfriend." It's a wonder he puts up with crap like this in public.
To wit:
Perhaps I should get a new pose? (Try not to think about how I'm wearing the same shirt in different colors in two of those pictures. Clearly I'm not a creative shopper for all the time I spend at the mall.)
To wit:
Perhaps I should get a new pose? (Try not to think about how I'm wearing the same shirt in different colors in two of those pictures. Clearly I'm not a creative shopper for all the time I spend at the mall.)
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Maybe I'll Go Back
The video "Believe" by Brooks and Dunn is amazing. I almost cried. Brooks and Dunn make me think that maybe I can go back to country music. If only Carrie Underwood weren't there.
Friday, November 10, 2006
At A Crossroad
I found myself today at a store we shall call, for the sake of convenience, M&H. I was there because shopping is cathartic and when you are overwhelmed by the world, the best place to go is the Mall of America on a Friday afternoon. Or perhaps it is not the best place to go for others, but as a devout shopper, I found it to be a great release.
So, I was at M&H. There is this HAT there. It is purple and sparkly and costs $4.90. This is the second time I have gone into this particularly store in two weeks and picked up the hat, squealed, and walked around holding it in my hands, content with the fact that I was going to buy this hat and wear it always. And for the second time in two weeks, I walked out of the store with nothing, not even that gorgeous purple hat that only costs $4.90. You're probably asking yourself, "Why? It's purple! It's sparkly! You need that hat!" Well, the truth is that the line at M&H was simply too long. I saw the line that reminded me of a line to board a roller coaster at Cedar Point, and I decided that of the two choices presented to me, I'd rather not hyperventilate than buy the purple hat.
Do not be alarmed, my friends. I was able to snag some goodies from clearanced items at other stores. Fall merchandise is on sale and I did well. But there is no purple hat.
On the way out of the mall, I passed by a store where they were selling caramel apples. The fellow there, a consummate salesperson, convinced me that Biker Boy would love me forever if I purchased a caramel apple for my wonderful boyfriend. I hemmed, I hawed, and then I paid four dollars for an apple covered in caramel. Try really hard not to think about how I could have made a caramel apple for under $1, and think about how sweet it was of me to think of my boyfriend instead of the purple hat!!
UPDATE: This is an email I ended up sending the caramel apple people:
"On November 10, I was at your store in the Mall of America around 4:30-5. A very nice young man convinced me to buy a caramel apple as a present for my boyfriend. He was very charming and convinced to me buy this apple because of its freshness. I bought the apple because my boyfriend has dietary restrictions that prevent him from eating a lot of foods, but caramel apples are usually safe. I was very sad, then, when I got home and peeled the paper off of the apple and noticed a powdery substance keeping the apple from sticking to the paper on the bottom. Because I didn't know what the substance was (flour? sugar?), I didn't know if it would be safe for my boyfriend to eat.
I would highly recommend that you make sure people know that this powdery substance exists before they purchase the product and what the substance is. Or, as an alternative, package the product in wax paper, so you don't have to use the powdery substance at all.
I'm sorry if this sounds really picky, but we ended up throwing away the apple and the entire situation could have been avoided if I had known about all the ingredients."
I can't believe I've become this person.
So, I was at M&H. There is this HAT there. It is purple and sparkly and costs $4.90. This is the second time I have gone into this particularly store in two weeks and picked up the hat, squealed, and walked around holding it in my hands, content with the fact that I was going to buy this hat and wear it always. And for the second time in two weeks, I walked out of the store with nothing, not even that gorgeous purple hat that only costs $4.90. You're probably asking yourself, "Why? It's purple! It's sparkly! You need that hat!" Well, the truth is that the line at M&H was simply too long. I saw the line that reminded me of a line to board a roller coaster at Cedar Point, and I decided that of the two choices presented to me, I'd rather not hyperventilate than buy the purple hat.
Do not be alarmed, my friends. I was able to snag some goodies from clearanced items at other stores. Fall merchandise is on sale and I did well. But there is no purple hat.
