My friend Sean made this cool clock.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Ladies thinkin' lady thoughts
On the bus this morning, I received an email with the following photo from Unearthed Caravan (try clicking the picture to see a larger version):
And I just...no. I mean I get what it's trying to say. OH BOY. Woman are from Venus and Men have Penises. Or something. And who doesn't love a good stereotype? I don't want to go all angry Hulk feminist about this, as one of my roommates might, but this is just such a poorly thought-out chart.
I have notes.
1. Shoes = pot of gold
First of all, am I the only one that thinks those shoes are disgusting? On closer inspection they seem to be Prada, but that doesn't matter. They look very dated and I don't want to put my feetses in them. I feel like if the Pope were into women's footwear, he'd totally wear these. If these shoes are unattainable in the way that a leprechaun's gold is unattainable, that's probably a good thing.
2. A ladies' room sign = a large round table
This is just stupid. I'll give you that some women like to go to the bathroom with their girlfriends. But who actually CONCEPTUALIZES the bathroom as a place where businesspeople talk about budget reports and upcoming projects? I have never prepared a Power Point presentation in anticipation of a visit to the bathroom.
3. Teeny spider + penny = little girl being mauled by a giant muppet
WHAT is that child doing with her face? Other than that, though, this is pretty accurate.
4. butter knife = screwdriver
Nope. Since when is this even a stereotype? I'm not going to pretend I know anything about tools, but what woman (who hasn't suffered from some sort of stroke) confuses a butter knife with a screwdriver?
5. Compass rose = ...does that really say "toward the mall"?
GUILTY. FINE. I don't understand cardinal directions and generally have no concept of where I am in space. Andy tries to teach me and I honestly try to learn, but after a few seconds the first few electric guitar chords of the overture from Jesus Christ Superstar sound in my head and all is lost because I'm too busy putting together my fantasy JCS cast. No, I won't tell you who I think should play Caiaphus. (It's that kid from the Chocolate Rain video.)
6. Parallel parking = a slimmed-down Pillsbury Doughboy trying to push a ball through a square hole.
Well if you're going to park like THAT, then yes, I would assume it would feel like that.
7. butt = larger butt
I get what this is trying to say. Women think they are fat. I have definitely looked in the mirror and thought I looked like a fatass. It happens. However, I have never stuck my butt out and took a photo of it, then looked at the photo and thought "Wow, so THIS is what that "apple bottom jeans" song is talking about, and also I have a rattail and may be black!"
8. 7:00 = 7:55
I don't really understand this one. I have a vagina, so when I read time I add 55 minutes? At first I thought this was trying to say something about how women are stereotypically late, but then wouldn't the clock that ladies see be earlier in time?
9: check engine = engine is fine, ignore this
I don't know about you, but I FREAK OUT if that light comes on and want to take care of it immediately. I freak out about lots of things, though, so I guess maybe this could be a stereotype I didn't know existed.
Thoughts? Am I being too critical?
And I just...no. I mean I get what it's trying to say. OH BOY. Woman are from Venus and Men have Penises. Or something. And who doesn't love a good stereotype? I don't want to go all angry Hulk feminist about this, as one of my roommates might, but this is just such a poorly thought-out chart.
I have notes.
1. Shoes = pot of gold
First of all, am I the only one that thinks those shoes are disgusting? On closer inspection they seem to be Prada, but that doesn't matter. They look very dated and I don't want to put my feetses in them. I feel like if the Pope were into women's footwear, he'd totally wear these. If these shoes are unattainable in the way that a leprechaun's gold is unattainable, that's probably a good thing.
2. A ladies' room sign = a large round table
This is just stupid. I'll give you that some women like to go to the bathroom with their girlfriends. But who actually CONCEPTUALIZES the bathroom as a place where businesspeople talk about budget reports and upcoming projects? I have never prepared a Power Point presentation in anticipation of a visit to the bathroom.
