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Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Bus conversations are the best kind of conversations

I've been a little bit of a lazy blogger lately, mostly due to my recent purchase of ER Season 1. There are 15 seasons, so I'll see you all in a year or so...

Anyway, I heard a conversation today that is worth recording and proof that you should never talk on the phone while you're on the bus. Nobody wants to hear you talk to your mom on the Aggie shuttle, Loganites. But Eugene has a special breed of bus riders--they talk to the pharmacist on the bus. Here's a dramatic interpretation of the conversation I (and twenty other EmX patrons) overheard.  My thoughts are in bold. As a side note, the offender was wearing jeans with embroidery and and pockets with flaps. Jackson told me that only chumps wear pockets with flaps--he later proved his point in an Urban Outfitters
.
He looked kind of like this, actually:


Douche (presumably to an automated system): I want to talk to a person.
D: with increasing frustration I want to talk to a person. I want to talk to a person. I want to talk to a PERSON.
*presses zero*
What would happen if I turned around and said "how may I help you?"
Hey, how are you today? In a Joey Tribiane style.
I haven't had time to go to the doctor...but I have an old perscription that I want to renew. Could you look up the name for me--I'd be super grateful. I've been bogged down all day.
Doing what? Bicep curls. Sending audition tapes to The Jersey Shore?
 My name is "Jason." J as in jumping-jack
That would be J J. Also, is it necessary to spell "Jason." Your name isn't "supercilious."
A as in adventure.
Cool!
S as is sometimes.
O as in...pauses for a long time, because "O" is a hard one. Meanwhile the pharmacist has already typed in J-A-S-O-N.
O as in over.
Nailed it.
And N as in Nathan.
Dear God, please don't spell Nathan.
And my last name is Gotham.
You spell "Jason" but not your super tricky last name. I wonder if someone once told him to be sure to spell out his name, and he took that to mean "Jason."
It's a fungus cream from a few months ago.
AHH! Ima throwup. Where is the fungus?
long pause while pharmacist throws up and then explains something
I have to go to the doctor every time I get it?
WHERE IS THE FUNGUS? Can I catch the fungus?
Douche becomes very emotional, wavering between the urge to cry and the urge to punch the phone.
Aw, somebody's got the steroid grumpy grumps.  
That's retarded. I'm going to take my business somewhere else.


I assume he hung up at this point, due to the fact that getting a new prescription every time you have a fungus is "retarded." I had to get off the bus because it was my stop (and hello...fungus) so we'll never know how it turned out. I should probably note that I'm not this articulate or clever in my head, but those were his real words. Poor guy, what's he going to do? He'll probably have a monster and go to a dog fight or something. I gotta write a play.

I also want to mention that if you do a google search for "ultimate douchebag" there are about 50 pictures of "The Situation" and one of Ghandi. I understand though, that skinny little twerp was a to-tal douche.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Ride the wave

I went on a little trip with the boys these past three days. Disclaimer: Three days, no shower = not so cute Sarah

The Players:
 Michael, squinting

 Jackson, reading a map/ taking notes for his travel journal/ looking for treasure

 Me, riding the wave

 Rusty, surveying his kingdom

 Derek, in the distance on top of something

Although I felt a little bit like a scout master most of the time (Rusty was by far the best behaved) and it wasn't actually warm (in fact it snowed leaving the tent damp and freezing), overall the trip to Southern Utah was fun. I didn't take my camera on our first hike, but I'm sort of glad I didn't because I took so many pictures on the other two. Because it's a protected area, permits to the wave are nigh impossible to obtain--they only allow 20 people a day. We lost on our first try.  But, I guess we're lucky because on day two, our number was picked out of 52 applications. Holla! In fact our number was picked first. Michael and I sort of looked at each other and made a "Well, I didn't expect that to happen" shrug and grinned. We waited till we were out of ear shot of the losers to celebrate.

I will attack you with pictures now. You ought to double click on some of them.  


