Well, I'll be leaving you all alone for the next two weeks, as I travel the world and make you jealous. But this doesn't mean I won't leave you with a small pre-voyage souvenir. Oh, no. You'll need something to keep you amused for the next two weeks. This one's a two parter.
Part 1: My Cat Hates You. Laughed so hard I cried. Link via the comments section of The Knitting Curmudgeon.
Part 2: (Warning, Golden Girls reference ahead. Either you get it or you don't.) Picture it: Wisconsin, 2003. A young man, practicing martial arts, asks a young woman to take a digital picture of him kicking, to see how his form looks. The woman complies, but the light in the room isn't bright enough, so the pictures end up quite blurry. The young man likes the pictures, the young woman laughs at them, and they share a romantic evening together. That young woman was me. And that young man...... was Bruce Lee.
Or not.
For some reason I find these pictures incredibly hilarious. They remind me of this photo-sensitive screen they had at the children's museum I went to all the time growing up--if you timed it correctly, you could make an image of yourself with extra arms (or none).
So recently there was this essay that, in essence, says that men have become weak little wussies ever since women got the right to vote. Then there was this essay that roundly mocked the entirety of the other essay. Then there were comments, about both of them. Positive and negative.
I was mulling over this last night, when I realized that it wasn't that I disagreed with a lot of the points in the first essay--I appreciate people that are brave, thoughtful, true to themselves, hardworking, and who fight for the things they've decided are right. I strive to be one of those people every day, and am also often dissapointed by people I meet with no passion or unique thought in their head. And it does seem that this complacency has increased in the past 150 years and not the other way around (although of course I wasn't alive 150 years ago so I can't speak for the people who lived through the Civil War).
The thing I strongly disagree with is the idea that these are inherently masculine persuits, or as he says it "things Real Men do", and that women are somehow to blame for the apathy of a nation. Probably anyone who's read this site more than a few times could have guessed that I would find phrases like this insulting and offensive, since my ability to be a "Real Woman" as most people define it is roughly equal to my ability to be a "Real Telephone" or "Real Cactus". It just ain't gonna happen.
The thing I realized last night was, I could take a bunch of the historical points this essay and turn them into a discussion of class, not gender. Of course, because my hatred of rich people is as constant, strong, and illogical as du Toit's hatred of limp-wristed men, this is easy for me to do. So I will. But only for a little while. I need to get back to my cells, and if I'm angry when I mess with them that will only make my data even worse. There were a couple of quotes in particular, though, that I thought this would apply to. And I apologize in advance for my extremely cursory trip through history. This is not exactly my academic field. If you want real references, ask my father-in-law.
One snip of Du Toit's essay:
"When women got the vote, it was inevitable that government was going to become more powerful, more intrusive, and more "protective" (ie. more coddling), because women are hard-wired to treasure security more than uncertainty and danger. It was therefore inevitable that their feminine influence on politics was going to emphasize (lowercase "s") social security."
And once women were allowed to vote in 1920, we were never a warlike people again, and got our pansy-waisted behinds beaten over and over and over and over again, and now we're under the thumb of any country that comes along.
Um, no. First there was this thing called the Depression, where lots and lots of people behaved in brave and miraculous ways, working themselves raw to keep their families clothed and fed. I think that's a totally respectible way for human beings to act.
Then there was that quibble called World War II, where millions of regular working people risked the small amount of building-up that had occurred since 1929. They risked their happiness and their lives. Here are a few of those people, describing their experiences. They seem to hold up to all these ideals that du Toit mentioned.
And when that was all over, the 50's started, and with it, an unprecedented rise in the U.S. middle class. The nation had been run through the mill for the last 20 years, it seems understandable that with this sudden wealth, people would want comfort. And comfort at such a reasonable price! With only one person working at a desk, a middle-class family could have a house of their own, plenty to eat, a car, a tv.
And I think that's the point that the complacency Du Toit is talking about gets ingrained in the majority of people. I still know some people that care for their families, that have a sense of responsibility, that aren't afraid of hard work. It's just that, as the people that give Kim his morning cup of coffee, that sell him his astonishing supply of guns and ammo, and that mop the floors of the store he got his tv at, he doesn't see much of them. The brave kids getting blown up and wrecked in Iraq? The vast majority of them are there because they can't afford college any other way.
Not that this is a new thing. In the civil war, drafted men with the means could pay to have someone fight in their place. It's just that here, at this moment, enough people feel a sense of entitlement from the world that they wait for good things to come to them.