3. Teeny spider + penny = little girl being mauled by a giant muppet
WHAT is that child doing with her face? Other than that, though, this is pretty accurate.
4. butter knife = screwdriver
Nope. Since when is this even a stereotype? I'm not going to pretend I know anything about tools, but what woman (who hasn't suffered from some sort of stroke) confuses a butter knife with a screwdriver?
5. Compass rose = ...does that really say "toward the mall"?
GUILTY. FINE. I don't understand cardinal directions and generally have no concept of where I am in space. Andy tries to teach me and I honestly try to learn, but after a few seconds the first few electric guitar chords of the overture from Jesus Christ Superstar sound in my head and all is lost because I'm too busy putting together my fantasy JCS cast. No, I won't tell you who I think should play Caiaphus. (It's that kid from the Chocolate Rain video.)
6. Parallel parking = a slimmed-down Pillsbury Doughboy trying to push a ball through a square hole.
Well if you're going to park like THAT, then yes, I would assume it would feel like that.
7. butt = larger butt
I get what this is trying to say. Women think they are fat. I have definitely looked in the mirror and thought I looked like a fatass. It happens. However, I have never stuck my butt out and took a photo of it, then looked at the photo and thought "Wow, so THIS is what that "apple bottom jeans" song is talking about, and also I have a rattail and may be black!"
8. 7:00 = 7:55
I don't really understand this one. I have a vagina, so when I read time I add 55 minutes? At first I thought this was trying to say something about how women are stereotypically late, but then wouldn't the clock that ladies see be earlier in time?
9: check engine = engine is fine, ignore this
I don't know about you, but I FREAK OUT if that light comes on and want to take care of it immediately. I freak out about lots of things, though, so I guess maybe this could be a stereotype I didn't know existed.
Thoughts? Am I being too critical?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Why you shouldn't wear a heating pad around in the summer months
Today I have The Menstrual Cramping.
In most areas, I have a fairly high tolerance for pain: I have a tattoo, I used to dance around on blistered toes for hours, and one time I broke my arm and then pretended it wasn't broken for a full day before seeking medical attention because, WHAT THE FUCK MY ARM IS SWOLLEN TO TWICE THE SIZE.
For some reason, however, menstrual pains get me. And not like they get me as in:
me: I was so freaked out! It was a total mistake.
menstrual pain: Like that time that Michael Showalter shot a guy in "Stella" and was like "I. THOUGHT. HE. WAS. A. TURKEY. I SWEAR TO GOD."
me: (pregnant pause) That is exactly what I mean.
I mean that they get me in the way that I feel like I've been shot in the lower back and just want to cry about it all day and eat cookies.
Anyway, I was saying that today I am experiencing this type of pain. Since I'm stuck at work and can't be a little ball of miserable, I decided to at least invest in one of those little heating pads that you just slap on to whatever part of your body is acting up. After a few minutes of being THAT girl in CVS with my Midol and my heating pad and my laundry detergent (to make it less obvious that I'm obviously on my period) I was back in my office wrapping that magical heating pad around my belly.
And it was good. Friends, the next few hours sitting at my desk were a glorious blur of warmness. The heating pad felt so natural that I completely forgot it was on me!
This is where it gets good. At lunch time, I decided to run into Georgetown real quick to pick up a new concealer from Sephora. I'm sorry this post is so insufferably girly.
I was about ten minutes into the walk when I started thinking to myself, "Oh my is it warm out today. Especially around my midsection!"
Then a few paces later, "I mean, it's like the sun is lasering in on my lower back! How odd!"
Then about a block later, "That freaking heating pad is still on my back isn't it?"
I guess I can count myself lucky because the shirt I'm wearing today camouflaged the heating pad. But Christ, once I realized I was wearing it, and that I had no safe place to duck into to take it off, it seemed to just get warmer and warmer.