On the way out of the mall, I passed by a store where they were selling caramel apples. The fellow there, a consummate salesperson, convinced me that Biker Boy would love me forever if I purchased a caramel apple for my wonderful boyfriend. I hemmed, I hawed, and then I paid four dollars for an apple covered in caramel. Try really hard not to think about how I could have made a caramel apple for under $1, and think about how sweet it was of me to think of my boyfriend instead of the purple hat!!
UPDATE: This is an email I ended up sending the caramel apple people:
"On November 10, I was at your store in the Mall of America around 4:30-5. A very nice young man convinced me to buy a caramel apple as a present for my boyfriend. He was very charming and convinced to me buy this apple because of its freshness. I bought the apple because my boyfriend has dietary restrictions that prevent him from eating a lot of foods, but caramel apples are usually safe. I was very sad, then, when I got home and peeled the paper off of the apple and noticed a powdery substance keeping the apple from sticking to the paper on the bottom. Because I didn't know what the substance was (flour? sugar?), I didn't know if it would be safe for my boyfriend to eat.
I would highly recommend that you make sure people know that this powdery substance exists before they purchase the product and what the substance is. Or, as an alternative, package the product in wax paper, so you don't have to use the powdery substance at all.
I'm sorry if this sounds really picky, but we ended up throwing away the apple and the entire situation could have been avoided if I had known about all the ingredients."
I can't believe I've become this person.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
A Strange Time for Friendship
I randomly received an email from an-exboyfriend last week. The email basically said that elections were becoming too expensive and negative ads were bad and couldn't I fix it? Besides the incredibly giant leap in understanding of what I do for a living, there were so many problems inherent in the email, it took all of my willpower not to email him back, "Why are you a dumbass?"
Instead, I replied calmly about the disagreement between political scientist on the usefulness of negative ads. Personally, I prefer a good attack ad to one that shows a would-be representative surrounded by her kids and dogs, telling us how important family is to her. At least negative ads let us know, in a blunt sort of measure, where candidates stand on some issues. As opposed to no issues, like those happy ads. In addition, since this is the day trader, real estate tycoon ex-boyfriend (does everyone have one of those in their past?), I asked him why he was so upset since this just put money in the economy, which is good, right? And why does he care anyway, since he's not a citizen of the United States?
Then, he emails me back. About voting machines. Asking why I can't fix it.
And...what the fuck? Who does he think I am? Why doesn't he fix it? He certainly has more money and power than this wee grad student from Minnesota.
I'm waiting for the next email to ask me to fix the electoral college. Or the war in Iraq. Or something equally impossible.
Instead, I replied calmly about the disagreement between political scientist on the usefulness of negative ads. Personally, I prefer a good attack ad to one that shows a would-be representative surrounded by her kids and dogs, telling us how important family is to her. At least negative ads let us know, in a blunt sort of measure, where candidates stand on some issues. As opposed to no issues, like those happy ads. In addition, since this is the day trader, real estate tycoon ex-boyfriend (does everyone have one of those in their past?), I asked him why he was so upset since this just put money in the economy, which is good, right? And why does he care anyway, since he's not a citizen of the United States?
Then, he emails me back. About voting machines. Asking why I can't fix it.
And...what the fuck? Who does he think I am? Why doesn't he fix it? He certainly has more money and power than this wee grad student from Minnesota.
I'm waiting for the next email to ask me to fix the electoral college. Or the war in Iraq. Or something equally impossible.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Pursuit of a different sort
Okay, I promise this is the last time I will mention this, but I am writing this on a laptop. In bed. Isn't that awesome?
Back to your regularly scheduled post. I had dated Biker Boy for about six months before I went to meet his family. BB is from a family of five children. For me, a person with one sister who barely squeaks, this was an overwhelming experience. All of his siblings, their significant others, BB's parents, BB's grandparents, and let's not even discuss the extended family of aunts and uncles - this was terrrifying for me. They are lovely people and I do enjoy them and all of their quirky family dynamics, but the first time I met them, I was really intimidated.
It was his older sister's wedding. That was the occasion for which we were visiting Iowa for the first time. Two nights before the wedding, Trivial Pursuit came out. Apparently, Biker Boy's family is filled with Trival Pursuit fanatics. They may take their trivia games a bit more seriously than the rest of the world. During this game, after dating for six months and having known BB for years, I met a new Biker Boy.
