Happy Monday

Because I love you all, I would like to share my current favorite thing.



The Palin impression is so right on that it makes me giggle. And then realize that Tina Fey would make a better VP pick. Also I would like to see the above stated version of the Bush Doctorine.

The Year Is But A Fetus.

Have I lost all my readers by way of being an angry feminist? No? Both of you are still here? Great. And aren't you glad you stuck around? Because Im posting two days in a row. And I never do that! Mostly because I want to keep you addicted. Supply and demand people, supply and demand (I clearly don't have a good grasp on economics since I may or may not be misusing this term, but it seems to vaguely apply. Also marginal propensity. I think that has to do with supply too.)

Anyway, you are in for a treat because I spent a good chunk of my day elbow deep in freshmen (not literally) here on campus for the Week of Welcome. And really, I feel like Jane Goodall back from a day with the chimps. (Gorillas? Whatever.)

I saw no less than 47 million "dresses" that were actually born shirts but forced to pull double duty to try to hide the vajayjays of the same number of underaged girls.

Also, I don't know if I'm too old to understand this (having already achieved puberty), but are the 80s back? Because I thought I had buried my neon colored sunglasses and leg warmers under a full moon with garlic but they seem to have clawed their way out of the grave and onto the shelves of Abercrombie and Skank, or wherever the little heathens shop these days.

And...

Overheard today:

Girl 1: ...and I bought college underwear.
Girl 2: I need to do that. Everything is just so...
Girl 1: Like, immature. And I dont have enough thongs.

Im really looking forward to this school year.

Grinding My Gears.

I'm not aggressive about my feminism. I'm not the woman who will put you in a headlock in my unshaved armpits and make you read statistics about the pay gap and the glass ceiling and the double standards of a patriarchal society. I wear heels and skirts and I enjoy cooking and knitting and occasionally supplicating myself to my boyfriend...er partner? Whatever the hell I am supposed to be calling him these days. And thats OK. And if you want to have a heated debate on any of the above topics, or really, anything else, well thats fine too.

But occasionally, something will bring out the pissed off anti-establishment part of me. And today, that something was istockphoto.com. I usually use them as a source for imaging when I am creating event posters etc. for work, and they have yet to steer me wrong. I am creating signage for "Love Your Body Day" to promote positive self image for freshmen on campus. Before you get on your moral high horse, yes. We are talking about both genders. But we are focusing on women because there is a higher prevalence of negative body image in women ages 18-24 than their male counterparts. I have recent research to back this up. Argue with me. I will kick your ass.

Anyway, I initially envisioned a poster with a series of silhouettes of women, with information on the day's events. People. I am a patient woman (thats a lie, but today I actually was). I filed through almost 7500 images, typed in everything from "strong woman" to "female body" to "not anorexic stripper" to try to find ONE workable piece. And...

Not one. Not one image that wasn't a freakishly skinny computer image with huge breasts. The outfits changed. Some were bent over in sassy shoes. Some were brides. When I typed in "powerful woman" I got a series of hookers in cop outfits. Seriously. In fact, the only women that had any realistic proportions were the pregnant ones, calmly petting their swollen bellies, no doubt wondering how they were ever going to fit into their lingerie when they finally popped the damn thing out.

It made me sad. It made me angry. It made me wonder how its possible that at this juncture in our nations history, women are still only either sex or fertility. And if you want to be a "powerful woman" then you better have your cutoff vinyl cop outfit ready.

The Time I Met Tom Cruise.

Last night I was in the office until about eight. Which is a time of day I have not seen at work since school let out an eternity ago. But you know, the students are coming back and damned if Im not going to be prepared to jam some feminist rhetoric down their ungrateful throats.

Anyway, in an effort to make the long day up to myself, I decided to putter down to my local grocery to pick up some drumsticks. ( In case you people haven't been paying attention, I like drumsticks better than shoes and shirtless firefighters combined.) So. I put on my very favorite new fall sweater which has quickly bumped Simon off my list of "things I would save in a fire", and started down the street.

I got about three blocks from my house before I saw him. Scruffy looking homeless guy in his late thirties maybe? He was sitting on the outer garden wall of a bank strumming what I can only hazard to guess was an imaginary harp. Now growing up in San Francisco, there is not a lot about the homeless that surprises me. I have seen everything to the absolutely heartbreaking, to the downright hilarious (Joke Man on Haight Street, you sir, are a staple of my psychological development). But this chimeric maestro had a sign that said "Im the REAL Tom Cruise. And Im HUNGRY!!". True story. I didnt even add any exclamation points, although Im hazy as to whether there were in fact two or three, I decided to play it safe in the telling.

Anyway, on my way home I handed him two of my four drumsticks. I really wanted to stop and ask him how he felt about the media attention on Katy Holmes, and whether or not it was true that he wears lifts in his movies, and also what is up with scientology, do they really paint your hands purple? But. The E TrueHollywood story of Hugh Hefner was on at 9, and damned if I don't love the old geezer enough to jog all the way up my hill in order to catch it.

Chase Me With Pitchforks

I do not do well with physical ailments. A whiner by nature, I am only borderline able to deal with papercuts without the people around me wanting to slice out my tongue (which I am sure they would if they didnt think that it might just make me bitch even louder). Along with an unnaturally loud aversion to pain, I also hate physical abnormalities, particularly on my own pretty face. So when Dr. Death yanked out the wiser parts of my molars and left me looking like the cheek equivalent of the elephant man, I had no choice...

I officially became a recluse. I skulked around my apartment, sucking down Go!gurts and Trader Joe's applesauce like its going out of style. I watched Fried Green Tomatoes 3 times in the last three days. I also stared at myself in the mirror for the more solid part of 24 hours. Not because Im vain (ok, I am) but more so to get a better idea of what I would look like if only my face gained 80 pounds.

I realized the true extent of both my vanity and similarity in plot line to Frankenstein when I peered out into the sunlight to check my mail in between doses of vicodin. Shielding my eyes from the brightness, ( I resisted the urge to hobble for a more dramatic effect) I got half way before I saw my cute new neighbor and made a mad dash (also devoid of hobbling) back into my cave...er apartment.

Because this is what happens when you trap a narcissistic english major alone in her apartment.