By the time I got to Sephora I was a sweaty mess. This is generally always an embarrassing thing to be, but in Sephora I'm always hyper aware of the judgmental, mascara'd eyes of the gays who work there. I always feel like I need to immediately apologize for my fashion, makeup and hair choices whenever a salesperson approaches me in that store.
Thankfully, I knew exactly where my concealer was, picked it up and got out of there pretty quickly. A steamy 20 minutes later, I was in my office bathroom frantically peeling the heating pad off my person then chugging a bottle of water. Not spazzy at all.
In most areas, I have a fairly high tolerance for pain: I have a tattoo, I used to dance around on blistered toes for hours, and one time I broke my arm and then pretended it wasn't broken for a full day before seeking medical attention because, WHAT THE FUCK MY ARM IS SWOLLEN TO TWICE THE SIZE.
For some reason, however, menstrual pains get me. And not like they get me as in:
me: I was so freaked out! It was a total mistake.
menstrual pain: Like that time that Michael Showalter shot a guy in "Stella" and was like "I. THOUGHT. HE. WAS. A. TURKEY. I SWEAR TO GOD."
me: (pregnant pause) That is exactly what I mean.
I mean that they get me in the way that I feel like I've been shot in the lower back and just want to cry about it all day and eat cookies.
Anyway, I was saying that today I am experiencing this type of pain. Since I'm stuck at work and can't be a little ball of miserable, I decided to at least invest in one of those little heating pads that you just slap on to whatever part of your body is acting up. After a few minutes of being THAT girl in CVS with my Midol and my heating pad and my laundry detergent (to make it less obvious that I'm obviously on my period) I was back in my office wrapping that magical heating pad around my belly.
And it was good. Friends, the next few hours sitting at my desk were a glorious blur of warmness. The heating pad felt so natural that I completely forgot it was on me!
This is where it gets good. At lunch time, I decided to run into Georgetown real quick to pick up a new concealer from Sephora. I'm sorry this post is so insufferably girly.
I was about ten minutes into the walk when I started thinking to myself, "Oh my is it warm out today. Especially around my midsection!"
Then a few paces later, "I mean, it's like the sun is lasering in on my lower back! How odd!"
Then about a block later, "That freaking heating pad is still on my back isn't it?"
I guess I can count myself lucky because the shirt I'm wearing today camouflaged the heating pad. But Christ, once I realized I was wearing it, and that I had no safe place to duck into to take it off, it seemed to just get warmer and warmer.
By the time I got to Sephora I was a sweaty mess. This is generally always an embarrassing thing to be, but in Sephora I'm always hyper aware of the judgmental, mascara'd eyes of the gays who work there. I always feel like I need to immediately apologize for my fashion, makeup and hair choices whenever a salesperson approaches me in that store.
Thankfully, I knew exactly where my concealer was, picked it up and got out of there pretty quickly. A steamy 20 minutes later, I was in my office bathroom frantically peeling the heating pad off my person then chugging a bottle of water. Not spazzy at all.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I'm not joining your bicycle gang.
This is a graphic representation of how good I am at certain activities:
As you can see, a fair amount of the activities on this very scientific, unbiased illustration are things that I do VERY well.
You can also see that a few of my “areas for improvement” involve wheel-based transportation.
Why even bring this up? Since you’re asking, and I admire curiosity, I’ll tell you. For the past six months or so, I’ve been put under increasing amounts of peer pressure to first purchase, then commit to riding, a bicycle. My parents and childhood friends can probably explain why this would be such a poor life decision for me. You can go ask them if you want, and I’ll sit here and prepare a list of Reasons Why I Don’t Want to Ride Bikes with You:
1. I can haz bike fundz? (see previous posts about being a poor Peace Corps Volunteer).
2. I prefer modes of transportation that don’t require helmets.
3. I don’t trust myself to not freak out if a car is anywhere near me at any given time on the road.
4. I don’t want to roll up my pants on one side.
5. This one time I was riding my bike in my neighborhood and I ran into a parked car.
6. Helmets are sweaty.
7. Helmets mess up your hair.
8. Is walking really so horrible? Why am I the only person that likes walking to places?
Friends, I really am sorry. I love you, but we’re not going for a bike ride.