The trash talking Biker Boy.
I guess I knew that BB was competitive, but I didn't realize how competitive. He talked big, he talked dirty, he gloated when we won, and pouted when the other team did well. I was, I must admit, a bit shocked. It was fortunate we were on the same team, or I think the words coming out of his mouth may have made me cry. Let's be clear here. I am so uncompetitive. I don't care who wins games. It's about the experience. It's about the group dynamics. It's about enjoying the activity, be it a physical activity or a mental activity. It's about enjoying your companions. Again, with just me and my sister, we never actually kept score in games. This entire concept of antagonizing your opponents was foreign to me.
Let's flash forward to many months later. A normal date night for me and Biker Boy involves a walk around the lake; watching a movie, during which we demolish a bag of microwave popcorn and I inevitably fall asleep; and cuddling under this huge fleece blanket that is so unnecessary that BB almost always ends up tossing it across the room in a fit of pique. Last night, we came back from a walk around the lake (it is unseasonably warm - yay! Minnesota weather), we sat down on the couch, and Biker Boy asked me what I wanted to do with our night. Now, the night before we had actually watched a movie, so I didn't want to have anything to do with that for another night. So, without thinking, I said, rather stupidly, "let's play cards."
And so we played games. I was consistently walloped by Biker Boy and I consistently heard about it. He never shut up. It's so not in his normal character that by the end of the night, I was purposefully losing just so I could hear what shocking things would come out of his mouth. It was brilliant!! And hilarious. He couldn't understand why I was laughing at him and this further antagonized him. Yay for trash talking Biker Boy!!!
Back to your regularly scheduled post. I had dated Biker Boy for about six months before I went to meet his family. BB is from a family of five children. For me, a person with one sister who barely squeaks, this was an overwhelming experience. All of his siblings, their significant others, BB's parents, BB's grandparents, and let's not even discuss the extended family of aunts and uncles - this was terrrifying for me. They are lovely people and I do enjoy them and all of their quirky family dynamics, but the first time I met them, I was really intimidated.
It was his older sister's wedding. That was the occasion for which we were visiting Iowa for the first time. Two nights before the wedding, Trivial Pursuit came out. Apparently, Biker Boy's family is filled with Trival Pursuit fanatics. They may take their trivia games a bit more seriously than the rest of the world. During this game, after dating for six months and having known BB for years, I met a new Biker Boy.
The trash talking Biker Boy.
I guess I knew that BB was competitive, but I didn't realize how competitive. He talked big, he talked dirty, he gloated when we won, and pouted when the other team did well. I was, I must admit, a bit shocked. It was fortunate we were on the same team, or I think the words coming out of his mouth may have made me cry. Let's be clear here. I am so uncompetitive. I don't care who wins games. It's about the experience. It's about the group dynamics. It's about enjoying the activity, be it a physical activity or a mental activity. It's about enjoying your companions. Again, with just me and my sister, we never actually kept score in games. This entire concept of antagonizing your opponents was foreign to me.
Let's flash forward to many months later. A normal date night for me and Biker Boy involves a walk around the lake; watching a movie, during which we demolish a bag of microwave popcorn and I inevitably fall asleep; and cuddling under this huge fleece blanket that is so unnecessary that BB almost always ends up tossing it across the room in a fit of pique. Last night, we came back from a walk around the lake (it is unseasonably warm - yay! Minnesota weather), we sat down on the couch, and Biker Boy asked me what I wanted to do with our night. Now, the night before we had actually watched a movie, so I didn't want to have anything to do with that for another night. So, without thinking, I said, rather stupidly, "let's play cards."
And so we played games. I was consistently walloped by Biker Boy and I consistently heard about it. He never shut up. It's so not in his normal character that by the end of the night, I was purposefully losing just so I could hear what shocking things would come out of his mouth. It was brilliant!! And hilarious. He couldn't understand why I was laughing at him and this further antagonized him. Yay for trash talking Biker Boy!!!
Friday, November 03, 2006
I thought they were kidding!!
