I adore you, Tom Hiddleston. I do. And I totally grok what you are trying to say, here. But that word. Princess.
Sigh.
This is admittedly a bit of Rachael brain damage, but since this is a Rachael blog, I get to complain. I hate the Princess shit with burning passion. I hate it when people (normally guys) say women should be treated like princesses, unless the word princess is immediately preceded by the word warrior.
There's a lot of baggage to Princess. Historically, what were they? Women of royalty who (normally) could not inherit or rule. They were there to basically belong to their father until they could be sold in the cause of a political alliance to another man. At which point the purpose switched over to providing (hopefully) male babies.
And then there's Disney. Disney hasn't exactly made the Princess into an empowering concept either. Princesses get rescued by the man and live happily ever after as someone's meek wife. And if you look at the recent Disney "princesses" that have had more guts, most of them aren't actually princesses.
Princess to me doesn't hold the ring of respecting women. It conjures up images of paternalistic protectionism, rescuing the damsel in distress. So fine, I twitch a lot less when a dad calls his daughter his little princess, because he should be looking out for her. (And presumably not looking for a husband and political deals.)
But please don't treat grown women like princesses. Treat us like unique, powerful, and beautiful human beings who are worthy of respect.
Or if we must stick with the verbal paradigm of royalty, Queen is acceptable. But only if you mean Queen in a sort of Elizabeth I/Maleficent way. Because fuck yeah.
Friday, August 31, 2012
A plus size lady on Project Runway
I cringe every time there's anyone plus size on Project Runway. It just makes me want to curl up in preparation for the inevitable whining and disaster. In the episode I just watched, Ven complains that the "proportions are completely off." And then keeps complaining about how hard it is to deal with a plus-size woman, how unfair it is he has to deal with a larger model. (He's complaining because she's almost [gasp] a 14! OH GOD.)
That's how it feels. Like we're constantly being told that it's impossible for us to have nice things, no one can design anything good for us, we're all wrong. (And hey, you have to wear black because it's slimming! Because otherwise you'll gross people out!)
People wonder why I act like I'm allergic to shopping for clothes. It's one giant, miserable experience where nothing ever looks right. Obviously, there have to be some people that design for large women. But it always feels like no one's figured out what the hell we're supposed to wear to actually look good, so we end up with punishment clothes instead.
So watching Project Runway when there's a plus-size woman on the show always gives me flashbacks to that personal nightmare. It makes me think well shit, if that's how designers see us, no wonder clothing is a nightmare.
This episode felt different in one important aspect, and I really appreciated that. In previous seasons it always felt like there was just endless picking from everyone if there was a bigger lady on the show. This time, many of the other designers really attacked Ven for how he was treating his client/model. And when Heidi Klum ripped in to him at the end of the episode ("We like Teri but we don't love your outfit.") that made me feel a lot better too. The blame got placed squarely on Ven for designing clothes that didn't look good, not on the woman for not being shaped like a model.
I didn't expect that. It was refreshing. (And it's kind of sad that people speaking out that hey you should treat a plus-size lady like a human being would be unusual and refreshing.)
That's how it feels. Like we're constantly being told that it's impossible for us to have nice things, no one can design anything good for us, we're all wrong. (And hey, you have to wear black because it's slimming! Because otherwise you'll gross people out!)
People wonder why I act like I'm allergic to shopping for clothes. It's one giant, miserable experience where nothing ever looks right. Obviously, there have to be some people that design for large women. But it always feels like no one's figured out what the hell we're supposed to wear to actually look good, so we end up with punishment clothes instead.
So watching Project Runway when there's a plus-size woman on the show always gives me flashbacks to that personal nightmare. It makes me think well shit, if that's how designers see us, no wonder clothing is a nightmare.
This episode felt different in one important aspect, and I really appreciated that. In previous seasons it always felt like there was just endless picking from everyone if there was a bigger lady on the show. This time, many of the other designers really attacked Ven for how he was treating his client/model. And when Heidi Klum ripped in to him at the end of the episode ("We like Teri but we don't love your outfit.") that made me feel a lot better too. The blame got placed squarely on Ven for designing clothes that didn't look good, not on the woman for not being shaped like a model.
I didn't expect that. It was refreshing. (And it's kind of sad that people speaking out that hey you should treat a plus-size lady like a human being would be unusual and refreshing.)
Thursday, August 30, 2012
LOL your personhood amendment
I'd heard that we were going to get the Son of the Revenge of the Personhood Amendment from the Black Lagoon in Colorado this year. I rolled my eyes so damn hard that I think I might have pulled a muscle.
Oh, guess not.
The attempt to get the Personhood Amendment (tl;dr version: fetuses have rights, women don't) on the ballot was shot down due to a lack of valid signatures. The campaign only turned in 106K signatures, and had 24K knocked off as invalid, which put it below the threshold for making it onto the ballot. Of course the campaign is now going to take legal action on this, but I have high hopes for that being a complete bullshit move.
They tried to have a Personhood Amendment in Mississippi last year. In Mississippi! It failed by something like a ten percent margin.
Maybe when Mississippi is telling you that your ridiculous anti-choice bullshit is too draconian, it's time to pack it in.
Because I don't know. Maybe even women who hate abortion like having access to birth control. (You know, birth control. The number one thing that helps prevent the potential need or desire for an abortion.) Or being able to have access to in-vitro fertilization. Or don't want their vagina treated like a crime scene if they have the poor taste to miscarry a baby that they wanted. Maybe women are getting tired of being characterized as wombs with legs who lose all agency when they get pregnant. (That's for sure one of the main reasons I have an absolute horror of being pregnant. Kat, I don't know how you do it, you're amazing.)
Personhood Colorado, please take the hint and fuck off.
Oh, guess not.
The attempt to get the Personhood Amendment (tl;dr version: fetuses have rights, women don't) on the ballot was shot down due to a lack of valid signatures. The campaign only turned in 106K signatures, and had 24K knocked off as invalid, which put it below the threshold for making it onto the ballot. Of course the campaign is now going to take legal action on this, but I have high hopes for that being a complete bullshit move.
They tried to have a Personhood Amendment in Mississippi last year. In Mississippi! It failed by something like a ten percent margin.
Maybe when Mississippi is telling you that your ridiculous anti-choice bullshit is too draconian, it's time to pack it in.
Because I don't know. Maybe even women who hate abortion like having access to birth control. (You know, birth control. The number one thing that helps prevent the potential need or desire for an abortion.) Or being able to have access to in-vitro fertilization. Or don't want their vagina treated like a crime scene if they have the poor taste to miscarry a baby that they wanted. Maybe women are getting tired of being characterized as wombs with legs who lose all agency when they get pregnant. (That's for sure one of the main reasons I have an absolute horror of being pregnant. Kat, I don't know how you do it, you're amazing.)
Personhood Colorado, please take the hint and fuck off.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Girlfriend mode.
So apparently there's going to be a Borderlands 2 skill tree that emphasizes a support role, where the character can summon a robot to tank for her. And the lead designer called that "girlfriend mode." This actually happened a bit ago, and the president of Gearbox has since come out against the nickname.
But still. Um... wow.
As full disclosure, I have not personally played Borderlands. I watched Mike play it, and it looked kind of fun if you're in to first person shooters, which I am manifestly not. I haven't liked them since the first time I tried one out, which was, oh gosh, back when Doom first came out. I find them a bit stressful for something that's supposed to be fun.
I also have ovaries. Personally, I don't think these two facts are related.
I could go on and on about how girls do too play first person shooters, but I'm not going to. A lot of other people already have. The thing I'm more annoyed by is the way playing as support is often couched in incredibly dismissive terms, which is why I think it's worth pointing at an article that's over a week old.
To begin with, often in classical fantasy literature and roleplaying games, the healers and support characters are depicted as women. That's probably where a lot of this got started. Maybe we're supposed to be more nurturing, and thus somehow averse to hitting kobolds in the head with a club. That's transfered through into video games as well - in any of the rpgs I've played, one of the female characters is always the white mage/healer.
I played World of Warcraft for years; during the Wrath of the Lich King expansion I actually raided 3-4 times a week and eventually took down the Lich King. I didn't hear that kind of dismissive talk in my guild - considering my co-GM and I are both women and both played healers it would have taken a special kind of dumb to say that out loud even if someone actually thought it - but it's definitely something that was around in the wider game. Gaming culture in general has a misogyny problem.
This is the reason it bugs me, though - support is hard. I've played as all three roles - tank, healer, dps - in a multitude of game. I tend to find dps kind of boring, particularly ranged dps. (Face roll to victory, guys!) I actually did enjoy playing as tank, but only did it infrequently because I got tired of people being giant shitcocks to me. (Why people are jerks to tanks, I will never understand.) Healing was where I spent most of my time. I found it just as challenging as tanking, and honestly more interesting. Keeping someone alive while they're being punched repeatedly in the fact by a giant monster is not a simple task.
I think there's a consistent narrative about women playing support in those kind of games because it often does shake out that way. The most challenging roles are tank and healer. If your boyfriend or husband is already a tank, it doesn't make a lot of sense to roll another tank. And you want to play together so - aha! Healing! It's challenging, important, and you get to stick with your hubby. But then, as with anything, if a lot of women gravitate toward a role, it gets pigeonholed as a "girl thing" and thus seen as lesser, not as difficult because our ladybrains can't handle games or something.
Now, Borderlands is not World of Warcraft. But I think the narrative is the same. Oh obviously girls just do support stuff. Haha, healing, it's so stupid despite the fact that without it the monster would eat your head and the game would be over. Maybe calling it 'girlfriend mode' wasn't intended to be dismissive, though it sure came out that way when coupled with the idea that girls don't get first person shooters. The wider culture of seeing roles and games that women like to play as worthy of mockery doesn't help. And the implication that women only play games because we're giant tag-alongs to our boyfriends and husbands makes the comment extra douchey.
The sad thing is, them adding a support role to the game means I'm actually curious to try it. Because I find that way more interesting than shooting things. I just hope they don't make it too easy; support isn't supposed to be.
But still. Um... wow.
As full disclosure, I have not personally played Borderlands. I watched Mike play it, and it looked kind of fun if you're in to first person shooters, which I am manifestly not. I haven't liked them since the first time I tried one out, which was, oh gosh, back when Doom first came out. I find them a bit stressful for something that's supposed to be fun.
I also have ovaries. Personally, I don't think these two facts are related.
I could go on and on about how girls do too play first person shooters, but I'm not going to. A lot of other people already have. The thing I'm more annoyed by is the way playing as support is often couched in incredibly dismissive terms, which is why I think it's worth pointing at an article that's over a week old.
To begin with, often in classical fantasy literature and roleplaying games, the healers and support characters are depicted as women. That's probably where a lot of this got started. Maybe we're supposed to be more nurturing, and thus somehow averse to hitting kobolds in the head with a club. That's transfered through into video games as well - in any of the rpgs I've played, one of the female characters is always the white mage/healer.
I played World of Warcraft for years; during the Wrath of the Lich King expansion I actually raided 3-4 times a week and eventually took down the Lich King. I didn't hear that kind of dismissive talk in my guild - considering my co-GM and I are both women and both played healers it would have taken a special kind of dumb to say that out loud even if someone actually thought it - but it's definitely something that was around in the wider game. Gaming culture in general has a misogyny problem.
This is the reason it bugs me, though - support is hard. I've played as all three roles - tank, healer, dps - in a multitude of game. I tend to find dps kind of boring, particularly ranged dps. (Face roll to victory, guys!) I actually did enjoy playing as tank, but only did it infrequently because I got tired of people being giant shitcocks to me. (Why people are jerks to tanks, I will never understand.) Healing was where I spent most of my time. I found it just as challenging as tanking, and honestly more interesting. Keeping someone alive while they're being punched repeatedly in the fact by a giant monster is not a simple task.
I think there's a consistent narrative about women playing support in those kind of games because it often does shake out that way. The most challenging roles are tank and healer. If your boyfriend or husband is already a tank, it doesn't make a lot of sense to roll another tank. And you want to play together so - aha! Healing! It's challenging, important, and you get to stick with your hubby. But then, as with anything, if a lot of women gravitate toward a role, it gets pigeonholed as a "girl thing" and thus seen as lesser, not as difficult because our ladybrains can't handle games or something.
Now, Borderlands is not World of Warcraft. But I think the narrative is the same. Oh obviously girls just do support stuff. Haha, healing, it's so stupid despite the fact that without it the monster would eat your head and the game would be over. Maybe calling it 'girlfriend mode' wasn't intended to be dismissive, though it sure came out that way when coupled with the idea that girls don't get first person shooters. The wider culture of seeing roles and games that women like to play as worthy of mockery doesn't help. And the implication that women only play games because we're giant tag-alongs to our boyfriends and husbands makes the comment extra douchey.
The sad thing is, them adding a support role to the game means I'm actually curious to try it. Because I find that way more interesting than shooting things. I just hope they don't make it too easy; support isn't supposed to be.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
In which Loki moves back to Denver, at last.
It was at last time for Loki to leave his temporary lair in Houston, Texas, to return to Denver. But not before a few loose ends were to be tied.
So we meet again, House of Pies.
Very funny, mortal. And by very funny, I mean you will choke on your own blood.
Bring forth your strongest warrior!