As you can see, a fair amount of the activities on this very scientific, unbiased illustration are things that I do VERY well.
You can also see that a few of my “areas for improvement” involve wheel-based transportation.
Why even bring this up? Since you’re asking, and I admire curiosity, I’ll tell you. For the past six months or so, I’ve been put under increasing amounts of peer pressure to first purchase, then commit to riding, a bicycle. My parents and childhood friends can probably explain why this would be such a poor life decision for me. You can go ask them if you want, and I’ll sit here and prepare a list of Reasons Why I Don’t Want to Ride Bikes with You:
1. I can haz bike fundz? (see previous posts about being a poor Peace Corps Volunteer).
2. I prefer modes of transportation that don’t require helmets.
3. I don’t trust myself to not freak out if a car is anywhere near me at any given time on the road.
4. I don’t want to roll up my pants on one side.
5. This one time I was riding my bike in my neighborhood and I ran into a parked car.
6. Helmets are sweaty.
7. Helmets mess up your hair.
8. Is walking really so horrible? Why am I the only person that likes walking to places?
Friends, I really am sorry. I love you, but we’re not going for a bike ride.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Strangers- WHO NEEDS EM.
I left Morocco with lots of things, despite my manic tendency to purge whenever I move. Cute sandals and memorable anecdotes about my bowels definitely made it on the plane home, but so did another, small thing: an all-consuming fear that approaching strangers want to burgle me.
I guess it didn't help when I actually WAS robbed a few months ago, but that's beside the point.
A few weeks ago, I was on the metro platform waiting for my train when a young guy sidled up to me and said, a little too loudly, "so when do ya think the train's coming, EH?"
I was confused. I mean, there's a sign! And it says when trains come! Obviously, this dude wanted my wallet.
Clutching my purse to my chest, I stabbed my index finger at the sign and said something like "I believe it arrives in one minute, SIR." Then I turned and faced the tracks, still hugging my possessions for dear life.
"Oh, ha," the thief said. "I'm new here, I guess I missed the sign. Are you new here?"
"NO." (ha! This chump won't pull some sort of tourist-trap pickpocket trick on THIS girl.)
"Oh. Okay."
By now the train was pulling up, and I sprinted away from the criminal and into a car a bit further down the platform. Another day, another thief defeated.
...it was only after the train started moving again and I released the vice-like grip on my bag (I've been working out) that I realized he was probably just hitting on me.
I guess it didn't help when I actually WAS robbed a few months ago, but that's beside the point.
A few weeks ago, I was on the metro platform waiting for my train when a young guy sidled up to me and said, a little too loudly, "so when do ya think the train's coming, EH?"
I was confused. I mean, there's a sign! And it says when trains come! Obviously, this dude wanted my wallet.
Clutching my purse to my chest, I stabbed my index finger at the sign and said something like "I believe it arrives in one minute, SIR." Then I turned and faced the tracks, still hugging my possessions for dear life.
"Oh, ha," the thief said. "I'm new here, I guess I missed the sign. Are you new here?"
"NO." (ha! This chump won't pull some sort of tourist-trap pickpocket trick on THIS girl.)
"Oh. Okay."
By now the train was pulling up, and I sprinted away from the criminal and into a car a bit further down the platform. Another day, another thief defeated.
...it was only after the train started moving again and I released the vice-like grip on my bag (I've been working out) that I realized he was probably just hitting on me.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Oh hey..no I haven't been avoiding you! I just...you know. SO BUSY!
So I didn't die. I'm very much alive, and have been meaning to blog, but didn't really know what to talk about.