As a first year grad student, I often read articles and books for classes on the bus. One day, I was reading an article about women's electoral behavior soon after they received the right to vote (go Merriam and Gosnell!) while riding the bus and a strange event occurred. A man sat down right next to me. Now, it wasn't exactly a crowded a bus, but it wasn't completely strange that this man would sit down where he did. But then, when he grabbed my article (what would Merriam and Gosnell say?) and started to write his phone number on the back!, I considered this to be the strange event!! I was appalled. I mean, did he think I would call him after he attacked my article on the bus?!
I told this story to person after person. Men were always sort of mystified. "Do you often have men approach you on the bus?" (The answer is that it sort of depends on what bus you are travelling on.) Women, almost universally, countered with a story of their own. "One time, a man approached me, started asking me questions, and followed me when I got off at my stop." "I was dozing on the bus and when I woke up there was a man sleeping on my shoulder." "I found myself in the middle of a fistfight in the back of the bus with one guy who claimed the other guy had sullied my honor. I didn't know either of them."
Based on this (albeit small n) sample of horror tales from women in reference to the sometimes woes of mass transit, men would always say something about how it was a numbers game. Men would hit on lots and lots of women and eventually they would find someone who would give them attention. I honestly thought this was hogwash. I mean, what kind of woman would think, oh, I think this guy is lonely, I will give him my phone number? What kind of woman would be attracted to a guy so desperate that he is walking up to multiple strangers on a bus (I can understand thinking, hey, that girl I see on the bus every morning is cute - maybe I'll ask her out, but I can't understand thinking, hey, I'll never see these people again - maybe I'll ask every woman on the bus if she knows that I can get lost in her eyes)? Honestly. I just can't imagine anything good would come out of hookup from the bus.
Since my first year in grad school, I have perfected a routine on mass transit whereby no one dares to talk to me. I read, I grade, I look perfectly standoffish. I do NOT talk to strangers on the bus. (It may also have to do with the fact that I am older now that they don't talk to me as often, but I don't want to mess around with too many variables here. I look, mostly, the same.)
So here's the story.
Setting: Train 9:45 pm on a Thursday night, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Characters: NGS, drunk guy with a 40 in his hand, cute girl sitting next to window
NGS: (reading, reading, reading)
Drunk Guy: (moves across the mostly empty train to sit right next to NGS)
NGS: (reading, reading, ignoring drunk guy next to her, although he smells badly)
Drunk Guy: (quietly) Isp teya teallya?
NGS: (reading, reading, reading)
Drunk Guy: Isp teya teallya?
NGS: (reading, reading, reading)
Drunk Guy: (nudging NGS with elbow) Isp teya teallya?
NGS: What?
Drunk Guy: Isp teya teallya? (points at his wrist)
NGS: (digging around in purse for cell phone) It's 9:50. (goes back to reading)
30 seconds elapse
Drunk Guy: Isga tra toma amerika?
NGS: What?
Drunk Guy: Isga tra toma amerika? (points ahead)
NGS: Yes, this train goes to the Mall of America. (reading, reading, reading)
30 seconds elapse
Drunk Guy: Sorry to wattee. (walks across nearly empty train to sit down right next to this gorgeous young woman with long dark hair pulled back in a headband, who had been peacefully gazing out the window until the drunk guy sits next to her)
(Drunk Guy and Cute Girl start chatting. NGS pretends to read, but really keeps an eye out on the drunk guy, afraid he might do something even more appropriate than he has already done. Meanwhile, NGS starts collecting her stuff, getting ready to get off the train at the next stop. As she does this, she notices that the Drunk Guy and Cute Girl are kissing!!!!)
NGS: Oh, no!!! (horrified gasp)
So, what kind of woman actually talks to strange men on mass transit? A cute girl with her hair pulled back in a hairband. I guess it is all a numbers game.
I told this story to person after person. Men were always sort of mystified. "Do you often have men approach you on the bus?" (The answer is that it sort of depends on what bus you are travelling on.) Women, almost universally, countered with a story of their own. "One time, a man approached me, started asking me questions, and followed me when I got off at my stop." "I was dozing on the bus and when I woke up there was a man sleeping on my shoulder." "I found myself in the middle of a fistfight in the back of the bus with one guy who claimed the other guy had sullied my honor. I didn't know either of them."