If that is the best you can do, truly you are defeated.
Loki approved of the motif on his conveyance.
At a gas station, an old friend made herself known.
"Together, we shall take this realm by storm!"
After a hot dog break.
Extra long, indeed.
As is most appropriate, a snickers blizzard.
Hm. Oops.
Someone has mis-folded the map. How... evil.
After a day of traveling, time for a relaxing bath.
Very funny, Wendy.
In Oklahoma, we came across one of Loki's favorite mortal restaurants.
But ended up elsewhere. Stupid unadventurous mortals. Not evil enough.
What's Australian for kneel?
Like a slumber party. An evil slumber party.
Another old friend was found.
Not funny. Not funny at all.
I find your offering of crayons to be inadequate, Chili's!
He took a moment to make his mortal's hat infinitely more pimp.
Wendy punch!
And at last, the triumphant return to big sky country.
And a well-earned Boulder veggie bowl. Even not-really-evil-just-misunderstood gods go through vegetable withdrawal eventually.
The end.
Monday, August 27, 2012
The pooing of the hair.
I just realized to my horror that I haven't had a blog post today. No, I refuse to break my streak! I was planning to get my awesome moving post done last night, but instead I just sort of stared at my computer screen and drooled until I couldn't keep my eyes open any more. Then this morning it was all errands and returning the truck and then biking twenty miles just because I could.
Whoops.
Right now, I'm sitting in front of the computer with a towel around my shoulders and a disturbingly stained shower cap on my head. There is a good reason for this.
Every six weeks I have a good friend of mine come over to my house and smear something that's got the color and texture of a cow pie into my hair. Thankfully, it smells much, much nicer than a cow pie. Sort of earthy and sweet and a bit like tea.
The poo is actually dried henna that's been mixed with boiling water and olive oil. I use it because it makes my mane and tail both thick and shiny... I mean my hair. It makes my hair thick and shiny. And bright red. That's actually the most important part. I've been dyeing my hair red for something like eight years (my husband has literally never seen me with my natural hair color) and henna's been my magic bullet. Regular bleach and dye washed out within weeks and just destroyed my hair; the henna just stays and refuses to leave. To the point that if I ever want to not be a redhead, as far as I know I'd just have to make a clean break and shave my head.
Overall, I'm not worried about that because I like being a redhead, and I make a believable one. And I also find sitting around with my hair smelling funny for a couple hours while I surf the net much more pleasant than choking on bleach fumes while my scalp feels like it's going to peel off.
And how could you say no to something as sexy as this?
I'll make good use of this hair pooing time by answering the seven brazillion comments that are sitting in my mailbox, and then whipping up something silly for tomorrow.
Whoops.
Right now, I'm sitting in front of the computer with a towel around my shoulders and a disturbingly stained shower cap on my head. There is a good reason for this.
Every six weeks I have a good friend of mine come over to my house and smear something that's got the color and texture of a cow pie into my hair. Thankfully, it smells much, much nicer than a cow pie. Sort of earthy and sweet and a bit like tea.
The poo is actually dried henna that's been mixed with boiling water and olive oil. I use it because it makes my mane and tail both thick and shiny... I mean my hair. It makes my hair thick and shiny. And bright red. That's actually the most important part. I've been dyeing my hair red for something like eight years (my husband has literally never seen me with my natural hair color) and henna's been my magic bullet. Regular bleach and dye washed out within weeks and just destroyed my hair; the henna just stays and refuses to leave. To the point that if I ever want to not be a redhead, as far as I know I'd just have to make a clean break and shave my head.
Overall, I'm not worried about that because I like being a redhead, and I make a believable one. And I also find sitting around with my hair smelling funny for a couple hours while I surf the net much more pleasant than choking on bleach fumes while my scalp feels like it's going to peel off.
And how could you say no to something as sexy as this?
Sunday, August 26, 2012
At which point a complete stranger felt compelled to show me his wang.
For the most part, this has been a very uneventful weekend. I've been driving, driving, driving, and then driving some more in my slammin' ride, by which I mean a ten foot U-haul truck that contains approximately twelve boxes and two bicycles. And I've been driving through northern Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas, which are not known to be the most exciting states in the Union.
So to be honest, the most exciting thing that's happened all trip was a random guy in Kansas flashing his cock at me.
I would have much preferred to be bored.
This is how it happened - the U-haul trucks have a governor in them so you can't go over 74 miles per hour. The speed limit is 75 in Kansas so I pretty much have been running on the governor the whole way. I passed a guy in a gray pickup truck. Then there was a semi, so I got in the left lane to pass that as well and the guy in the pickup followed me. He was right on my tail, which meant he must have sped up, but whatever.
He stayed on my tail as I got over to the right lane. Which seemed weird, since I expected him to pass me. It happens. Then he went over into the exit lane and sped up even more so he pulled even with the truck's cab.
At that point I was wondering if maybe there was something wrong with the back of the truck. People will sometimes do that, speed up to let you know there's a problem, just to be nice. I turned to look out the passenger window at him.
The man looked me in the eye, then arched back to give me a nice view of his exposed penis, which he gave a couple of emphatic rubs before he was gone down the exit. My mother was in the passenger seat and missed the entire thing, because it happened in just a few seconds and she was focused on reading an article in the New Yorker.
I'm not upset about this so much as deeply puzzled and creeped out. I could have gone my entire life happily without seeing a perfect stranger's wang while going 74 mph on I-135. Or on any highway for that matter. Or in any situation. I know this sort of thing happens, but it's always seemed the stuff of legend. No one's ever messed with me like that; I've been told it's because I look like the sort of person who would just as soon tear said appendage off.
So I guess that makes flashing it at me while separated by two windows and a healthy amount of space on a highway the safe prospect. I will say, relative to the penises I've seen in my life, it wasn't at all interesting. I guess presentation is everything.
My mom caught the shocked look on my face right after the guy had sped off down the exit ramp. I explained the situation to her and laughed, because at that point what else can you do? It is incredibly ridiculous, when you think about it. But I also kept asking, who the hell does this? Who the hell even thinks this kind of behavior is in any way acceptable?
What really creeps me out isn't seeing someone's dick or possibly being an unwilling participant in some random stranger's weird sexual fantasy. What creeps me out is the flasher looked like he could easily have been someone's husband, someone's dad. (I'd put him in his fifties, probably.) I find it disturbing that, after exposing himself to a startled woman on the highway, he quite possibly drove home to get a kiss on the cheek from his wife and hug his daughter.
Presumably said wife and daughter don't know how deeply pathetic he is.
So to be honest, the most exciting thing that's happened all trip was a random guy in Kansas flashing his cock at me.
I would have much preferred to be bored.
This is how it happened - the U-haul trucks have a governor in them so you can't go over 74 miles per hour. The speed limit is 75 in Kansas so I pretty much have been running on the governor the whole way. I passed a guy in a gray pickup truck. Then there was a semi, so I got in the left lane to pass that as well and the guy in the pickup followed me. He was right on my tail, which meant he must have sped up, but whatever.
He stayed on my tail as I got over to the right lane. Which seemed weird, since I expected him to pass me. It happens. Then he went over into the exit lane and sped up even more so he pulled even with the truck's cab.
At that point I was wondering if maybe there was something wrong with the back of the truck. People will sometimes do that, speed up to let you know there's a problem, just to be nice. I turned to look out the passenger window at him.
The man looked me in the eye, then arched back to give me a nice view of his exposed penis, which he gave a couple of emphatic rubs before he was gone down the exit. My mother was in the passenger seat and missed the entire thing, because it happened in just a few seconds and she was focused on reading an article in the New Yorker.
I'm not upset about this so much as deeply puzzled and creeped out. I could have gone my entire life happily without seeing a perfect stranger's wang while going 74 mph on I-135. Or on any highway for that matter. Or in any situation. I know this sort of thing happens, but it's always seemed the stuff of legend. No one's ever messed with me like that; I've been told it's because I look like the sort of person who would just as soon tear said appendage off.
So I guess that makes flashing it at me while separated by two windows and a healthy amount of space on a highway the safe prospect. I will say, relative to the penises I've seen in my life, it wasn't at all interesting. I guess presentation is everything.
My mom caught the shocked look on my face right after the guy had sped off down the exit ramp. I explained the situation to her and laughed, because at that point what else can you do? It is incredibly ridiculous, when you think about it. But I also kept asking, who the hell does this? Who the hell even thinks this kind of behavior is in any way acceptable?
What really creeps me out isn't seeing someone's dick or possibly being an unwilling participant in some random stranger's weird sexual fantasy. What creeps me out is the flasher looked like he could easily have been someone's husband, someone's dad. (I'd put him in his fifties, probably.) I find it disturbing that, after exposing himself to a startled woman on the highway, he quite possibly drove home to get a kiss on the cheek from his wife and hug his daughter.
Presumably said wife and daughter don't know how deeply pathetic he is.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Spoilers
I've never really understood the near-spastic reaction a lot of people seem to have to spoilers. This is why I'm sometimes really bad about marking for them when I'm talking about movies and the like, though I do try to be conscientious about it.
I've pretty much always been that way, too. I'm one of those awful people that often reads the last few pages of a book first.
Functionally, I feel like there are three general big plot twists that comes as surprises, and I just prefer the warning:
The ending is just the ending. The journey is why I'm there.
I wonder if maybe this is also why I love rewatching and rereading things so much. I don't know - people who are hyper-averse to spoilers, do you do much rewatching and rereading?
I've pretty much always been that way, too. I'm one of those awful people that often reads the last few pages of a book first.
Functionally, I feel like there are three general big plot twists that comes as surprises, and I just prefer the warning:
- Joss Whedon kills off my favorite character again.
- There's a elevator through the center of the Earth. (Alternatively: it was all just a dream!)
- The bad guy is actually a good guy! The good guy is actually a bad guy! Nic Cage chews on the scenery!
The ending is just the ending. The journey is why I'm there.
I wonder if maybe this is also why I love rewatching and rereading things so much. I don't know - people who are hyper-averse to spoilers, do you do much rewatching and rereading?
Friday, August 24, 2012
The grand unified theory of the British just not getting avocados.
Which reads thus: All things being equal in an expanding universe where the speed of light exists as constant, British people just really don't get avocados.
I've been collecting data to transform my hypothesis into a theory for over five years now, since this bizarre quirk was drawn to my attention by my then-boyfriend's bizarre reaction to the manna of heaven known as guacamole when it was presented to him at Las Delicias. He made a face. Then tried to politely avoid eating more. Then admitted that he just didn't like it.
(I will note that this should be taken as a sign of how much I love Mike that I didn't immediately abandon him at the restaurant, to walk back to the UK from Westminster, Colorado.)
Since that time I've attempted the guacamole test on every British person to whom I've had access. With two and a half exceptions, the reactions have ranged from uncomfortable to comically disgusted. Guacamole has been deemed slippery, unpleasant, and in one notable case by a coworker of mine, compared in detail to snot.
(Said coworker did not follow up with good data on just how much snot he's eaten in order to arrive at that conclusion.)
Now, I know that there are Americans who don't like avocados, and I find it in my heart to love them anyway. But they tend to be the exception rather than the rule. Really, the question that will plague the ages is why. Why would an entire people be so afflicted as to deprive themselves of one of the things that are best in life?
For didn't that noted philosopher Conan the Barbarian say of what is best in life: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women. Then you eat some motherfucking guacamole, oh yeah. (Okay, I may be paraphrasing a little.)
Why would this be the case? It can't be, as my coworker claimed, a sign of superior taste. I've had British food. They like marmite. My current hypothesis as to the cause is that it's severe avocado deprivation from an early age that does this. In the interest of maintaining the friendship and mutual respect (you know, the one where they think we're a country of conservative whackjobs yet unaccountably send their greatest actors to us to be villains in our films) between our two great nations, I propose an immediate program of humanitarian aid in which massive avocado stores will be airlifted to the UK and distributed to the huddled masses, along with bags of tortilla chips. We can even call them tortilla crisps if that will make the transition easier.
Once this immediate crisis has been averted, we can then discuss the unfortunate unavailability of burritos the size and weight of bricks in London.
I've been collecting data to transform my hypothesis into a theory for over five years now, since this bizarre quirk was drawn to my attention by my then-boyfriend's bizarre reaction to the manna of heaven known as guacamole when it was presented to him at Las Delicias. He made a face. Then tried to politely avoid eating more. Then admitted that he just didn't like it.
(I will note that this should be taken as a sign of how much I love Mike that I didn't immediately abandon him at the restaurant, to walk back to the UK from Westminster, Colorado.)
Since that time I've attempted the guacamole test on every British person to whom I've had access. With two and a half exceptions, the reactions have ranged from uncomfortable to comically disgusted. Guacamole has been deemed slippery, unpleasant, and in one notable case by a coworker of mine, compared in detail to snot.
(Said coworker did not follow up with good data on just how much snot he's eaten in order to arrive at that conclusion.)
Now, I know that there are Americans who don't like avocados, and I find it in my heart to love them anyway. But they tend to be the exception rather than the rule. Really, the question that will plague the ages is why. Why would an entire people be so afflicted as to deprive themselves of one of the things that are best in life?
For didn't that noted philosopher Conan the Barbarian say of what is best in life: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women. Then you eat some motherfucking guacamole, oh yeah. (Okay, I may be paraphrasing a little.)