Largely, they do.
Now, I'm not saying that class is the only thing to change in the last 150 years--depending on your biases, you could probably talk about slavery, or immigration, or religion, or something I've never even thought of, simply to say "it seems like nowadays people display strength of character less often than they used to."
When du Toit thinks of someone with strength of character, he thinks of a Real Man.
When I think of someone with strength of character, I think of someone who's worked hard to keep their family healthy and happy (hi mom!).
The only difference is, he's trying to take away what's mine, and for that, he can bite me.
I can't quite believe that this time next week I'll be a third of the way across the world, waking up from a jetlag-prevention nap, ready for some gelato and a stroll to the Trevi Fountain.
I suspect that a week full of loose-end tying will help me believe it. Granted, we have all the important stuff done (passport, airplane tickets, etc), but let's see how many little things I've forgotten about... buying a money belt? Making copies of our important documents? Buying bus tickets to Chicago? Packing? Getting prescriptions filled?
Check, check, check...
Needless to say, between now and December 5th (the day of our return) blogging will be light. But then you'll have pictures. Lots of pictures. Lots of jealousy-inducing pictures.
I had a "didn't realize I'd forgotten about it until I remembered it again" moment last night. J and I were talking about buttermilk, which was listed as an ingredient in these cupcakes I made last night, but didn't use, since who ever uses buttermilk? Do they even sell it anymore? And when I thought about it, I realized that I may have NEVER seen buttermilk in my life. My only image of it is from a book I loved when I was little.
"Say, do you remember the book 'The Little Old Man Who Could Not Read'?"
He didn't.
And in order for him to understand where buttermilk fit in with children's literature, I started telling the story. And I remembered an amazing amount of detail. The story, very quickly: A little old man cannot read (big surprize). His wife takes care of him. She goes to visit her family for a day and tells him to go to the supermarket and get himself something to eat. So he goes, and buys containers that look like the food he wants. Of course, the containers aren't quite right, and he ends up with buttermilk instead of milk, wax paper instead of spagetti, etc, etc. When the wife comes home, the old man is sooo hungry, and begs the wife to A: cook him a nice meal, then B: teach him to read.
His life is, of course, much better when he learns to read.
Jeremy got the extended version, complete with descriptions of the drawing style (ugly, endearing early 70's line drawings), each and every item he buys, the face he makes when drinking the terrible buttermilk.
I probably haven't seen this book in 15 years, haven't thought of it in 10, and I can describe the old illiterate man's mustache.
Now that I've thought of this silly piece of childhood ephemera, I want to look through it again, see if I've forgotten any details. Unfortunately, it's long out of print, and the cheapest copy on half.com is going for 25$. For an ugly and naive children's book.
I think if I read this book to my kindergarten-aged cousin, they'd say "Why didn't the wife just BUY SOME GROCERIES before she left? How come the old man didn't go to a restaurant, or go back to the grocery story to buy food with pictures on the front? How come?" The plotline destroyed, she'd get up and go play Crash Bandicoot, and never have the same mental image as me by the simple word "buttermilk".
I saw a really wonderful quilt exhibit at the Milwuakee Art Museum. It didn't quite get me restarted on my hexagon quilt, but the quilts, heavy on the denim and full of breathless joy, gave me an idea. So over the weekend I played with string, and ended up with this:
If there were more quilt pictures online, you'd see that a lot of them were Log Cabin variations, with a lot of blues (from work clothes, in various states of fadedness), and a few accent colors.
I'm going to undo this, it's not coming out as I pictured, and I can't figure out what I'm going to use a 2.5 foot square for. But I am going to keep the general idea in my head for future projects. I think a nice afghan made in this style would be very enjoyable, if I had enough yarn for it all.
And now for something completely different: shawl-y goodness:
The shawl, blocking.
Modeling it.
I'm just SO pleased with the way this came out. I keep wanting to wear it, even though I only have good reasons not to (like getting it dirty).
I finished my shawl! Pictures to come, I forgot last night. It looked pretty good before, but blocking it just gave it the extra oomph it needed. I'm really, really proud of how well it turned out.
------------
The first day that you go outside and think "I really should start wearing my parka now" is always kind of a sad one for me. The time of year you start needing a jacket isn't so sad--it's just a bit cooler, you're still comfortable without a hat. But the day you break out the parka is the day that survival suddenly seems less assured. A few thousand years of civilization, with nice fires, animal skins, and warm food hasn't been enough to get that Cold=Worry gene out of me.