Based on this (albeit small n) sample of horror tales from women in reference to the sometimes woes of mass transit, men would always say something about how it was a numbers game. Men would hit on lots and lots of women and eventually they would find someone who would give them attention. I honestly thought this was hogwash. I mean, what kind of woman would think, oh, I think this guy is lonely, I will give him my phone number? What kind of woman would be attracted to a guy so desperate that he is walking up to multiple strangers on a bus (I can understand thinking, hey, that girl I see on the bus every morning is cute - maybe I'll ask her out, but I can't understand thinking, hey, I'll never see these people again - maybe I'll ask every woman on the bus if she knows that I can get lost in her eyes)? Honestly. I just can't imagine anything good would come out of hookup from the bus.
Since my first year in grad school, I have perfected a routine on mass transit whereby no one dares to talk to me. I read, I grade, I look perfectly standoffish. I do NOT talk to strangers on the bus. (It may also have to do with the fact that I am older now that they don't talk to me as often, but I don't want to mess around with too many variables here. I look, mostly, the same.)
So here's the story.
Setting: Train 9:45 pm on a Thursday night, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Characters: NGS, drunk guy with a 40 in his hand, cute girl sitting next to window
NGS: (reading, reading, reading)
Drunk Guy: (moves across the mostly empty train to sit right next to NGS)
NGS: (reading, reading, ignoring drunk guy next to her, although he smells badly)
Drunk Guy: (quietly) Isp teya teallya?
NGS: (reading, reading, reading)
Drunk Guy: Isp teya teallya?
NGS: (reading, reading, reading)
Drunk Guy: (nudging NGS with elbow) Isp teya teallya?
NGS: What?
Drunk Guy: Isp teya teallya? (points at his wrist)
NGS: (digging around in purse for cell phone) It's 9:50. (goes back to reading)
30 seconds elapse
Drunk Guy: Isga tra toma amerika?
NGS: What?
Drunk Guy: Isga tra toma amerika? (points ahead)
NGS: Yes, this train goes to the Mall of America. (reading, reading, reading)
30 seconds elapse
Drunk Guy: Sorry to wattee. (walks across nearly empty train to sit down right next to this gorgeous young woman with long dark hair pulled back in a headband, who had been peacefully gazing out the window until the drunk guy sits next to her)
(Drunk Guy and Cute Girl start chatting. NGS pretends to read, but really keeps an eye out on the drunk guy, afraid he might do something even more appropriate than he has already done. Meanwhile, NGS starts collecting her stuff, getting ready to get off the train at the next stop. As she does this, she notices that the Drunk Guy and Cute Girl are kissing!!!!)
NGS: Oh, no!!! (horrified gasp)
So, what kind of woman actually talks to strange men on mass transit? A cute girl with her hair pulled back in a hairband. I guess it is all a numbers game.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Snowball in South Minneapolis!!
Hi, this post is being brought to you by Snowball, my fancypants (fancy pants?) new computer. Fresh out of the box!! I'm sure I should be securing it with anti-virus software and other whatnots I know nothing about, but instead I am posting. Look!! Super fast. Super laptoppy!
Snowball and I are in love.
I promise I will now turn the fancypants (fancy pants?) computer off and bone up on computer security before again allowing Snowball to be on a wireless (my computer connects to the Internet wirelessly!) connection. I have become all that I want to hate.
Oh, and for those of you who are super concerned, the freezer is STILL NOT WORKING. Because how could you ask people who work at a store that may or may not rhyme with "Tears" to care about the six of us in our house who slave away all day and just want to be able to buy ice cream? How could you ask them to come and put the part in the fridge? You know they have busy lives!!
Snowball and I are in love.
I promise I will now turn the fancypants (fancy pants?) computer off and bone up on computer security before again allowing Snowball to be on a wireless (my computer connects to the Internet wirelessly!) connection. I have become all that I want to hate.
Oh, and for those of you who are super concerned, the freezer is STILL NOT WORKING. Because how could you ask people who work at a store that may or may not rhyme with "Tears" to care about the six of us in our house who slave away all day and just want to be able to buy ice cream? How could you ask them to come and put the part in the fridge? You know they have busy lives!!
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