Why would this be the case? It can't be, as my coworker claimed, a sign of superior taste. I've had British food. They like marmite. My current hypothesis as to the cause is that it's severe avocado deprivation from an early age that does this. In the interest of maintaining the friendship and mutual respect (you know, the one where they think we're a country of conservative whackjobs yet unaccountably send their greatest actors to us to be villains in our films) between our two great nations, I propose an immediate program of humanitarian aid in which massive avocado stores will be airlifted to the UK and distributed to the huddled masses, along with bags of tortilla chips. We can even call them tortilla crisps if that will make the transition easier.
Once this immediate crisis has been averted, we can then discuss the unfortunate unavailability of burritos the size and weight of bricks in London.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Forthcoming Steampunk (and a bit free to read)
A couple of months ago, I signed a contract with Musa Publishing for my novella Murder on the Titania, which will be coming out in early 2013. It's a story that involves the same characters and world as The Jade Tiger, my short story that appeared in Penumbra vol 1 issue 6.
I'm excited (and slightly terrified - this is the first time in my life I've signed a contract for a story I haven't yet written, let alone four of them!) to tell you that there are going to be even more stories about Captain Ramos and Mr. Simms!
Also coming in 2013 will be:
The Ugly Tin Orrery
The Curious Case of Miss Clementine Nimowitz (and Her Exceedingly Tiny Dog)
Blood in Peyote Creek
Do Shut Up, Mr. Simms
I shall give you more details as they come.
If you're curious about Captain Ramos and Mr. Simms, there's also a story that's free to read! Last year I wrote this adventure for the Machine of Death 2 anthology. My story didn't make the cut, unfortunately, but I'd rather it be available for the reading than languishing on my hard drive.
Story is below the jump. Enjoy!
I'm excited (and slightly terrified - this is the first time in my life I've signed a contract for a story I haven't yet written, let alone four of them!) to tell you that there are going to be even more stories about Captain Ramos and Mr. Simms!
Also coming in 2013 will be:
The Ugly Tin Orrery
The Curious Case of Miss Clementine Nimowitz (and Her Exceedingly Tiny Dog)
Blood in Peyote Creek
Do Shut Up, Mr. Simms
I shall give you more details as they come.
If you're curious about Captain Ramos and Mr. Simms, there's also a story that's free to read! Last year I wrote this adventure for the Machine of Death 2 anthology. My story didn't make the cut, unfortunately, but I'd rather it be available for the reading than languishing on my hard drive.
Story is below the jump. Enjoy!
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Well. That was an exciting 24 hours.
This time yesterday I was under the mistaken impression that my husband would be flying to Houston this evening. Oh, how wrong I was.
I texted him yesterday to double check what time he'd be arriving. He answered that he'd be getting in at 7:50, assuming he was still alive.
This kind of text message is never a good sign.
Naturally concerned, I asked him for a little clarification on why he thought he might have left the mortal coil before he could make it to the plane. Well, he'd just gone home from work because he was feeling sick. Severe abdominal pain and vomiting. He thought it might be a side effect from a medication he was on and was waiting for a call back from the doctor.
I made the executive decision that severe abdominal plane and vomiting wasn't something that needed to get on an airplane. And additionally, not something I wanted to spend 1200 miles with in a 10 foot Uhaul truck. A lot of phone calls. A lot of panic. My mom informed me that Mike looked like death warmed over, and thankfully, she could drop everything and fly out in his place so that I wouldn't have to try to make the drive alone.
While I was waiting for the travel voucher for my mom to get taken care of, Mike dropped another piece of information: his pain had now localized to the right lower quadrant of his abdomen.
I immediately upped the terror alert level from yellow straight to red and told him I wanted him to go to the ER. Then I asked our friend Isaac to call him and tell him the same thing, just to be safe. My mother drove him to the hospital where he brightened up considerably after they gave him two bags of fluid and a whack of pain medication.
One CT later, the pain was confirmed as appendicitis.
He had his surgery this morning and is now out, thankfully with no complications. My mom will be flying out to join me in Houston and help me move this afternoon. My dad will be keeping an eye on Mike while we ladies attempt to figure out how to best tie up a bike in a Uhaul.
This is really not an adventure I wanted to have right before moving. I'm sure it's not an adventure Mike wanted to have either. I'm just really glad it worked out.
And please. Abdominal pain is a shitty, awful symptom that often has no diagnosible cause before it goes away. But if you're having symptoms that could conceivably be appendicitis, go to the ER. Better safe than sorry. As seen here, sometimes sorry is a definite possibility.
I texted him yesterday to double check what time he'd be arriving. He answered that he'd be getting in at 7:50, assuming he was still alive.
This kind of text message is never a good sign.
Naturally concerned, I asked him for a little clarification on why he thought he might have left the mortal coil before he could make it to the plane. Well, he'd just gone home from work because he was feeling sick. Severe abdominal pain and vomiting. He thought it might be a side effect from a medication he was on and was waiting for a call back from the doctor.
I made the executive decision that severe abdominal plane and vomiting wasn't something that needed to get on an airplane. And additionally, not something I wanted to spend 1200 miles with in a 10 foot Uhaul truck. A lot of phone calls. A lot of panic. My mom informed me that Mike looked like death warmed over, and thankfully, she could drop everything and fly out in his place so that I wouldn't have to try to make the drive alone.
While I was waiting for the travel voucher for my mom to get taken care of, Mike dropped another piece of information: his pain had now localized to the right lower quadrant of his abdomen.
I immediately upped the terror alert level from yellow straight to red and told him I wanted him to go to the ER. Then I asked our friend Isaac to call him and tell him the same thing, just to be safe. My mother drove him to the hospital where he brightened up considerably after they gave him two bags of fluid and a whack of pain medication.
One CT later, the pain was confirmed as appendicitis.
He had his surgery this morning and is now out, thankfully with no complications. My mom will be flying out to join me in Houston and help me move this afternoon. My dad will be keeping an eye on Mike while we ladies attempt to figure out how to best tie up a bike in a Uhaul.
This is really not an adventure I wanted to have right before moving. I'm sure it's not an adventure Mike wanted to have either. I'm just really glad it worked out.
And please. Abdominal pain is a shitty, awful symptom that often has no diagnosible cause before it goes away. But if you're having symptoms that could conceivably be appendicitis, go to the ER. Better safe than sorry. As seen here, sometimes sorry is a definite possibility.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
On rejection
Well, it sucks. Any questions?
To be more specific, I'm talking about the kind of rejection that is yours for the collecting if you do anything creative. My main experience is with writing, but I've gotten a solid impression from my friends who do other artistic things that if you want to create, and sell what you create, you have to be prepared to down a healthy bowl full of "no" salad every day.
I'm mostly thinking about this today because I sweated blood for six hours editing a story, which was subsequently rejected in less than twelve hours.
Ouch.
These are the times I go out for a margarita. Or in the case of tonight, thanks to a mysterious stomach bug that's decided to make my life difficult, I stare glumly into my package of animal crackers.
The constant rejection never feels good. It's not supposed to. You're sending your story out there because (I should hope) you believe in it and think it deserves to be received by the cheering masses. Having an editor tell you no can sometimes feel very painful because it feels personal. That story's a little bit of you.
It's really not personal. I don't think I could ever handle being an editor; they have the toughest job in the world. While I'm sure the slush pile is pretty hefty in stories that don't meet standards, it sounds like they still get more good pieces than they could ever hope to publish. I'd drive myself to a nervous breakdown trying to make those decisions.
So it hurts. You have to just dust yourself off, eat your animal crackers, and keep going. And if you still believe in your story, you have to keep fighting for it.
Don't let fear of rejection stop you from trying. You will eventually build up your rejection callouses, even if you still see those e-mails pile up and think Oof, I need that beer now. I've filled an entire bulldog clip with rejections and I'm well over halfway into my second. The sting never quite goes away, but you get stronger for it.
Rejections are like sweat. That's what effort looks like, baby. It means I'm trying. I'm working hard. I've developed a weird, potentially unhealthy relationship with my rejection notices, where if I haven't gotten one for a while I start feeling somehow less real, like I need the validation that I still exist as a writer. It keeps me playing story pingpong, sending them out as soon as they come back.
Because ultimately, even the biggest no sundae in the world still has a cherry on top.
To be more specific, I'm talking about the kind of rejection that is yours for the collecting if you do anything creative. My main experience is with writing, but I've gotten a solid impression from my friends who do other artistic things that if you want to create, and sell what you create, you have to be prepared to down a healthy bowl full of "no" salad every day.
I'm mostly thinking about this today because I sweated blood for six hours editing a story, which was subsequently rejected in less than twelve hours.
Ouch.
These are the times I go out for a margarita. Or in the case of tonight, thanks to a mysterious stomach bug that's decided to make my life difficult, I stare glumly into my package of animal crackers.
The constant rejection never feels good. It's not supposed to. You're sending your story out there because (I should hope) you believe in it and think it deserves to be received by the cheering masses. Having an editor tell you no can sometimes feel very painful because it feels personal. That story's a little bit of you.
It's really not personal. I don't think I could ever handle being an editor; they have the toughest job in the world. While I'm sure the slush pile is pretty hefty in stories that don't meet standards, it sounds like they still get more good pieces than they could ever hope to publish. I'd drive myself to a nervous breakdown trying to make those decisions.
So it hurts. You have to just dust yourself off, eat your animal crackers, and keep going. And if you still believe in your story, you have to keep fighting for it.
Don't let fear of rejection stop you from trying. You will eventually build up your rejection callouses, even if you still see those e-mails pile up and think Oof, I need that beer now. I've filled an entire bulldog clip with rejections and I'm well over halfway into my second. The sting never quite goes away, but you get stronger for it.
Rejections are like sweat. That's what effort looks like, baby. It means I'm trying. I'm working hard. I've developed a weird, potentially unhealthy relationship with my rejection notices, where if I haven't gotten one for a while I start feeling somehow less real, like I need the validation that I still exist as a writer. It keeps me playing story pingpong, sending them out as soon as they come back.
Because ultimately, even the biggest no sundae in the world still has a cherry on top.
Monday, August 20, 2012
No. No you did not misspeak.
In case you missed the news flash, Todd Akin, congressman and candidate for Senate in Missouri, is a despicable shitbag who lacks even basic understanding of human biology:
Don't you dare, for shame, speak of empathy. If you had a single speck of empathy in your being, you wouldn't be attacking the suffering and trauma of countless women and men by implying there is even such an animal as a rape that doesn't count.
And no, this does not come out of the blue. Justine Larbalestier has a nice summary on her blog about just how pathetically ancient this "legitimate rape" line is. Guess it's nice to know he's getting his knowledge of reproductive mechanisms from the eighteenth century, along with presumably his understanding of biology in general as well. He's not alone in this backward clinging to long-debunked ideas. However, for bonus laugh-and-cry-simultaneously fuckery, I will note that Akin is on the House Science Committee. Awesome!
Even better, Akin has since clarified his position even more on Mike Huckabee's radio show:
I have seen a lot of conservatives attacking Akin and distancing themselves from him. Good for them, and I surely do appreciate it. But this "legitimate rape" thing is just the same as the despicable "forcible rape" language of last year - Akin himself has confirmed that. This is an attempt to redefine the very idea of rape to the detriment of victims and the benefit of predators. And now one of the supporters of that gem could be the next Vice President.
The eighteenth century called. They want their science and their values back.
“First of all, from what I understand from doctors, (pregnancy from rape) is really rare,” Akin told KTVI-TV in a clip posted to YouTube by the Democratic super PAC American Bridge. “If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”Of course, having called down the fury of every human being on the planet with even a shred of decency on his head, he immediately backpedaled:
(from WaPo)
“In reviewing my off-the-cuff remarks, it’s clear that I misspoke in this interview and it does not reflect the deep empathy I hold for the thousands of women who are raped and abused every year..."No, Todd Akin. You did not misspeak. Unless by "misspoke" you mean "Whoops I told everyone what I actually think and now you're all mad so I guess I'd better lie my ass off." Misspeaking means you said pineapple instead of papaya when you were talking about what you had in your fruit salad. It means you had a brain fart and forgot the word ostracod in the middle of a presentation. You don't get to pretend it was just a little verbal flub (teehee!) when you flaunted not only your jaw-dropping ignorance but your complete lack of empathy as well.
(same article)
Don't you dare, for shame, speak of empathy. If you had a single speck of empathy in your being, you wouldn't be attacking the suffering and trauma of countless women and men by implying there is even such an animal as a rape that doesn't count.
And no, this does not come out of the blue. Justine Larbalestier has a nice summary on her blog about just how pathetically ancient this "legitimate rape" line is. Guess it's nice to know he's getting his knowledge of reproductive mechanisms from the eighteenth century, along with presumably his understanding of biology in general as well. He's not alone in this backward clinging to long-debunked ideas. However, for bonus laugh-and-cry-simultaneously fuckery, I will note that Akin is on the House Science Committee. Awesome!