I took these on the side of the road. in the snow. after we ran out of gas. seven miles shy of Kanab. It was sort of a comedy of errors really. A kindly couple from Illinois took pity on us and shuttled us to a gas station a few miles down the road. Jackson and Derek rode into town while the lady gave them advice like "never run out of gas" or "don't pick up hitchhikers" and "you know, there are places that you can go hiking where you don't have to win the lottery." She predicated all of these statements with "As a mother..." What an interesting way to veil criticism. I'm glad they helped us though.

Paria Canyon:






Look at those clouds! It was windy so they were moving really quickly. I think this is what they mean when country stars sing about wide open spaces.

The Wave:




 I think rock elves live in this little house.




 Ignore that thing in the back. I'm not sure what I was going for, but I love this Michael face.




Good work team.

I'm going to go sleep in my heated bed now. Maybe I'll take two showers tomorrow...

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Is it spring break yet?

In a few hours I'm taking off. Today has been lousy: two finals and a disappointing grade. But! I'm going to see my puppy and my parents and all the people I love. Maybe that will help me remember that art history isn't very important, after all.

So ready for Spring.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Strange Stirrings


I'm blogging in celebration of finishing a paper. Two down, one to go. Woot.

So, I’m reading Stephanie Coontz’ book, Strange Stirrings,  about the 1960s and the reaction to the Feminist Mystique. Don’t worry—I totally shave my armpits. I saw her interviewed on The Colbert Report, and I thought they were so funny, that I Amazoned it a few minutes later. Apparently, if the author is willing to make fun of her book, I suddenly have to have it. I felt the need to share an excerpt (nobody sue me over copyright issues, please)…later we can all burn our bras and wear wooden clogs.

…Advice books for girls and women hammered home the idea that a woman’s greatest goal should be to get married and that she should bury her own interests and impulses in order to please and flatter a man into proposing. Even today some advice books for females are based on this idea, but such books stand out today precisely because they are out of step with mainstream mores. In 1963, Helen Andelin self-published Fascinating Womanhood, which became a runaway best seller when it was picked up by a mainstream publishing house in 1965. Andelin counseled women that the way to a happy marriage was to become “the perfect follower.” She urged them to cultivate a “girlish trust” in their man and never to “appear to know more than he does.” A woman should never let her voice exhibit such qualities as “loudness, firmness, efficiency, boldness.” While it was okay to get angry, she told them, you should be sure to display only “childlike anger,” which included “stomping your feet” and scolding your man in terms that flattered his sense of masculinity, such as “you big hairy beast.”

Does anyone feel like this could be a huge insult to male intelligence? If I called Michael a “big hairy beast” and then talked quietly (not loudly or efficiently), I think he’d be offended and think that I was mocking him. I think the “perfect follower” is a liar. It also sort of cheapens marriage. There’s something special about commitment—there’s nothing special about tricking a guy to propose.

An article in the January 1960 McCall’s, “Look Before You Leap,” presented a list of questions for prospective brides to answer before they married. The magazine urged the woman to be sure she would be able to press her husband’s trousers, iron his shirts, and cook meals he liked. It also asked: “Has he pointed out things about you that he doesn’t like, and have you changed because of what he’s says?” The correct answer was, of course, yes, but women’s magazines and advice books were unanimous in warning women against pointing out anything they didn’t like in their mates.

Beyond obviously limiting woman’s capacity and intellectual focus to ironing, this again basically tells woman to lie to their husbands. Wouldn’t it be nicer if you ironed some pants because you recognized that the pants needed to be ironed and it made the most sense for you to do it, instead of because you are supposed to?

Once they were married, women’s work was truly never done. Typical of the advice to wives at the dawn of the 1960s was a piece in the December 18. 1930, issue of Family Weekly magazine, inspired by the fact that the student council of New York University’s college of engineering regularly presented “Good Wife” certificates to “worth” wives whose “encouragement, collaboration and understanding” had helped their husbands complete their degrees. “Could You Win the ‘Good Wife Certificate?’ asked the author, a noted marital advice authority of the day. He proceeded to enumerate what it took to make the grade: A good wife makes her husband “feel that he is the boss at home.” She “shares her husband’s goals, fitting them to her own. She is willing to wait patiently for the ultimate rewards.”