To put it simply, I left Peace Corps in late November and have since moved back to Washington. Leaving was not an easy choice, in fact it kind of ripped me apart. It was, however, what needed to be done. The situation I was in wasn't safe or healthy any more, and even on my most Morocco-sick days I can see that I'm still happier here than I was at the bitter end of my Peace Corps career.
Adjusting to life in the states has been a joy. I freaked out the first time I entered a Sephora and couldn't remember what I needed to buy, and just sort of stood in the middle of the store panicking. I've let the occasional "maskina/inchallah/hamdullah/bsa7a" slip here and there (it just feels so RIGHT) and I've had a few random crying spells. Sitting in an office all day is rough. I can't drink the way my friends do. I think I will always have digestion problems now. No one makes bread the way my host mom does, and NO one makes couscous. Much like Buster, I seem to find both crowds AND large, open spaces overwhelming. On top of everything, I miss my family and friends so much I often lose my train of thought. All in all, transitioning back to America is more difficult than entering Morocco was. Granted, this is a problem I was expecting to encounter.
One aspect of life in Washington that hasn't disappointed has been having my boyfriend back. We can go wherever we want together! In public! Of course, the places we usually end up at are more in the "Blockbuster going-out-of-business sale" category than anything else, but I can't complain. It's what we do. One day we DID go to a fancy restaurant and ate churros for dessert. That was a good day.
Drinking is an ongoing struggle. My tolerance is getting better, little by little, but sometimes I think I don't really want it to. All my light-weight stories are just too entertaining. Here are a few snippets:
I went to this little restaurant around the corner to eat dinner and read for a bit and, on a whim, ordered one glass of red wine. By the time I had finished my glass I was noticeably wobbly. I stumbled home and babbled at my roommate for a few minutes ("OH MY GOD. SWEET POTATOES ARE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THE NORMAL KIND. THE NORMAL KIND SHOULDN'T EVEN EXIST.RIGHT?! RIGHT?!")until he found an out. Alone in the kitchen, I decided I should make my lunch for the next day. I took my time fixing lunch then went upstairs, called Andy and sounded crazy and passed out. The next morning, I discovered the lunch I had put together---a very tiny peanut butter sandwich and one clementine orange. Why did that take 15 minutes to prepare? I don't know.
Last night I was out with some girl friends. After a two drinks I could tell I needed to slow down. We were going into a bar when the bouncer told us there was a $3 cover charge. I FREAKED out about it, left my friends and took a cab home. Except I didn't go home. I called my boyfriend and said "ARE YOU AWAKE?!I'MF COMING OVER. OKAY BYE." I arrived, stripped down to my underwear and promptly fell asleep. (booty call fail).
The problem is I'm still really messed up emotionally, and you never can tell when drinking will lead to a cute story or a freak out.
At the risk of sounding like a total hot mess, I'll move on to non-alcohol related topics.
Surprising things about America:
I forgot your shit can get stolen just as easily here as in Morocco. Last week my bag was stolen from my desk at work. Considering the past 12 months or so, this was not that big of a deal. But getting new keys, ordering new credit cards and a new phone and losing some irreplaceable memories kind of sucked.
Justin Bieber is actually a big deal. (I was hoping it was just one of those weird trends that had picked up internationally)
WMATA (http://www.wmata.com/) is almost totally useless. My bus is late so often that I miss it if it shows up on time, and Metro has been using every three-day weekend as an excuse to do major construction on one or more metro lines.
You have to like, go to a doctor for prescription meds. I don't understand why I can't just text the pharmacist what I need and have her send it to my house, free of charge.
That's enough posting for now, considering I didn't even stretch first and it's been like three months. To everyone that is still making it work in Morocco, thala fraskum, twa7echtkum bezzaf o nchoufkum inchallah.
To put it simply, I left Peace Corps in late November and have since moved back to Washington. Leaving was not an easy choice, in fact it kind of ripped me apart. It was, however, what needed to be done. The situation I was in wasn't safe or healthy any more, and even on my most Morocco-sick days I can see that I'm still happier here than I was at the bitter end of my Peace Corps career.