Another fun made-up word: Gay-nniversary. As in the anniversary of coming out. Not the most useful word, but I wouldn't have come up with it if I hadn't just wished someone a happy one.
This would make a great greeting card, too:
It's now been a year
And I'd just like to say
That I'm glad that you're you
And you told me you're gay
Oh, our hair may get gray
And our bodies may sag...
Oh, I'm not going to finish that one. Whatever you come up with will be funniest to you.
My subconscious mind gave me a funny little joke last night while I was dreaming, which I assume is related to the large number of headaches I've been getting recently.
I was in some situation that required giving a fake name. In the spirit of such classics as Ben Dover, I picked up a pen and wrote:
Ida B. Profenne
Get it? I. B. Profenne? Ibuprofin?
Ok, so it's not the best joke, but what can you expect from the id. It was just a nice funny thing to pop into my head while sitting on the can after waking up too early this morning, and improved my day, so thanks subconscious! I promise this weekend you'll get plenty of sleep.
-----------------
Ah. I remember now why I love giving talks to the people I just gave my talk to. They ask a lot of very happy interesting questions. On the one hand, I feel kind of bad that my response to most of the questions is "I don't know", or "that's something I want to look into", or "I never thought of that", but on the other hand, having a dozen people at the tops of their fields paying attention to your preliminary data and trying to make sense of it is just incredibly useful and exciting. I feel like I have some very specific questions to answer before I talk to them again next semester. But that's a good thing.
Oh, I'm just so hopped-up and energized now. I couldn't be any more of an opposite from yesterday if I tried.
Hooray!
----------------
(Update: Quoth J: "I liked the article and I hated Little League." I thought he said he disagreed last night. But the more general point--Eat The Rich--still stands.)
J sent me this NY Times article about class differences in child-rearing, as it applies to homework. The basic idea: children from upper-class households get so much in the way of enrichment activities that the parents find the children's homework tedious, and try to get the load lightened. This, intentionally or not leads to a greater class divide where Biffy Richgirl spends her weekday afternoons in music classes and soccer matches, while Jim Bluecollar digs in the dirt or watches Jerry Springer.
J's reaction to these things always makes me laugh. He always, always disagrees with this stuff, and yet his parents and their elite academic degrees surrounded him with books, NPR, summer wilderness retreats, and upper-eschelon public schools, which means he can effortlessly write and speak in a way that results in degrees from Ivy League universities. All of those things are wonderful--combined, I think they give a person the opportunity to go into absolutely whatever life that makes them happy. With what he's been given, he could lead protests for social change, make piles of money, get high school students excited about poetry, or fix intricate machinery, all successfully.
Most people don't get half of those opportunities, though, which is the part he always manages to forget. I can look at my life and say that I've been very lucky--my family loves me, I've always had enough to eat and learn, I've found a field that is facinating and well-paid and that I'm smart enough to figure out as I go along. At the same time, though, I feel like this life is a knife-edge away from one in which I was much less happy. If I had been ignorant of how much grades affected college prospects for just a few more quarters, if the person that sat next to me on the bus the first day of high school was a druggie instead of an artist, if my accent was just a touch more working-class, where would I be? Could I have had all the options I've had?
Okay, so I'm getting pretty far away from the original article, considering I always do the absolute minimum amount of homework to get me by. I just needed to vent. It's not that the advantages that some people are given upset me taken on their own--of course I'm a bit jealous, but someone is always going to have what someone else doesn't. It's just the sense of entitlement those advantages bring, their ability to get the person by where they wouldn't otherwise.
These are the people who get second chances.
The last few days, I:
* went into work on Saturday and Sunday, where I did boring things that didn't work in the dark for at least 5 hours both days,
* have just barely been fighting off a cold that's been beating J a pack of grannies
* am dealing with the general stressyness of giving 3 talks this week
* finished a Major Christmas Present, that looks wonderful sitting on a hanger, but when subjected to the human form, looks like a terrible 80's throwback (money quote from J as I tested to see what it looked like on: "You look like a Klingon!") and which I've since realized I'll have to completely redo. This thing was a lot of work and the idea of undoing it all has me pretty ticked.
This all has left me grumpy, forgetting what day of the week it is, not wanting to knit anything ever again, etc., etc.