I think it’s pretty obvious that your partners often support and buoy your endeavors. But this idea that door only swings one way is pretty scary. I also just can’t get over the idea that “supporting and encouraging” is something that you’re supposed to do—because, frankly, it becomes less meaningful, like it’s all an act.

She understands that “physical love is a symbol of devotion rather than an end in itself, and she is aware that such physical need is usually greater in the male.” For this reason, she “never makes him feel inadequate.”

Oh man.

In conversations, the good wife permits her husband “to take the lead” without interrupting. “She follows an open door policy” for his friends, “even if she finds them dull or sometimes disagreeable.” But she also respects her husband’s need for privacy so “she leans when to keep quiet…If he’d rather read or watch a ball game on television, she avoids disturbing him with idle chatter.”

…She does not insist that her husband share in household chores of child care “her mate is not converted into a mother substitute.” Finally, if she has a part-time career or full-time job, it doesn’t take priority in her life, and her own work should not become more important to her than his.”

There is a clear subjugation of woman’s roles here—but how about Daddy. He’s just supposed to bring home the bacon; his participation in child rearing is just acting as a “mother substitute.” I’m glad my dad was allowed to love me. As much as I wouldn’t want to be the wife in this scenario, I wouldn’t want to be the husband either. By the way, I challenge you to meet a good parent that puts their work before their children, male or female. You know who else gets a bum deal? The kids. I’m very confident that my mom (and dad) made the right choices for me, because she loved me and she wanted to—not because she was following a handy rule book and just doing her duty. That totally cheapens motherhood. It’s like sucking out all the good parts of families and leaving just housework and placating your husband’s ego. Yuck.

Anyway, the book is a pretty light-hearted look at 1960s inequality. That might have seemed like a silly statement, but it can get a lot worse, I’ll tell you. It’s also nice to read something contemporary, instead of something from that movement.

And if you don’t like this blog post, I’ll just call you a hairy beast and then you can tell me what’s wrong with me.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Raindrops on roses and whales in the ocean

Logan came to see me this weekend. How many people can sleep in my little apartment? At least six. It was kind of fun to host and really fun to not talk about art history. We saw whales, seals, sealions and a deer. The other animals were really nice, but that deer was a total jerk and lept right in front of the other car on our drive back from the coast. The car survived, minus one air conditioning system. At least there were two engineers on board and the Loganites were able to continue on this morning.

Back to merrier things... The Oregon coast is so pretty, I know I've blogged about it before here but it was really entertaining to hop around tide pools and listen to Mandy speak whale (Heeeeelllloo). We also got a really sunny day. I think being on a boat for a few hours in choppy water and rain would have made the whales less interesting. Our "captain," found a pod of four or five about two miles off shore, by looking for spouts of water and we'd sit and wait for them to surface (about five minutes). They would breathe a few times, shooting water in the air, rear their heads up and dive again showing off their tails. Just heading to Alaska, you know.

It was very neat to see, and impossible to photograph. So, drumroll...here are my whale pictures.

This is a spout, from a distance. Also, some water on the lens. 

This is a whale. Obviously.

 Michael didn't even get sick. Although, he did comment "someday I'll be on solid land" quite a few times on the return journey. He looks a little like a sea captain himself.
"We're on a boat."

Then we walked around Newport and Depoe Bay where we found a store dedicated to Twilight and Pirate memorabilia (naturally), strolled on the beach hunting for tide pool creatures and ate delicious seafood. I'm just going to post a million pictures now, saavy?

 Andre!


 The sealions made odd humming noises and barreled in and out of the water.


 Michael's trying to be my dad. In the older post.
My blog has an iconography; I'm so proud.

 I'm determined.













She's the best. Thanks for coming to see me guys!


 Mandy and I discovered that Michael is terrible at taking jumping pictures. Someday I'll show you the (many) failed attempts.