I Am Still Praying For Revolution

she still doesn't have what she deserves
but she wakes up smiling every day
she never really expected more

Being a girl is hard, ya'll.

Since I've been retired from college I've had a lot more free time on my hands to scrutinize every aspect of my life and find Internet Validation to back me up on it. I've traditionally been considered more robot than woman, but lately a lot of things have jumped out of the most well-lit of alleyways to remind me that I am, in fact, a girl and that society at large views me as such.

There's different levels of this, naturally. On the most basic of levels, adhering to societal standards for female beauty and behavior is work. Expensive work, at that. Through the miracles of a combination of genetics and luck, I've been blessed with a generally socially acceptable body and face. I don't face harassment from men and women alike like many, many women do for not falling into society's narrow definition of how a woman should look, but I do feel constant pressure to "be better". I could very much stand to lose my tummy flub, to spend a little extra time on my hair, to tone down my glaring paleness (especially since my skin tone is less "ivory" and more "sickly"), or to have a less lackadaisical approach to selecting my make-up and wardrobe. Even from where I stand at a privileged status-quo with society, achieving any of the above goals requires time, effort, and money that quite frankly I'm not willing to invest at this point in time. I can't imagine the sheer logistics that a bulkier, less-conventional, poorer, and more track-suited woman faces when contending with these same obstacles. God forbid that any of us forget to shave our legs during this quest for societal acceptance.

And that's just the aesthetic value of American females. While there's numerous problematic ways that women are expected to behave (I'm looking at you, "women who are assertive and successful are bitches and shrews"), the one that really gets me is the expectation to be nice and pleasant in the face of being treated like objects. This is rarely as blatant as the old man who once asked a (male) coworker of mine how much he would have to tip for a (female) coworker to accompany him out to his car. That sort of obvious objectification is blessedly dealt with swiftly, harshly, and with great justice. I cannot count the number of times, however, that strangers have told me to smile or laid their hands on me for no reason. I am constantly being touched by friends and strangers alike whether it's just to get my attention by gently grabbing my elbow or shoulder, or to force me to come closer by guiding me by the waist or hips. I've had bar patrons reach out and grab my hand from me to look to see what note I've scribbled in ink on the back and I've had complete strangers put their arms around my shoulders to move me out of their way. While this sort of thing isn't nearly as damaging or offensive as a male coworker being offered money for my services, it is still insidious and indicative of the general mindset that my body belongs to the general public to be both manhandled and commented upon.

The rub here is that if I try to take control of myself by, say, snatching my hand out of bar seat 605's clammy clutch and telling him "please don't touch me, dude. I'm display model only" then I will be viewed as an uptight bitch. I once asked a random bar patron "why?" when he told me to smile. His response? "You're a pretty girl, you should smile!" I know he thought he was just being nice and giving me a compliment but the implication that a) if I were ugly I wouldn't need to smile since I wouldn't be pleasing to look at in the first place and b) my lack of smile was somehow ruining his enjoyment of my presence is appalling.

All this, of course, is not new to me; just old wounds resurfacing after a recent incident made me question my minimally-enlightened view of myself and the world around me. I know that there's still a lot of work to do, both internally and societally, when my first reaction to a male friend aggressively pursuing my, um, "company" was guilt (guilt!). As if I had done something wrong by being present and female and still having the audacity to resist his advances.

Ordinarily I try not to bring up various -isms in this blog, or anywhere for that matter, because not only am I largely uneducated about them but I also feel like I'm not telling you, Interested Party, who is likely of my generation, anything you've never heard before. We're all fairly enlightened about the comparative unfairness of gender relations in our nation, to varying degrees of concern or notice, and I feel a bit silly pointing them out. Sometimes, though, I get a bit rage-y and a blog entry pops out. So here we are.

N'me touchez pas!
Cathi

Hard lessons, and love

Questions of science, science and progress, do not speak as loud as my heart

My very first memory, something pieced together with bits of actual recollections and photographs, is of Linda being born. They put me in hospital regulation animal pajamas and were very forceful about me washing my hands before going in to meet my new baby sister. I was extremely indignant, my sense of pride very strong for a not-yet 2 year-old, that the nurse assumed I was a dirty child. I remember snuggling next to my mom in the hospital bed, looking at the tiny, red-faced bundle in her arms, and being told that I was a Big Sister now; I had Responsibilities.

Most people don't have solid memories of their lives that young, and most of my other memories of early childhood are simply hazy remembrances of an emotion, a snatch of a sentence, or mash of very similar events that have blended into one. Kudos to Wee Martin for making such a big impression.