Even better, Akin has since clarified his position even more on Mike Huckabee's radio show:
Huckabee asked Akin whether he was talking about "forcible rape" when he used the term "legitimate rape."This isn't the first time we've heard this. Remember last year? Remember when the Republicans tried to pass a bill prevented Medicaid funding of abortions except in cases of "forcible rape," only backing off when it called down a veritable firestorm on their heads? Todd Akin was in on that too. A hell of a lot of Republicans in the House were, including Paul Ryan. Akin didn't misspeak now, and it was no mistake when he supported that "forcible rape" language either; he hasn't changed his mind, he's just taken another reminder that he shouldn't say those things out loud where people of conscience can hear.
"I was talking about forcible rape, and it was absolutely the wrong word," Akin said.
I have seen a lot of conservatives attacking Akin and distancing themselves from him. Good for them, and I surely do appreciate it. But this "legitimate rape" thing is just the same as the despicable "forcible rape" language of last year - Akin himself has confirmed that. This is an attempt to redefine the very idea of rape to the detriment of victims and the benefit of predators. And now one of the supporters of that gem could be the next Vice President.
The eighteenth century called. They want their science and their values back.
The word will break cement.
We reached our hands out to the people who, for some reason, consider us their enemies, and they spat into our open hands. “You are not sincere,” they said to us. Too bad. Do not judge us according to your behavior. We spoke sincerely, as we always do—we said what we thought. We were unbelievably childlike, naïve in our truth, but nonetheless we are not sorry for our words, and this includes our words on that day. And having been maligned, we do not want to malign others in response. We are in desperate circumstances, but we do not despair. We are persecuted, but we have not been abandoned. It is easy to degrade and destroy people who are open, but “When I am weak, then I am strong.”
Listen to our words and not to what [pro-Putin television journalist] Arkady Mamontov says about us. Do not distort and falsify what we say. Allow us to enter into a dialogue, into contact with this country, which is also ours and not only the land of Putin and the Patriarch. Just like Solzhenitsyn, I believe that in the end the word will break cement. Solzhenitsyn wrote: “Thus, the word is more essential than cement. Thus, the word is not a small nothing. In this manner, noble people begin to grow, and their word will break cement.” [Solzhenitsyn, The First Circle]
Katya, Masha and I may be in prison, but I do not consider us defeated. Just as the dissidents were not defeated; although they disappeared into mental institutions and prisons, they pronounced their verdict upon the regime
I really don't want to recap the gross injustice done to three of the members of the riot grrrl group Pussy Riot by the courts of Russia. There's a really thorough and good recap of it at Mother Jones magazine. The short version is that Pussy Riot did an anti-Putin performance at Christ the Savior Cathedral in Moscow; three of the five members present were arrested for hooliganism. They were subsequently jailed for five months, run through a show trial in which they spent most of the time in a glass-sided cage, and then sentenced to two years in prison.--Nadezhda Tolokonnikova of Pussy Riot, from her closing statement
Then, a panel of experts diagnosed all three defendants with personality disorders based on their "activist" stances, "desire for self-realization," "overstated self-esteem," and tendency to voice their opinions.
(From Mother Jones, emphasis mine.)I can't help but wonder if this extra, nasty little twist can be credited to the fact that it was women daring to speak their mind. It has a familiar, despicable ring to it. And as Nadezhda points out, it's common practice for dissidents to have their credibility attacked, to be declared insane, all in an effort to take power from their voices.
What I really want to draw attention to is another thing that Nadezhda said; it has haunted me: Just like Solzhenitsyn, I believe that in the end the word will break cement.
This is the distillation of so much protest. We want to be heard. Because in being heard, we know we will triumph. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but words are geological in their nature, and over time they will wear down the tallest mountain. It seems plain that governments like Putin's understand this. So much governmental energy across the world is devoted to silencing people, because words are powerful. Words are the best and sometimes only weapon that any of us have.
I hope that enough pressure is put on Putin that this travesty is brought to an swift close. But even if not, the words are already out there, and they won't be forgotten. You can't stop the signal.
I now have mixed feelings about this trial. On the one hand, we expect a guilty verdict. Compared to the judicial machine, we are nobodies, and we have lost. On the other hand, we have won. The whole world now sees that the criminal case against us has been fabricated. The system cannot conceal the repressive nature of this trial.
--Yekaterina Samutsevich of Pussy Riot, from her closing statement
I am amazed that truth really does triumph over deception. Despite the fact that we are physically here, we are freer than everyone sitting across from us on the side of the prosecution. We can say anything we want and we say everything we want. The prosecution can only say what they are permitted to by political censorship.
--Nadezhda Tolokonnikova of Pussy Riot, from her closing statementFear has a way of robbing us of words. That's how bullies of all sorts operate, intimidating people into silence and eventual non-existence. But this shows the imperative that we must not be afraid, that we must stand and speak. It may be cold comfort, but I too believe that words win in the end. Love and the desire for freedom win in the end.
Words seem soft and simple, but so do the roots of trees.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Twitter is not a chore.
If you haven't read Justine Larbalestier's blog post about social media self-promotion for writers, you should. Obviously, as a writer who has actually published novels and made money, she has much more cogent and useful things to say about the issue than I do.
But I would like to add my two cents as someone who is attempting to do writerly things, and more importantly, someone who uses Twitter.
At one point, I saw a submissions call and checked it out. The publisher that issued the call had a note on it that basically said if you did not have X number of followers on Twitter and X number of followers on Facebook, you were obviously not serious about this writing thing and they wanted nothing to do with you. I found that incredibly offensive for a multitude of reasons.
Obviously, I know that being serious about being a writer isn't just about writing, as much as I wish it was. I'm not that naive. But this emphasis on social media, this requirement that you have to, by hook or by crook, have a minimum number of followers just pisses me off.
I use Twitter for fun.
I know some people acquire followers on Twitter by following people and hoping they get a follow back. That's never been my style, mostly because I read my Twitter feed in its totality. I may have to start messing with lists sometime soon anyway for time management, but I still am not going to follow someone unless I am actually interested in what they have to say.
Let me lay this out as a generic Twitter user: people who do nothing but relentlessly self-promote are goddamn boring. The authors that I follow (Justine Larbelestier, John Scalzi, Jim Hines, Neil Gaiman, etc) are on my list because they're interesting, not because I want to be updated daily on what they're selling. I like the heads up on new things coming, but they have a hell of a lot more to say than just "buy my book."
I have unfollowed people before because they rarely Tweeted anything that wasn't about their products. I've also unfollowed people because they were boring. What this tells me, as someone who now might want to approach this from the other side, is that maybe being on Twitter just so you can tell everyone to buy your shit is not going to work that well.
I don't like That Guy, you know, the one that only wants to talk to you so he can try to sell you something and tell you how awesome he is. I'd hazard that no one does. I refuse to be That Guy. You can't make me.
But I would like to add my two cents as someone who is attempting to do writerly things, and more importantly, someone who uses Twitter.
At one point, I saw a submissions call and checked it out. The publisher that issued the call had a note on it that basically said if you did not have X number of followers on Twitter and X number of followers on Facebook, you were obviously not serious about this writing thing and they wanted nothing to do with you. I found that incredibly offensive for a multitude of reasons.
Obviously, I know that being serious about being a writer isn't just about writing, as much as I wish it was. I'm not that naive. But this emphasis on social media, this requirement that you have to, by hook or by crook, have a minimum number of followers just pisses me off.
I use Twitter for fun.
I know some people acquire followers on Twitter by following people and hoping they get a follow back. That's never been my style, mostly because I read my Twitter feed in its totality. I may have to start messing with lists sometime soon anyway for time management, but I still am not going to follow someone unless I am actually interested in what they have to say.
Let me lay this out as a generic Twitter user: people who do nothing but relentlessly self-promote are goddamn boring. The authors that I follow (Justine Larbelestier, John Scalzi, Jim Hines, Neil Gaiman, etc) are on my list because they're interesting, not because I want to be updated daily on what they're selling. I like the heads up on new things coming, but they have a hell of a lot more to say than just "buy my book."
I have unfollowed people before because they rarely Tweeted anything that wasn't about their products. I've also unfollowed people because they were boring. What this tells me, as someone who now might want to approach this from the other side, is that maybe being on Twitter just so you can tell everyone to buy your shit is not going to work that well.
I don't like That Guy, you know, the one that only wants to talk to you so he can try to sell you something and tell you how awesome he is. I'd hazard that no one does. I refuse to be That Guy. You can't make me.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
It's my road too.
Dear person who honked at me:
Look, a car horn isn't really the best communication medium there is. I guess we could try morse code, or set phrases like the general 10-codes, but outside of that I don't really know what you're trying to tell me. Of course, I have some guesses.
Maybe you're trying to tell me that you think I should be on the sidewalk. Funny thing is, that's actually illegal in a lot of places. Bicycles are considered vehicles and as such, we're supposed to be in the street. And moreso, people like me who regularly commute via bicycle tend to cruise along at 20+ mph when we get going. I don't want to collide with a child or a family pet when going that kind of speed. It wouldn't end well for anyone.
So nothing personal, but I don't know you well enough to be willing to break the law for you, grievously injure someone's kid, or put myself in the hospital.
Maybe you're trying to share with me that you're really annoyed there's a bottleneck where cars can't go zooming around me, an I'm impeding your progress by up to thirty seconds. You'll have to forgive me if I don't have much sympathy for that. You can make up time a lot better than I can with just my quads and a couple of wheels to power me along.
Maybe you're trying to tell me that you saw another cyclist do Terribly Assholish Thing X, and you now hate all cyclists. Look, I'm sorry that someone was a jerk to you, but that doesn't mean I'm a jerk or deserve to be punished for their mistakes. When I was little, a dog bit me on the face. I still have a scar. But you don't see me going around and being mean to every dog I meet because I got the crap scared out of me once.
Maybe you're trying to tell me that you don't want to share the road with me. Tough shit, it's my road too.
Maybe you're trying to share the important information that your car is equipped with a horn. Well, that's nice to know. Good for you.
But this is the thing. When you honk at me, I can't hear any of that nuance. All I get out of it is: Just wanted you to know, I'm an asshole.
Hope that's what you were trying to convey.
Look, a car horn isn't really the best communication medium there is. I guess we could try morse code, or set phrases like the general 10-codes, but outside of that I don't really know what you're trying to tell me. Of course, I have some guesses.
Maybe you're trying to tell me that you think I should be on the sidewalk. Funny thing is, that's actually illegal in a lot of places. Bicycles are considered vehicles and as such, we're supposed to be in the street. And moreso, people like me who regularly commute via bicycle tend to cruise along at 20+ mph when we get going. I don't want to collide with a child or a family pet when going that kind of speed. It wouldn't end well for anyone.
So nothing personal, but I don't know you well enough to be willing to break the law for you, grievously injure someone's kid, or put myself in the hospital.
Maybe you're trying to share with me that you're really annoyed there's a bottleneck where cars can't go zooming around me, an I'm impeding your progress by up to thirty seconds. You'll have to forgive me if I don't have much sympathy for that. You can make up time a lot better than I can with just my quads and a couple of wheels to power me along.
Maybe you're trying to tell me that you saw another cyclist do Terribly Assholish Thing X, and you now hate all cyclists. Look, I'm sorry that someone was a jerk to you, but that doesn't mean I'm a jerk or deserve to be punished for their mistakes. When I was little, a dog bit me on the face. I still have a scar. But you don't see me going around and being mean to every dog I meet because I got the crap scared out of me once.
Maybe you're trying to tell me that you don't want to share the road with me. Tough shit, it's my road too.
Maybe you're trying to share the important information that your car is equipped with a horn. Well, that's nice to know. Good for you.
But this is the thing. When you honk at me, I can't hear any of that nuance. All I get out of it is: Just wanted you to know, I'm an asshole.
Hope that's what you were trying to convey.
Friday, August 17, 2012
The new arthropod invasion
I've been seeing fewer pillbugs these days, but more millipedes. While I wish the little guys would find somewhere else to hang out, I don't have a problem with them.
I actually have a lot of fond memories of millipedes. I used to volunteer at the Butterfly Pavilion and Insect Center in Westminster, Colorado. Back then they let us handle the giant African millipedes, which was a very cool experience. Those things get up to over a foot long, and like to curl around your wrists like bracelets made of cable. And then poop on you, but they don't mean anything by it.
Watching them walk is a really cool thing; their legs move in distinct waves. Millipedes, it should be noted, have two pairs of legs per body segment. And they don't have stingers. That would be centipedes (who have only one pair of legs per body segment), and I'm not a fan of those.
There was a giant Sonoran centipede at the insect center too. They did not let us handle that. It had stingers on the tail, one on each foot, and some terrifying jaws. Those things can eat lizards and little rodents. And apparently you should always pick them up with forceps longer than the actual centipede, because they can curl up fast and latch on.
Ugh.
But millipedes. Millipedes are cool. They also roll up in a ball like pillbugs when they're scared. Which is... shockingly adorable.
I've been picking up the little guys and letting them crawl over my hands as I carry them outside. They're much better at clinging than pillbugs. Though if you play with millipedes, you should wash your hands afterwards. And not just because of the messy millipede poops (they're kind of like the cows of the arthropod phylum, if you take my meaning) but because they secrete defensive chemicals if they get scared - such as hydrogen cyanide.
Also, unlike pillbugs, they have no terrifying marine cousins. So family reunions are, presumably, all cute with occasional pooping, and no tongue-eating.