Adjusting to life in the states has been a joy. I freaked out the first time I entered a Sephora and couldn't remember what I needed to buy, and just sort of stood in the middle of the store panicking. I've let the occasional "maskina/inchallah/hamdullah/bsa7a" slip here and there (it just feels so RIGHT) and I've had a few random crying spells. Sitting in an office all day is rough. I can't drink the way my friends do. I think I will always have digestion problems now. No one makes bread the way my host mom does, and NO one makes couscous. Much like Buster, I seem to find both crowds AND large, open spaces overwhelming. On top of everything, I miss my family and friends so much I often lose my train of thought. All in all, transitioning back to America is more difficult than entering Morocco was. Granted, this is a problem I was expecting to encounter.
One aspect of life in Washington that hasn't disappointed has been having my boyfriend back. We can go wherever we want together! In public! Of course, the places we usually end up at are more in the "Blockbuster going-out-of-business sale" category than anything else, but I can't complain. It's what we do. One day we DID go to a fancy restaurant and ate churros for dessert. That was a good day.
Drinking is an ongoing struggle. My tolerance is getting better, little by little, but sometimes I think I don't really want it to. All my light-weight stories are just too entertaining. Here are a few snippets:
I went to this little restaurant around the corner to eat dinner and read for a bit and, on a whim, ordered one glass of red wine. By the time I had finished my glass I was noticeably wobbly. I stumbled home and babbled at my roommate for a few minutes ("OH MY GOD. SWEET POTATOES ARE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THE NORMAL KIND. THE NORMAL KIND SHOULDN'T EVEN EXIST.RIGHT?! RIGHT?!")until he found an out. Alone in the kitchen, I decided I should make my lunch for the next day. I took my time fixing lunch then went upstairs, called Andy and sounded crazy and passed out. The next morning, I discovered the lunch I had put together---a very tiny peanut butter sandwich and one clementine orange. Why did that take 15 minutes to prepare? I don't know.
Last night I was out with some girl friends. After a two drinks I could tell I needed to slow down. We were going into a bar when the bouncer told us there was a $3 cover charge. I FREAKED out about it, left my friends and took a cab home. Except I didn't go home. I called my boyfriend and said "ARE YOU AWAKE?!I'MF COMING OVER. OKAY BYE." I arrived, stripped down to my underwear and promptly fell asleep. (booty call fail).
The problem is I'm still really messed up emotionally, and you never can tell when drinking will lead to a cute story or a freak out.
At the risk of sounding like a total hot mess, I'll move on to non-alcohol related topics.
Surprising things about America:
I forgot your shit can get stolen just as easily here as in Morocco. Last week my bag was stolen from my desk at work. Considering the past 12 months or so, this was not that big of a deal. But getting new keys, ordering new credit cards and a new phone and losing some irreplaceable memories kind of sucked.
Justin Bieber is actually a big deal. (I was hoping it was just one of those weird trends that had picked up internationally)
WMATA (http://www.wmata.com/) is almost totally useless. My bus is late so often that I miss it if it shows up on time, and Metro has been using every three-day weekend as an excuse to do major construction on one or more metro lines.
You have to like, go to a doctor for prescription meds. I don't understand why I can't just text the pharmacist what I need and have her send it to my house, free of charge.
That's enough posting for now, considering I didn't even stretch first and it's been like three months. To everyone that is still making it work in Morocco, thala fraskum, twa7echtkum bezzaf o nchoufkum inchallah.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
You will let me know when the lambs stop screaming, won't you?
A photo post. Mabrouk L'Eid!
Youngest host brother with the sheep.
The family
Some tasty innards, waiting to be cooked
Relaxing with tea
Youngest host brother with the sheep.
The family
Some tasty innards, waiting to be cooked
Relaxing with tea
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