One thing I have precious few memories of is that of my parents being together. My mom and dad divorced when I was very young, and I feel that it's safe to say that all I've known, really, is a two-family life.

In my line of work I will get asked about my personal life from completely impersonal people. I always answer truthfully (albeit with brevity) and so on the odd occasion where it's merited mention, I will tell people my parents got divorced when I was but a wee little sprog. The universal response is "I'm sorry, that must have been hard", to which I surprise people with the counter-response of "not really, actually." I like to think that I've grown into a mature, sensible, well-rounded person who is doing her parents proud, and I neither attribute this to, nor feel it is in spite of the early separation. It is simply How It Is.

I've encountered very few issues being a child of divorce. The only major hiccup I can recall is my bff across the street not being allowed to come out and play anymore because her parents didn't want her associating with divorced riff-raff, and the only real emotional scar I can put my finger on is the tendency to question the viability of long-term relationships.

The benefit of having my faith in the almighty Love and Marriage shaken so young is that I've had a very long time to work through it. I've seen both the ugliness and the happiness that can result from a separation, and I have the wisdom to know that it will, in time, get better. I learned very early on that one relationship is not a barometer for others; just because my parent's couldn't work it out doesn't mean my friend's parents can't either, and just because my friend's parents were happy and in love doesn't mean that my parents were somehow less happy or loving. Every person, every experience, and every relationship is different and it took a lot of observation and questioning in my formative years to realize that there is no Golden Rule for relationships. It will work, or it won't. That is all.

Most importantly, especially as I've gotten older and my parents have had both time and distance to heal their old, deep wounds, I have learned that an unhappy ending doesn't invalidate the happy years that preceded it. My mom will come across a recipe card and wistfully remember how my paternal grandmother was so darn good at it, and wonder aloud if my father would like to have it back (you know, 20 years after the divorce). My dad will laughingly recall how once my mother was mortified when he got angry at a Sears salesperson over car repairs. Even though it ended badly and took a long, long while to smooth over, my parents had, at one time, a good relationship. That has been my hardest lesson to learn. Though there were fights and court dates, kid-shuffling and FAFSA disagreements, the 17 years of marriage they had before all this mess was still worthwhile. Once, they were happy, and that long-irrelevant emotion and memory doesn't just vanish into the ether when the bond does.

Nostalgia,
CB

On Counting Calories

Diet Coke and pizza please

Kate Moss once said that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels", and I had this concept in the back of my mind while on this Squish-loss quest. I kept mental tabs about my happiness re: appearance, physical exertion, and food choices. At the end of my fitness experiment I came to the conclusion that the only good part about semi-intense exercise was how good stretching felt at the end, and that following a Very Healthy diet make me intensely unhappy.

I had mixed feelings about the few physical changes I had. My face was almost imperceptibly thinner, which I think made me look more my age than like the high schooler I occasionally get mistaken for. I was slightly less depressed about the number the scale was showing me. My ab muscles were actually getting used, therefore my squishy abdomen was lifted up, making me look "effortlessly" better in some of my clothes. My arms were gaining definition, which I felt made them look bigger rather than less-flabby. I was sleeping less (which, in the grand scheme of sleeping 10+ hours a day is an improvement).

In essence: after time had passed and effort was made, I was happier about my body when I looked in the mirror. I also took more showers by virtue of sweating profusely 5-6 times a week.

Once personal training was over and I no longer had to create food logs to show to a judgmental PT, I was immensely relieved. I didn't have to eat food I found bland. I didn't have to stress over whether I was getting 30 billion grams of protein a day. I didn't have to feel guilty about ordering buffalo wings or having peanut butter toast for breakfast. And so my rapid descent into PTSD (post-training sloth disorder) began. My last training session was just about a month ago, and I think I've made it to the gym about once a week since. Surprisingly, I'm feeling guilty about it, as well as feeling pangs of guilt when contemplating unhealthy food choices.

So while it turns out that TGiFriday's green chile sauce and brownie obsession, Spicy Sweet Chile Doritos, and really good bleu cheese dressing do, in fact, taste better than being skinny feels, losing that good-skinny feeling due to relaxing ab muscles and increasing scale numbers feels worse than a 100% tasty but erratic diet and the guilt that goes along with staying on the couch watching crime drama instead of going to the gym. So it seems some sort of compromise is in order, because seriously; life is not worth living if Applebee's french onion soup is off-limits, but I really don't want to sabotage all of the hard work I put in over the last few months.