I'm spending an inordinate amount of time these days on arthropod rescue. But we'll see who's laughing when I see a magical millipede safely to the planter outside and get three wishes as a reward.
I actually have a lot of fond memories of millipedes. I used to volunteer at the Butterfly Pavilion and Insect Center in Westminster, Colorado. Back then they let us handle the giant African millipedes, which was a very cool experience. Those things get up to over a foot long, and like to curl around your wrists like bracelets made of cable. And then poop on you, but they don't mean anything by it.
Ugh.
But millipedes. Millipedes are cool. They also roll up in a ball like pillbugs when they're scared. Which is... shockingly adorable.
Also, unlike pillbugs, they have no terrifying marine cousins. So family reunions are, presumably, all cute with occasional pooping, and no tongue-eating.
I'm spending an inordinate amount of time these days on arthropod rescue. But we'll see who's laughing when I see a magical millipede safely to the planter outside and get three wishes as a reward.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Situational assessment: GROSS.
Twitter is exploding about the situation with Julian Assange. I am averting my eyes and feeling creeped out. There is nothing in this situation that is not gross.
- Assange is wanted in Sweden over suspicion of sexual assault on two Swedish women. Gross.
- This is being downplayed by nearly everyone who is a fan of Assange and Wikileaks: also gross.
- Yet the giant swarm of British police at the Ecuadorian embassy sure seems to indicate, frankly, that this is not about the sexual assault charges in Sweden. Because when was the last time you saw any police force turn out like this to deal with a sexual assault case? Gross, gross, gross.
- Ecuador is giving Assange asylum not because of the situation in Sweden but because of what appear to be very justifiable fears that he will then be subsequently extradited to the US, since America wants his ass in the worst possible way. Thus making the sexual assault case a pawn in this despicable game. Disgusting.
- And of course, shout-out to America for being gross in its entire response to Wikileaks, particularly if those are our grubby little governmental fingers prodding the British along on this. Nuclear yuck.
Total Recall: An Inexplicable Obsession With Elevators
I tried to go in to this movie with an open mind. I really did, I swear.
Then Total Recall told me: So yeah. Elevator through the center of the Earth.
Well. If you're not going to take this seriously, neither am I.
And no, I don't count that as a spoiler, because the damn movie slaps you with that facepalm-inducing concept within five seconds of the opening credits starting. (If that revelation stops you from seeing this movie in the theater, I'd appreciate it if you use some of the money you saved to send me a cookie.) That's right. The grandeur of possibly fake saving an entire planet has been replaced with a giant elevator that somehow goes through the center of the Earth.
It's a sad, sad day when you manage to come up with a concept that makes even less scientific sense than the original Total Recall. And here's the thing: the elevator through the center of the Earth is actually the least aneurysm-inducing part of the world build. Don't even get me started on how the societal set up itself makes no damn sense. (Everything is a chemical cesspit except Europe and Australia so every day all the people from Australia get shipped to the other side of the world via the elevator to go to work WHAT okay I need to lay down now.)
I'm kind of wondering if the script writer was perhaps savaged by an elevator as a child. Because there is a lot of elevator action going on in this movie. Large chunks of it, action scenes and chase scenes, take place in elevators. I don't know, is there a Jungian archetype for this? I suppose we could get all Freudian and boil it down to sex because HEY A THING GOES INTO ANOTHER THING, only I can think of nothing potentially less sexy than Colin Farrell and Jessica Biel looking vaguely uncomfortable at each other in a giant elevator.
That, and this new version of Total Recall was so infested with lens flares that I had this crazy moment where I wondered if JJ Abrams had punched Len Wiseman in the head and taken over, only then it would have been a much more interesting and suspenseful movie. I'm not really a fan of the Abrams love affair with lens flares, but at least he manages to do it in a way that's not actively annoying. Here, I got very, very tired of seeing ghostly blue streaks over Jessica Biel's face. As far as I can tell, her only purpose in the movie was to look pretty, and that sure didn't help.
The original Total Recall wasn't exactly a festival of logic, but I think I was more willing to go with it because the movie so obviously didn't take itself seriously. I'm more than capable of enjoying movies that have a certain sort of gleeful badness - Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter anyone? - but with this one I just spent a lot of time rolling my eyes. Total Recall took the concepts of the old movie (loosely based as it was on We Can Remember It For You Wholesale) and sucked all the joyful, ridiculous mayhem out of it. So instead, it feels ponderous, silly in a squirm-inducing way, and you don't even get copious blood spatter as a reward.
Blah.
I did find it amusing that in the future:
There were precisely three things that I liked about this movie. One, the sets and backgrounds were done really well. I liked the sprawling multi-level dystopian metropolis. It looked intense, wonderful, and at times downright Blade Runner-esque, and that hits all the right geek buttons with me.
There were some great little nods to the original Total Recall that I appreciated, as someone who loves that movie in all its silly glory. There was the hooker with three breasts, the woman in the ugly yellow coat at security, and a lot of other little nods in lines. Spotting those Easter eggs were some of the only truly fun moments in the movie.
Third and most important, Kate Beckinsale almost managed to salvage the entire movie by being unbelievably badass in every single scene in which she appeared. I found myself hoping she'd show up even more often to punch the good guys repeatedly in the face. She also does the amazing Natasha Romanov-style crotch punch, which I will never get tired of seeing. The only regret I have is that at the end she gets killed by Collin Farrell. In the original movie, Quaid's not-wife gets taken out by his girlfriend, and it's quite satisfying. But as far as I can tell Jessica Biel's character was basically just there to look worried and get punched, so I suppose she didn't have the necessary reservoir of awesomeness to even penetrate Kate Beckinsale's BAMF field.
In the contest of which movie is a better homage to We Can Remember It For You Wholesale, neither Total Recall wins. They're based on the story, but it really should be "based" complete with scare quotes. I think I do have to reward the 1990 movie with a slight edge, though. Douglas Quail never goes to Mars in the short story, but the red planet is there, and aliens come up as well. And frankly, the 1990 movie does a much, much better job of creating that lingering, uncomfortable feeling about whether or not this entire thing was real, or just an insane fantasy.
Because let's be honest. If you're going for insane fantasies, standing on top of a mountain on miraculously terraformed Mars while kissing your girlfriend in a pose off a pulp fiction cover wins over celebrating blowing up the big, mean elevator by being wrapped in a blanket.
Go big or go home. You're better off getting your ass to Mars.
Then Total Recall told me: So yeah. Elevator through the center of the Earth.
Well. If you're not going to take this seriously, neither am I.
And no, I don't count that as a spoiler, because the damn movie slaps you with that facepalm-inducing concept within five seconds of the opening credits starting. (If that revelation stops you from seeing this movie in the theater, I'd appreciate it if you use some of the money you saved to send me a cookie.) That's right. The grandeur of possibly fake saving an entire planet has been replaced with a giant elevator that somehow goes through the center of the Earth.
It's a sad, sad day when you manage to come up with a concept that makes even less scientific sense than the original Total Recall. And here's the thing: the elevator through the center of the Earth is actually the least aneurysm-inducing part of the world build. Don't even get me started on how the societal set up itself makes no damn sense. (Everything is a chemical cesspit except Europe and Australia so every day all the people from Australia get shipped to the other side of the world via the elevator to go to work WHAT okay I need to lay down now.)
I'm kind of wondering if the script writer was perhaps savaged by an elevator as a child. Because there is a lot of elevator action going on in this movie. Large chunks of it, action scenes and chase scenes, take place in elevators. I don't know, is there a Jungian archetype for this? I suppose we could get all Freudian and boil it down to sex because HEY A THING GOES INTO ANOTHER THING, only I can think of nothing potentially less sexy than Colin Farrell and Jessica Biel looking vaguely uncomfortable at each other in a giant elevator.
That, and this new version of Total Recall was so infested with lens flares that I had this crazy moment where I wondered if JJ Abrams had punched Len Wiseman in the head and taken over, only then it would have been a much more interesting and suspenseful movie. I'm not really a fan of the Abrams love affair with lens flares, but at least he manages to do it in a way that's not actively annoying. Here, I got very, very tired of seeing ghostly blue streaks over Jessica Biel's face. As far as I can tell, her only purpose in the movie was to look pretty, and that sure didn't help.
The original Total Recall wasn't exactly a festival of logic, but I think I was more willing to go with it because the movie so obviously didn't take itself seriously. I'm more than capable of enjoying movies that have a certain sort of gleeful badness - Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter anyone? - but with this one I just spent a lot of time rolling my eyes. Total Recall took the concepts of the old movie (loosely based as it was on We Can Remember It For You Wholesale) and sucked all the joyful, ridiculous mayhem out of it. So instead, it feels ponderous, silly in a squirm-inducing way, and you don't even get copious blood spatter as a reward.
Blah.
I did find it amusing that in the future:
- Great Britain apparently becomes the Empire, complete with stormtroopers and battle droids. Glad to see that they're keeping up with their glorious tradition of being cartoonish villains in American-made movies.
- Enormous guns on combat helicopter things can only fire two second bursts and then have to reload themselves, which takes just long enough that they are basically useless.
- Collin Farrell gets his ass thoroughly kicked by a suit-wearing politician.
- Stabbing someone in the intestines kills them instantly, except that it doesn't because they subsequently come back to life just in time to be blown up.
- Bill Nighy is the leader of the resistance. (If I had somehow managed to keep it together after the ELEVATOR THROUGH THE CENTER OF THE EARTH thing, to be honest that would have killed it for me. Sorry, Mr. Nighy.)
There were precisely three things that I liked about this movie. One, the sets and backgrounds were done really well. I liked the sprawling multi-level dystopian metropolis. It looked intense, wonderful, and at times downright Blade Runner-esque, and that hits all the right geek buttons with me.
There were some great little nods to the original Total Recall that I appreciated, as someone who loves that movie in all its silly glory. There was the hooker with three breasts, the woman in the ugly yellow coat at security, and a lot of other little nods in lines. Spotting those Easter eggs were some of the only truly fun moments in the movie.
Third and most important, Kate Beckinsale almost managed to salvage the entire movie by being unbelievably badass in every single scene in which she appeared. I found myself hoping she'd show up even more often to punch the good guys repeatedly in the face. She also does the amazing Natasha Romanov-style crotch punch, which I will never get tired of seeing. The only regret I have is that at the end she gets killed by Collin Farrell. In the original movie, Quaid's not-wife gets taken out by his girlfriend, and it's quite satisfying. But as far as I can tell Jessica Biel's character was basically just there to look worried and get punched, so I suppose she didn't have the necessary reservoir of awesomeness to even penetrate Kate Beckinsale's BAMF field.
In the contest of which movie is a better homage to We Can Remember It For You Wholesale, neither Total Recall wins. They're based on the story, but it really should be "based" complete with scare quotes. I think I do have to reward the 1990 movie with a slight edge, though. Douglas Quail never goes to Mars in the short story, but the red planet is there, and aliens come up as well. And frankly, the 1990 movie does a much, much better job of creating that lingering, uncomfortable feeling about whether or not this entire thing was real, or just an insane fantasy.
Because let's be honest. If you're going for insane fantasies, standing on top of a mountain on miraculously terraformed Mars while kissing your girlfriend in a pose off a pulp fiction cover wins over celebrating blowing up the big, mean elevator by being wrapped in a blanket.
Go big or go home. You're better off getting your ass to Mars.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Fitness for Fat Nerds: Snot, Spit, and Tears
Alternative title: The Gross Stuff
Fair warning. This post is going to contain some frank discussion of less than fabulous bodily functions. (So if you'd like to avoid me discussing farting, etc, just skip this post.) I know this can be rough on us grown-ups, and it's even tougher for those of the female persuasion because the social norm is that girls aren't supposed to have bodily functions.
Because everyone knows we're not actually human.
I started off writing these Fitness for Fat Nerds posts because it was all stuff I wish someone had told me when I started exercising. Well, this falls under that category. I'm not going to claim that all these things or even some of them will happen to you, so don't worry about that. But if they do, I want you to know it's okay. It's not because you're going to die or because you're a fat nerd daring to exercise. People have various biological fiddly bits, and we emit fluids and smells and other things we like to pretend don't exist.
Hey, that's life.
Sweat
This is obvious, and I hope by now you've realized that everyone who has exercised ever sweats. There is nothing wrong with it. But I wanted to throw this out there because women in particular get discouraged from ever looking like we're anything but dry and sparkly and appropriately rose-scented, and it's total bullshit. Your sweat is effort, my darlings. The sweatier you get, the harder it means you worked. And frankly, even the most awesome deoderant that has ever been invented is not going to be able to hold out against a truly excellent workout.
Everyone smells bad after they've worked up a sweat. That's what showers were invented for. Revel in your sweat and workout stink. They're badges of honor. And if anyone ever, ever gives you crap about it like those little assholes did to me in junior high, you tell them that Rachael says they can fuck all the way off.
The only downside of sweat, to be honest, is that it gets in your eyes. And if you're a real sweat-monster like me, you can also inhale it up your nose. The former is awful and stings like hell, the latter just fells incredibly weird. This is why bandannas and sweatbands were invented. Don't feel bad about using them.
Also if you do a lot of cycling, you will occasionally get sweat splashback from other riders. It's a thing that happens, and not something to worry about. You're not going to catch a disease off of it, sweat really isn't that gross (it's basically water and salt) and keep in mind, you're probably splashing the people behind you. It's a thing that happens.
Snot
Snot happens to me with distressing regularity. Mostly when it's cold out, but I got hit with a bout of the runny nose today while I was riding my bike, and it was oh my god it's hot degrees outside in Houston.
All you can really do about it is sniff, blow your nose if you have some kleenex around, or my favorite, do the classic and subtle nose wipe on the sleeve maneuver. This is not acceptable behavior in normal social situations, but you're going to sweat through that shirt and chuck it in the wash as soon as you get home anyway. A little snot isn't going to make a difference one way or the other.
Spit
I also spit a lot when I work out. I have a problem anyway with mucus at the back of my throat, so I'm well-practiced at it. You'll notice spitting is a pretty common thing if you're going any kind of distance. Breathing through your mouth a lot tends to dry things up and make your spit thick and clingy, the sort of thing that then makes it harder to breathe. It happens, even if you're drinking plenty of water.
If you get a throat boogie or some nasty, thick spit? Don't choke yourself trying to swallow it. Spit and keep going. Just aim properly away from other people. (And particularly if you're riding, spit down, not out. It keeps your spit from hitting other riders in the peloton, which they appreciate, believe me.)
People seem to find it appalling in particular when women spit. Let them clutch their pearls; it's not your problem unless you spat on them.
Tears
I've noticed my eyes, like my nose, tend to run when it's cold. Also when I go really, really fast on a bike or have the wind in my eyes. I only mention it because it's in the title of the post. Carry on.
Farts (and worse)
This was something I mostly noticed when I was running. I don't know what it is about vigorously bouncing along the trail, but it can feel like you've taken everything in your intestinal track and compacted it downward. This can lead to some absolutely awe-inspiring farts.
This actually freaked me out enough the first few times it happened that I checked with a friend of mine who runs a hell of a lot more than I do. It's a Thing That Happens. Really, it's just polite to spare a moment of pity for anyone who is downwind of you. (And hope that you're not about to run into someone else's noxious cloud before it dissipates.)
It goes beyond that as well. I've had a friend or two, while trail running, that have had to take a furtive dive off into the bushes. I've managed to avoid that myself, but again, it's a Thing That Happens. It doesn't mean that you're dying or ate something bad.
Barf
This is a thing that's happened to me, due to both running and overexertion at kung fu. This is actually the only thing on this list that I'd count as bad and something you want to try to avoid, because it means you have pushed yourself way too hard. If you start feeling sick or dizzy, stop. Put your head between your knees.
Also, give yourself sufficient time between eating and exercising. That really helps the not-barfing efforts as well.
The Red Tide
This one is just for the biologically female fat nerds of a certain age range. And I actually don't have a whole lot to say about it, since recently I've started just taking birth control pills continuously so I can avoid having a period altogether. (Seriously, birth control pills, where have you been all my life?)
I will say I always hated exercising while I had my period, because I'm not a fan of tampons, and a sweaty pad is a thing of horror. While sometimes exercising seemed to make my flow temporarily stop, other times it would just sort of back up and then fwoosh. The sort of fwoosh that happens at the worst possible moment.
So I suppose file those under the heading of, "things that have happened to another girl." As far as I've known, ladynerds who don't have my issues with tampons do just fine using those.
Those are the major gross things that I could think of off the top of my head. Did I miss one? Have a, "Is this normal?" question? Throw it in the comments.
Fair warning. This post is going to contain some frank discussion of less than fabulous bodily functions. (So if you'd like to avoid me discussing farting, etc, just skip this post.) I know this can be rough on us grown-ups, and it's even tougher for those of the female persuasion because the social norm is that girls aren't supposed to have bodily functions.
Because everyone knows we're not actually human.
I started off writing these Fitness for Fat Nerds posts because it was all stuff I wish someone had told me when I started exercising. Well, this falls under that category. I'm not going to claim that all these things or even some of them will happen to you, so don't worry about that. But if they do, I want you to know it's okay. It's not because you're going to die or because you're a fat nerd daring to exercise. People have various biological fiddly bits, and we emit fluids and smells and other things we like to pretend don't exist.
Hey, that's life.
Sweat
This is obvious, and I hope by now you've realized that everyone who has exercised ever sweats. There is nothing wrong with it. But I wanted to throw this out there because women in particular get discouraged from ever looking like we're anything but dry and sparkly and appropriately rose-scented, and it's total bullshit. Your sweat is effort, my darlings. The sweatier you get, the harder it means you worked. And frankly, even the most awesome deoderant that has ever been invented is not going to be able to hold out against a truly excellent workout.
Everyone smells bad after they've worked up a sweat. That's what showers were invented for. Revel in your sweat and workout stink. They're badges of honor. And if anyone ever, ever gives you crap about it like those little assholes did to me in junior high, you tell them that Rachael says they can fuck all the way off.
The only downside of sweat, to be honest, is that it gets in your eyes. And if you're a real sweat-monster like me, you can also inhale it up your nose. The former is awful and stings like hell, the latter just fells incredibly weird. This is why bandannas and sweatbands were invented. Don't feel bad about using them.
Also if you do a lot of cycling, you will occasionally get sweat splashback from other riders. It's a thing that happens, and not something to worry about. You're not going to catch a disease off of it, sweat really isn't that gross (it's basically water and salt) and keep in mind, you're probably splashing the people behind you. It's a thing that happens.
Snot
Snot happens to me with distressing regularity. Mostly when it's cold out, but I got hit with a bout of the runny nose today while I was riding my bike, and it was oh my god it's hot degrees outside in Houston.
All you can really do about it is sniff, blow your nose if you have some kleenex around, or my favorite, do the classic and subtle nose wipe on the sleeve maneuver. This is not acceptable behavior in normal social situations, but you're going to sweat through that shirt and chuck it in the wash as soon as you get home anyway. A little snot isn't going to make a difference one way or the other.
Spit
I also spit a lot when I work out. I have a problem anyway with mucus at the back of my throat, so I'm well-practiced at it. You'll notice spitting is a pretty common thing if you're going any kind of distance. Breathing through your mouth a lot tends to dry things up and make your spit thick and clingy, the sort of thing that then makes it harder to breathe. It happens, even if you're drinking plenty of water.
If you get a throat boogie or some nasty, thick spit? Don't choke yourself trying to swallow it. Spit and keep going. Just aim properly away from other people. (And particularly if you're riding, spit down, not out. It keeps your spit from hitting other riders in the peloton, which they appreciate, believe me.)
People seem to find it appalling in particular when women spit. Let them clutch their pearls; it's not your problem unless you spat on them.
Tears
I've noticed my eyes, like my nose, tend to run when it's cold. Also when I go really, really fast on a bike or have the wind in my eyes. I only mention it because it's in the title of the post. Carry on.
Farts (and worse)
This was something I mostly noticed when I was running. I don't know what it is about vigorously bouncing along the trail, but it can feel like you've taken everything in your intestinal track and compacted it downward. This can lead to some absolutely awe-inspiring farts.
This actually freaked me out enough the first few times it happened that I checked with a friend of mine who runs a hell of a lot more than I do. It's a Thing That Happens. Really, it's just polite to spare a moment of pity for anyone who is downwind of you. (And hope that you're not about to run into someone else's noxious cloud before it dissipates.)
It goes beyond that as well. I've had a friend or two, while trail running, that have had to take a furtive dive off into the bushes. I've managed to avoid that myself, but again, it's a Thing That Happens. It doesn't mean that you're dying or ate something bad.
Barf
This is a thing that's happened to me, due to both running and overexertion at kung fu. This is actually the only thing on this list that I'd count as bad and something you want to try to avoid, because it means you have pushed yourself way too hard. If you start feeling sick or dizzy, stop. Put your head between your knees.
Also, give yourself sufficient time between eating and exercising. That really helps the not-barfing efforts as well.
The Red Tide
This one is just for the biologically female fat nerds of a certain age range. And I actually don't have a whole lot to say about it, since recently I've started just taking birth control pills continuously so I can avoid having a period altogether. (Seriously, birth control pills, where have you been all my life?)
I will say I always hated exercising while I had my period, because I'm not a fan of tampons, and a sweaty pad is a thing of horror. While sometimes exercising seemed to make my flow temporarily stop, other times it would just sort of back up and then fwoosh. The sort of fwoosh that happens at the worst possible moment.
So I suppose file those under the heading of, "things that have happened to another girl." As far as I've known, ladynerds who don't have my issues with tampons do just fine using those.
#
Those are the major gross things that I could think of off the top of my head. Did I miss one? Have a, "Is this normal?" question? Throw it in the comments.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Waiting for Jason Bourne
I've got some mixed feelings about The Bourne Legacy. There was actually a lot that I liked about it. But there were certain choices that were made in the movie that I feel made it weaker, and I'm not really sure why they were done.
The non-spoiler summary:
Generally, it was a fun Bourne-style action movie. There was some suspense, interesting and wonderfully grimy settings, lots of improvised weapons. There were chase scenes where, as usual, I had absolutely no clue what the hell was going on, but I thought maybe we were winning. It was a fun way to spend my evening, though I don't know if my opinion would be the same if I'd gone in cold.
Jeremy Renner was likeable, Rachel Weisz was actually really interesting, and Edward Norton was a standard amoral government guy in a suit. There were a lot of missed plot opportunities that could have gone for some great character development and raised Renner's character Aaron Cross toward the level of Jason Bourne. I think instead, those opportunities got blown on making the chase scenes just a little more incoherent and shaky.
I don't feel like I wasted my time at the movie, and if there's a sequel (and I'm sure there will be) I'll definitely go see it. But I hope next time they give us more. The original Bourne movies really raised the bar on spy-fi in a lot of ways - internal drama to go with all the action, for one - and I'd like to see that legacy continue in truth.
THE WHOLE ENCHILADA WITH SPOILERS BELOW:
To begin with, there was the entire choice of making the events of the movie basically concurrent with The Bourne Ultimatum. I haven't had a chance to watch that movie in a while, but I remembered enough that I at least knew who Pamela Landy was and why a bunch of older white guys in suits were saying "My god," in deep, serious tones. I really don't know what the experience would have been like for someone who hadn't seen the original Bourne trilogy.
And of course, they kept bringing up Jason Bourne. The serious white guys in suits mention him constantly. Aaron sees his name carved in the bunk bed at the way house he stays at. We see a photo of him flashed during a newscast. But it feels like a plot point that never delivers because not once in the movie do we actually see Jason Bourne. Aaron doesn't meet him, or really seem to have any kind of attachment to him as anything but a name. This makes Bourne feel like something that got added in at the last moment as a way to keep his name in the title. He becomes the movie's Godot, where he never shows up even as he provides the necessary fig leaf to explain why the characters are talking. Though at least he never triggers a serious discussion about suicide being better than waiting any longer.
I understand if they couldn't get Matt Damon. But I think if they wanted to keep the connection between the original three movies and this one, they needed to find a better way to connect the character of Jason Bourne to the new guy, Aaron Cross. Maybe they met once in the back story. Maybe Bourne is a legend in the program and his defection has a real psychological effect on its last living lab rat. Maybe Aaron could have found out more about Bourne and taken some kind of direction or inspiration from the way that he went rogue and remade himself. (Actually, I think that would have been really interesting...)
Then there's the issue of LARX-3. He has no name other than that. He also, to the best of my memory, has no dialog, and only two facial expressions - cold and grrrrr. He also feels like an afterthought to the plot - an oh shit we're in the third act and the boss fight music just cued up, send in the plot device! Part of what made the original Bourne movies so interesting was that anyone significant Jason Bourne faced had at least some kind of internal life - which made his killing them more meaningful, both to the audience and to him as a character. The way the end battle with LARX-3 played out, it was really like Aaron versus the drone part two. It was another missed opportunity, I think. Even if the point of LARX-3 was that he's a human with the humanity removed, that would have been great food for thought for Aaron had he known, I would think. Hey dude, that's the new model, see where we're going with this?
I really loathed what they did with the wolves while Aaron was up in Alaska. I'll just say here that I am anti-shooting and blowing up wolves, even if it's in movies. And the way the wolves were acting made absolutely no sense anyway, which just makes it a bit more annoying.
Otherwise I found the movie pretty enjoyable, though inferior to the original Bourne trilogy. Aaron Cross was a likable character, though he lacks what made Jason Bourne so interesting. Bourne's character development was really about him figuring out who and what he was, wrestling with the sins of his past, and then deciding to remake himself. Aaron's struggle is never really that visceral. While he mentions several times that he's done bad things (and thus they seem to bother him) he obviously kept going with the program and doesn't seem to struggle with it all that much.
His real motivation is to keep his enhanced mental capabilities because he doesn't want to regress to being an idiot, and it sounds like that regression process is really horrible. That's something that is sympathetic, but it lacks the punch of the "who was I? who will I be?" that we learned to expect from the Jason Bourne movies. There were a few tantalizing lines thrown in there - maybe predators don't think Aaron is human any more - but that incredibly interesting question never really seems to cross his mind.
I was actually far more interested in Dr Marta Shearing, the character played by Rachel Weisz. She does go through a really good character arc, where she starts out as someone who was "just doing science" without any real thought to the ethics, and has that come home to roost. She does struggle with that, and grows. Unlike Aaron, I think she comes to accept responsibility for her involvement, realizing how pathetic her own sacrifices (I didn't get to go to conferences! I couldn't talk to people about my work!) really were in light of the much larger, darker picture.
You weren't bad, Bourne Ultimatum. But I want more. Give me more. I expect better of you.
The non-spoiler summary:
Generally, it was a fun Bourne-style action movie. There was some suspense, interesting and wonderfully grimy settings, lots of improvised weapons. There were chase scenes where, as usual, I had absolutely no clue what the hell was going on, but I thought maybe we were winning. It was a fun way to spend my evening, though I don't know if my opinion would be the same if I'd gone in cold.
Jeremy Renner was likeable, Rachel Weisz was actually really interesting, and Edward Norton was a standard amoral government guy in a suit. There were a lot of missed plot opportunities that could have gone for some great character development and raised Renner's character Aaron Cross toward the level of Jason Bourne. I think instead, those opportunities got blown on making the chase scenes just a little more incoherent and shaky.
I don't feel like I wasted my time at the movie, and if there's a sequel (and I'm sure there will be) I'll definitely go see it. But I hope next time they give us more. The original Bourne movies really raised the bar on spy-fi in a lot of ways - internal drama to go with all the action, for one - and I'd like to see that legacy continue in truth.
THE WHOLE ENCHILADA WITH SPOILERS BELOW:
To begin with, there was the entire choice of making the events of the movie basically concurrent with The Bourne Ultimatum. I haven't had a chance to watch that movie in a while, but I remembered enough that I at least knew who Pamela Landy was and why a bunch of older white guys in suits were saying "My god," in deep, serious tones. I really don't know what the experience would have been like for someone who hadn't seen the original Bourne trilogy.
And of course, they kept bringing up Jason Bourne. The serious white guys in suits mention him constantly. Aaron sees his name carved in the bunk bed at the way house he stays at. We see a photo of him flashed during a newscast. But it feels like a plot point that never delivers because not once in the movie do we actually see Jason Bourne. Aaron doesn't meet him, or really seem to have any kind of attachment to him as anything but a name. This makes Bourne feel like something that got added in at the last moment as a way to keep his name in the title. He becomes the movie's Godot, where he never shows up even as he provides the necessary fig leaf to explain why the characters are talking. Though at least he never triggers a serious discussion about suicide being better than waiting any longer.
I understand if they couldn't get Matt Damon. But I think if they wanted to keep the connection between the original three movies and this one, they needed to find a better way to connect the character of Jason Bourne to the new guy, Aaron Cross. Maybe they met once in the back story. Maybe Bourne is a legend in the program and his defection has a real psychological effect on its last living lab rat. Maybe Aaron could have found out more about Bourne and taken some kind of direction or inspiration from the way that he went rogue and remade himself. (Actually, I think that would have been really interesting...)
Then there's the issue of LARX-3. He has no name other than that. He also, to the best of my memory, has no dialog, and only two facial expressions - cold and grrrrr. He also feels like an afterthought to the plot - an oh shit we're in the third act and the boss fight music just cued up, send in the plot device! Part of what made the original Bourne movies so interesting was that anyone significant Jason Bourne faced had at least some kind of internal life - which made his killing them more meaningful, both to the audience and to him as a character. The way the end battle with LARX-3 played out, it was really like Aaron versus the drone part two. It was another missed opportunity, I think. Even if the point of LARX-3 was that he's a human with the humanity removed, that would have been great food for thought for Aaron had he known, I would think. Hey dude, that's the new model, see where we're going with this?
I really loathed what they did with the wolves while Aaron was up in Alaska. I'll just say here that I am anti-shooting and blowing up wolves, even if it's in movies. And the way the wolves were acting made absolutely no sense anyway, which just makes it a bit more annoying.
Otherwise I found the movie pretty enjoyable, though inferior to the original Bourne trilogy. Aaron Cross was a likable character, though he lacks what made Jason Bourne so interesting. Bourne's character development was really about him figuring out who and what he was, wrestling with the sins of his past, and then deciding to remake himself. Aaron's struggle is never really that visceral. While he mentions several times that he's done bad things (and thus they seem to bother him) he obviously kept going with the program and doesn't seem to struggle with it all that much.
His real motivation is to keep his enhanced mental capabilities because he doesn't want to regress to being an idiot, and it sounds like that regression process is really horrible. That's something that is sympathetic, but it lacks the punch of the "who was I? who will I be?" that we learned to expect from the Jason Bourne movies. There were a few tantalizing lines thrown in there - maybe predators don't think Aaron is human any more - but that incredibly interesting question never really seems to cross his mind.
I was actually far more interested in Dr Marta Shearing, the character played by Rachel Weisz. She does go through a really good character arc, where she starts out as someone who was "just doing science" without any real thought to the ethics, and has that come home to roost. She does struggle with that, and grows. Unlike Aaron, I think she comes to accept responsibility for her involvement, realizing how pathetic her own sacrifices (I didn't get to go to conferences! I couldn't talk to people about my work!) really were in light of the much larger, darker picture.
You weren't bad, Bourne Ultimatum. But I want more. Give me more. I expect better of you.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Losing weight sucks
I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but I've been putting it off. It's tough to write. Anything about weight and self-image and societal bullshit is kind of destined to be.
Over the last two years and three months, I've lost about 70 pounds, going from 265 to 195. I'm now back down to what I weighed as a sophomore in high school, before I started training as a powerlifter. The reason I decided to try to lose weight (and keep trying) is because there's a lot of type II diabetes in my family, and I want to dodge that bullet.
I tell you this not as some kind of brag line, or because I'm looking for congratulations, but because I feel that it lends meaning to the point of this post. I lost 70 pounds. I generally feel healthier as a person. And I would never in a million years get on someone else's back and tell them they are in some way obligated do what I've done.
Losing weight sucks. It sucks a lot. It can be utterly soul-destroying, and it's self-inflicted.
There's this narrative that all us fat nerds know. It says that we must be fat because we're lazy. Because there is something fundamentally wrong with us. Because we're greedy. Because we're gross and lack the willpower to resist evil, sinful things like that piece of cake. It's our fault, and we deserve to be summarily judged by perfect strangers simply because of how we look.
After 70 pounds, I hate that narrative more than ever. I hate that people assume I must be significantly more physically fit now than I was 40 pounds ago. I hate that outside of my immediate circle of friends and family, the news that I weigh less than I used to is greeted with far more enthusiastic congratulations than the fact that I've published stories in professional magazines. The latter normally gets a, "Hey, that's cool." The former receives the kind of approbation I'd expect if I'd just fucking cured cancer.
I hate that I can't write about this without crying.
Losing weight sucks.
Anyone who tells you that losing weight is easy is lying to you. They're trying to sell you something, or they're trying to make you feel like shit because they're an asshole.
Between cardio activity and weights, I've probably spent 15-20 hours per week on physical activities in the last two years. It's like a part-time job. I write down everything I eat. Everything. And then I count the calories and wish I could have a beer, but not today.
I know I'm lucky. I have that kind of time I can invest into physical activity. I also know that my 15-20 hours a week is nothing compared to the time invested by people who are professionally good-looking. You know, the people we constantly get told we should look like, as if they are the true norm. There are a lot of people out there who literally do not have that kind of time; they have multiple jobs, they have kids, they have responsibilities that don't let them go ride around on their bicycle for two hours a night. And there are also people who just would rather spend their time doing something else, and I sure can't blame them for that. The only reason I've managed to keep doing it is because I like biking and kung fu.
I hate writing down everything I eat. I hate counting calories. I can't blame anyone who doesn't want to put themselves through that either. I don't feel like I have a right to demand that my fellow human beings are miserable. I could probably lose weight faster, but I'm human, and there are days where I decide that if I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I don't want to die regretting the fact that I didn't try the red velvet cake. If anyone has a problem with that, they're welcome to fuck themselves.
Losing weight sucks.
This is the part that sucks the most: it doesn't magically make you love yourself. You still look in the mirror and hate the same things about yourself that you hated 20, 40, 70 pounds ago. Losing weight is a slow motion process of punctuated equilibrium. You don't even realize anything has changed about your body until you look at old pictures. Maybe then you can feel like there's been some kind of improvement (however you judge that) but then it's back to the same you in the same mirror and the million things you wish were just different.
If I just lose some weight then I'll... is one of the dumbest phrases ever spoken. It's a lie, and an excuse. If you're not brave enough to do something now, you won't be when you weigh less.
Because there's still all the shit in your head, years upon years of the world teaching you to hate yourself, and that's harder to lose than every spare pound you have.
Over the last two years and three months, I've lost about 70 pounds, going from 265 to 195. I'm now back down to what I weighed as a sophomore in high school, before I started training as a powerlifter. The reason I decided to try to lose weight (and keep trying) is because there's a lot of type II diabetes in my family, and I want to dodge that bullet.
I tell you this not as some kind of brag line, or because I'm looking for congratulations, but because I feel that it lends meaning to the point of this post. I lost 70 pounds. I generally feel healthier as a person. And I would never in a million years get on someone else's back and tell them they are in some way obligated do what I've done.
Losing weight sucks. It sucks a lot. It can be utterly soul-destroying, and it's self-inflicted.
There's this narrative that all us fat nerds know. It says that we must be fat because we're lazy. Because there is something fundamentally wrong with us. Because we're greedy. Because we're gross and lack the willpower to resist evil, sinful things like that piece of cake. It's our fault, and we deserve to be summarily judged by perfect strangers simply because of how we look.
After 70 pounds, I hate that narrative more than ever. I hate that people assume I must be significantly more physically fit now than I was 40 pounds ago. I hate that outside of my immediate circle of friends and family, the news that I weigh less than I used to is greeted with far more enthusiastic congratulations than the fact that I've published stories in professional magazines. The latter normally gets a, "Hey, that's cool." The former receives the kind of approbation I'd expect if I'd just fucking cured cancer.
I hate that I can't write about this without crying.
Losing weight sucks.
Anyone who tells you that losing weight is easy is lying to you. They're trying to sell you something, or they're trying to make you feel like shit because they're an asshole.
Between cardio activity and weights, I've probably spent 15-20 hours per week on physical activities in the last two years. It's like a part-time job. I write down everything I eat. Everything. And then I count the calories and wish I could have a beer, but not today.
I know I'm lucky. I have that kind of time I can invest into physical activity. I also know that my 15-20 hours a week is nothing compared to the time invested by people who are professionally good-looking. You know, the people we constantly get told we should look like, as if they are the true norm. There are a lot of people out there who literally do not have that kind of time; they have multiple jobs, they have kids, they have responsibilities that don't let them go ride around on their bicycle for two hours a night. And there are also people who just would rather spend their time doing something else, and I sure can't blame them for that. The only reason I've managed to keep doing it is because I like biking and kung fu.
I hate writing down everything I eat. I hate counting calories. I can't blame anyone who doesn't want to put themselves through that either. I don't feel like I have a right to demand that my fellow human beings are miserable. I could probably lose weight faster, but I'm human, and there are days where I decide that if I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I don't want to die regretting the fact that I didn't try the red velvet cake. If anyone has a problem with that, they're welcome to fuck themselves.
Losing weight sucks.
This is the part that sucks the most: it doesn't magically make you love yourself. You still look in the mirror and hate the same things about yourself that you hated 20, 40, 70 pounds ago. Losing weight is a slow motion process of punctuated equilibrium. You don't even realize anything has changed about your body until you look at old pictures. Maybe then you can feel like there's been some kind of improvement (however you judge that) but then it's back to the same you in the same mirror and the million things you wish were just different.
If I just lose some weight then I'll... is one of the dumbest phrases ever spoken. It's a lie, and an excuse. If you're not brave enough to do something now, you won't be when you weigh less.
Because there's still all the shit in your head, years upon years of the world teaching you to hate yourself, and that's harder to lose than every spare pound you have.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
And there is a winner!
That's right, the Clarion write-a-thon ended last week and I got all six of my short stories written. I also said that I would pick someone at random from my supporters to have naming rights to a character in one of my upcoming steampunk stories.
Thanks to Random.org for providing the RNG, we have a winner: Ivona Elenton!
I'll poke you at some point Ivona so we can chat about the dubious prize you've received. Thank you to everyone who supported me in the Clarion write-a-thon!
Thanks to Random.org for providing the RNG, we have a winner: Ivona Elenton!
I'll poke you at some point Ivona so we can chat about the dubious prize you've received. Thank you to everyone who supported me in the Clarion write-a-thon!
10 things
I miss about home:
- My husband, cats, parents, and friends. (Duh.)
- Sweating actually meaning something.
- The drivers. No, really. Colorado, I learned that I was so wrong to think you have terrible drivers. Compared to Houston, you're like angels on four wheels. I suppose my standards were just far too high, or I had no idea just what sort of mental deficients they'll allow to drive in other states.
- Tokyo Joe's. I'm once again fighting to keep my meat intake from going through the roof because I lack a decent source of vegetarian lunch food. I also miss it as a gathering of tattooed freaks. And I miss Sam, the awesome manager at the store in Boulder, because he's just too cute.
- Not being constantly covered with bug bites. The mosquitoes here are like fucking ninja.
- Landscape relief. Though I suppose once I'm back in Colorado and biking, I'll probably change my mind about that. I've been telling everyone here that hills are Good For You and a Character Building Exercise, but we all know that I'm lying. I do, however, honestly miss how a topographically wrinkly landscape looks. Mountains. Yeah, those things.
- My bookshelves. I brought some books with me to Houston, but of course, they're not the ones I want to read now. Because that's never how it works. That would be way too convenient.
- Desert sunrises and sunsets. Being able to actually look at the sun when it's low on the horizon without burning out my retinas still freaks my shit out. It's just not natural.
- Trivia night. I want my beer, sammich, and bitching about the awfulness of the audio round.
- My hair not looking like an orange fright wig. That was an awesome time in my life.
I will miss about Houston:
- Those awesome comedy road signs that urge people to drive friendly because it's the Texas way... wait, those aren't supposed to be funny? Shit.
- The really awesome people from Come Ride With Us! They got me out and biking in the sweltering heat and I had a heck of a lot of fun.
- My skin not trying to peel off constantly. I was able to almost stop using lotion entirely. It's crazy. Unheard of. Normally in Colorado I'm like a snake trying to molt.
- Chuy's. I love that place. Maybe too much. They know me by name. And the host has started asking me about the different books I read.
- Road biking on easy mode. Hills? What are those?
- My coworkers from the URC. I got to work with Tim Demko, Kevin Bohacs, and Joe Macquaker. If you don't know who they are, that's probably because you're not a sedimentary geologist. I just about crapped my pants when I found out who I'd be working for because I've read so many of their papers in class. And they're all really amazing, nice people.
- The awesome bowties that Kevin Bohacs wears.
- Everyone saying "y'all" even more than I do.
- Not having a car. I know that's strange to say, but it actually helped me a lot to be compelled to ride my bike everywhere. I'm kind of worried that when I get back to Colorado I'm going to settle very quickly back into being lazy and driving all over.
- The millipedes. So many adorable little millipedes.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Paul Ryan. Whee.
Whee?
Me, this morning on Twitter: Gosh, I am at the edge of my seat over which anti-gay white guy who thinks women aren't really people Mitt Romney will pick.
And thus, Paul Ryan. Whee. He's got the standard Republican anti-gay stuff going. He thinks women aren't grownups who should be allowed bodily autonomy. He's a climate-change denier. As far as I can tell, that's basically the standard at the moment.
All that's made him stick out to me is that he apparently does P90X. Which let me tell you, I would pay some good money to see him drag Mitt Romney on some of those workouts. (And then presumably Mitt Romney would hire an undocumented worker from Mexico to do the workouts for him. Zing!) I've done P90X and then I stopped because I just didn't hate myself that much. So good on Paul Ryan for being kind of a badass there.
He's also got the economics cray-crays in a big way. His proposed budget has reduced my husband (reminder: Masters in math with economics) into sputtering incoherence on three separate occasions, which is a fairly impressive feat when you consider Mike's normal attitude can be fairly characterized as somewhere between phlegmatic and maybe I should check and see if he still has a pulse. For added hilarity, Paul Ryan seems to have a total schoolboy crush on Ayn Rand, except for that gross part where she's an atheist.
Ultimately it makes no difference to me, because there are not enough drugs or brain trauma in this world of ours to get me to vote for Mitt Romney, who I consider a solid gold lying shitbag who stands out even in the kingdom of the lying shitbags. (The part where he hates gay people and has no respect for the agency of women also doesn't help, obviously.) I just plan on watching with mild interest to see how this effects the campaign going forward.
And I think he'll be a much bigger challenge to good ol' Joe in the VP debate than Sarah Palin was. I have no idea what kind of drinking game we'll need to craft this time around.
Additonal reading which is much, much more informative than my contempt-filled sarcasm: Fussbudget - Paul Ryan's influence on the GOP from the New Yorker. The author of that article did an interview with Fresh Air on August 1 that was an interesting listen.
Me, this morning on Twitter: Gosh, I am at the edge of my seat over which anti-gay white guy who thinks women aren't really people Mitt Romney will pick.
And thus, Paul Ryan. Whee. He's got the standard Republican anti-gay stuff going. He thinks women aren't grownups who should be allowed bodily autonomy. He's a climate-change denier. As far as I can tell, that's basically the standard at the moment.
All that's made him stick out to me is that he apparently does P90X. Which let me tell you, I would pay some good money to see him drag Mitt Romney on some of those workouts. (And then presumably Mitt Romney would hire an undocumented worker from Mexico to do the workouts for him. Zing!) I've done P90X and then I stopped because I just didn't hate myself that much. So good on Paul Ryan for being kind of a badass there.
He's also got the economics cray-crays in a big way. His proposed budget has reduced my husband (reminder: Masters in math with economics) into sputtering incoherence on three separate occasions, which is a fairly impressive feat when you consider Mike's normal attitude can be fairly characterized as somewhere between phlegmatic and maybe I should check and see if he still has a pulse. For added hilarity, Paul Ryan seems to have a total schoolboy crush on Ayn Rand, except for that gross part where she's an atheist.
Ultimately it makes no difference to me, because there are not enough drugs or brain trauma in this world of ours to get me to vote for Mitt Romney, who I consider a solid gold lying shitbag who stands out even in the kingdom of the lying shitbags. (The part where he hates gay people and has no respect for the agency of women also doesn't help, obviously.) I just plan on watching with mild interest to see how this effects the campaign going forward.
And I think he'll be a much bigger challenge to good ol' Joe in the VP debate than Sarah Palin was. I have no idea what kind of drinking game we'll need to craft this time around.
Additonal reading which is much, much more informative than my contempt-filled sarcasm: Fussbudget - Paul Ryan's influence on the GOP from the New Yorker. The author of that article did an interview with Fresh Air on August 1 that was an interesting listen.
My guilty pleasure
It's August. It must be time to resume my weird, shameful love affair with Project Runway.
I still can't figure out why I love this show so much, but I do. It's definitely not the bitchy cat fights, since those make me want to hide my head under a pillow in shared human shame. I think it's the fashion, as strange as that sounds. Because I don't understand fashion. I never have, and I think at this point I just never will.
The part I like most about the show is watching the designers make art, and talk about it, and feeling utterly mystified because I have no idea how any of it works. I'm one of those people who really just needs a personal retainer of to tell me what clothes I should and should not wear.
Justine Larbalestier recently wrote a blog post about writers and our obsession with process porn. Writers really like talking about how we write rather than necessarily what we're writing (because that's a secret). Honestly, I think some writers like to talk about it a little too much, which is why I make a conscious effort to minimize that kind of navel gazing.
Perhaps the reason I like Project Runway so much is that it's a little slice of process porn for a different kind of art, watching the designers struggle to come up with something and work through it. That's actually the part of it I enjoy watching the most. Not the runway stuff at the end, or them saying snippy things about each other in interviews, but them scurrying around the work room and building their projects up, tearing them down, and then rebuilding them in search of their idea.
I just wish I understood the art itself. But then I remember I'm both intensely lazy and unable to feel comfortable in any clothes that aren't specifically intended to be copiously sweated in to and I slink quietly away.
I'm loving all the female designers this season so far, by the way. My favorites are Sonjia and Alicia. I hope they stay in for a long time! (And I wish I looked like Alicia so I could dress like her. Yes. I'm aware this means fundamentally I want to dress like an adorable lesbian. I fail to see the problem with that.)
I still can't figure out why I love this show so much, but I do. It's definitely not the bitchy cat fights, since those make me want to hide my head under a pillow in shared human shame. I think it's the fashion, as strange as that sounds. Because I don't understand fashion. I never have, and I think at this point I just never will.
The part I like most about the show is watching the designers make art, and talk about it, and feeling utterly mystified because I have no idea how any of it works. I'm one of those people who really just needs a personal retainer of to tell me what clothes I should and should not wear.
Justine Larbalestier recently wrote a blog post about writers and our obsession with process porn. Writers really like talking about how we write rather than necessarily what we're writing (because that's a secret). Honestly, I think some writers like to talk about it a little too much, which is why I make a conscious effort to minimize that kind of navel gazing.
Perhaps the reason I like Project Runway so much is that it's a little slice of process porn for a different kind of art, watching the designers struggle to come up with something and work through it. That's actually the part of it I enjoy watching the most. Not the runway stuff at the end, or them saying snippy things about each other in interviews, but them scurrying around the work room and building their projects up, tearing them down, and then rebuilding them in search of their idea.
I just wish I understood the art itself. But then I remember I'm both intensely lazy and unable to feel comfortable in any clothes that aren't specifically intended to be copiously sweated in to and I slink quietly away.
I'm loving all the female designers this season so far, by the way. My favorites are Sonjia and Alicia. I hope they stay in for a long time! (And I wish I looked like Alicia so I could dress like her. Yes. I'm aware this means fundamentally I want to dress like an adorable lesbian. I fail to see the problem with that.)
Friday, August 10, 2012
Have I mentioned that I hate public speaking?
Because I do. I really, really do.
For this internship, I've had to give four presentations, in front of rooms filled with people I don't know that well, many of whom seem to delight in asking really hard questions. I guess it's one of those sink or swim things. Even better, for three out of the four presentations, I had to go first out of my group since it was my responsibility to set up the background for the larger presentation.
So much anxiety.
I think the secret is acting. As in, acting like I'm not someone who is utterly terrified. It seems to be working for me. To the point that statements like, "You know, I wish I could answer that question but I can't remember at the moment because I'm scared out of my mind," get treated as laugh lines rather than a pathetic truth. Or maybe everyone just sympathizes.
Also, ostracods. Why can't I remember your name when I'm actually trying to give a presentation, yet it comes popping back into my head the instant I sit down? This has happened all three times I've given this presentation. Enough is enough.
I'm grateful that at least I'm no longer paralyzed with vomit-inducing terror when it's time to give a talk. I can fake being a normal human being who can communicate without looking like she's about to get strapped into the electric chair.
I think Skepticamp's helped me with this a lot, actually. It's one of the few places I've ever willingly given a talk, and several times at that. Even if I am, as usual, absolutely terrified while I do it. Though I seem to mask my fear well enough with enthusiasm, from what I've heard. My desire to nerd out about something geology-related is apparently enough to get me over the pant-shitting prospect of a room full of people I don't know who might ask me a question for which I have no answer.
Skepticamp is also where I cemented my bad presentation habit of just throwing slides on the screen and bullshitting at them. Everyone else in my team wrote exhaustive notes to themselves on their slides. I... don't. Ever. I just make my slides, go through them a few times so I can remember the approximate order (even I know it's a bad, bad thing to be surprised by your own slides), and then figure if I know the subject well enough, I'll be able to talk through it just fine when the time comes. So far it's worked out okay for me.
Except the damn ostracods.
Anyway, I've survived the intern forum, which means I'm home free! I have another two weeks at work, but no more presentations, thank goodness. I shouldn't have to stare Powerpoint in its stinky, evil little eye again until it's time for me to put together a presentation for my Masters thesis and AGU. (Ah, AGU. I will begin dreading you now so I can pace myself.)
At least there are no ostracods in the Bighorn Basin.
For this internship, I've had to give four presentations, in front of rooms filled with people I don't know that well, many of whom seem to delight in asking really hard questions. I guess it's one of those sink or swim things. Even better, for three out of the four presentations, I had to go first out of my group since it was my responsibility to set up the background for the larger presentation.
So much anxiety.
I think the secret is acting. As in, acting like I'm not someone who is utterly terrified. It seems to be working for me. To the point that statements like, "You know, I wish I could answer that question but I can't remember at the moment because I'm scared out of my mind," get treated as laugh lines rather than a pathetic truth. Or maybe everyone just sympathizes.
Also, ostracods. Why can't I remember your name when I'm actually trying to give a presentation, yet it comes popping back into my head the instant I sit down? This has happened all three times I've given this presentation. Enough is enough.
I'm grateful that at least I'm no longer paralyzed with vomit-inducing terror when it's time to give a talk. I can fake being a normal human being who can communicate without looking like she's about to get strapped into the electric chair.
I think Skepticamp's helped me with this a lot, actually. It's one of the few places I've ever willingly given a talk, and several times at that. Even if I am, as usual, absolutely terrified while I do it. Though I seem to mask my fear well enough with enthusiasm, from what I've heard. My desire to nerd out about something geology-related is apparently enough to get me over the pant-shitting prospect of a room full of people I don't know who might ask me a question for which I have no answer.
Skepticamp is also where I cemented my bad presentation habit of just throwing slides on the screen and bullshitting at them. Everyone else in my team wrote exhaustive notes to themselves on their slides. I... don't. Ever. I just make my slides, go through them a few times so I can remember the approximate order (even I know it's a bad, bad thing to be surprised by your own slides), and then figure if I know the subject well enough, I'll be able to talk through it just fine when the time comes. So far it's worked out okay for me.
Except the damn ostracods.
Anyway, I've survived the intern forum, which means I'm home free! I have another two weeks at work, but no more presentations, thank goodness. I shouldn't have to stare Powerpoint in its stinky, evil little eye again until it's time for me to put together a presentation for my Masters thesis and AGU. (Ah, AGU. I will begin dreading you now so I can pace myself.)
At least there are no ostracods in the Bighorn Basin.
DAMN YOU OSTRACODS!!!!
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