Face!
Thrine

Two Thousand and Ten, Common Era

I like to make myself believe that planet Earth turns slowly

Well well well, if it isn't my old arch-nemesis: blogging in a timely manner.

I really, truly have no excuse. It's not like my life has been prohibitively busy or so filled with excitement and adventure that I simply cannot find the time. Mostly I've just lost inspiration, I think. Well, that, and sheer laziness. It's way easier just to click aimlessly around the Intertubes and occasionally use my scroll button than to hoist my keyboard onto my lap and wiggle my fingers in a meaningful way.

What this means is not only have I not written in almost 2 months, but I'm also 10 days late for my 2009 recap/2010 wish-list. I suppose in all fairness, I was in New York for the turn of the decade so an appropriately-dated entry was out of the question, but I could have been more prompt. Sorry.

I'm still at that stage in life where at the turn of every year I marvel at how long ago the last new year celebration seems. I've heard this vastly diminishes post-college, but I don't know, man. January 2009 feels very far away. It's no longer strange to say "President Obama", I paid off my student loans in full, I bought my car off mom (also in full), both The Boy and Seester finished college, I'm already halfway done being in a LDR, I moved, and took what seems to now be an annual winter road trip, this time to New York City (though I suppose both "last year's" winter road trip to D.C. for the inauguration was also in 2009).

But for now, let's review 2009.

2009 "Wish List" Recap

-Find a "real job" that will allow me to simply bartend as a supplement, not staple
Failure, though largely to a lack of trying. I sent out my resume a few times but I'll be honest--I've been too content with my current lot in life to try too hard.
-Get my own place
Success! 3 boys and I have a house together, which we take adequate care of.
-Keep the boyfriend (a task far less whimsical and much, much scarier this year)
Success! It seems that The Boy and I are doing so well together that everyone except for the two of us were convinced I'd come back from NYC with an engagement ring.
-Work on developing a healthier routine (improved diet, any exercise, better habits, etc...)
Believe it or not, success! Hiring a personal trainer was a good idea. I lost a little bit of weight, and learned how to eat well and developed an exercise ethic.
-Never carry a balance on my AmEx card
Success! Though I'm notoriously fiscally responsible, so this was more of a reminder to keep it up, rather than some sort of difficult quest.
-Dress more adult-like
Debatable success. I own more dresses and nice tops and jewelry, though my attire today would indicate nothing of the sort.
-Write almost every day, in some form
Faaaaaaiiiiiiillure. Big time. Unless writing down people's food orders counts (it doesn't).
-Listen to newer, better music
Also a debatable success. I definitely started listening to newer music. The jury's split on whether Lady Gaga and Jay Sean qualify as "better".

2010 is perturbing me on a number of levels. It's an unattractive number. There, I said it. It doesn't flow well when writing, and is especially difficult to type when using the top-row number keys (though almost delightful to type on the number pad). You can't make eyes out of the middle numbers anymore (and we can't wear those fun glasses for NYE anymore), and it marks the beginning of people commonly stating the date as "twenty-something" rather than "two-thousand-something", which my ears find irritating (ear-itating? Har har).

Additionally this year is really feeling like the year I have to Figure It Out. In April The Boy will be finished with his long-term volunteering. I'm sick and tired from being away from him for the majority of our relationship, so organizing our lives in some fashion where we can actually like, be together, is at the top of my priority list. This means, you know, living in the same town or nearly the same town which means we're going to have to Talk and we all know how much I hate Talking About Stuff. I'm also sick and tired of feeling like a professional/academic failure, brought about by doing nothing re: my BA for almost 2 years now. This means knuckling down and finding a "real job", which is scary, ya'll.

Things I Hope Come to Pass in '10

-Get out to Oregon to visit SB
-Move to Chicago with Seester
-Get a Real Job (I'd love NPR or Q101, but I'm not picky) Caveat: acceptable alternative--go to grad school
-Stick with The Boy
-Keep up the healthy habits
-Grow my hair all long(er) and sexy-like
-Go to at least one wedding. Everyone keeps getting married and no one ever invites me!
-Write more

So here's to a new decade, Interested Party. I'm feeling motivated and optimistic, albeit scared shitless, and I hope all your Two-thousand-and-Ten dreams come true.

IKEA Bed Set,
Catherine

Down With the Sickness

bwuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh

Wee Martin and I are often accused of being the same person; and in all honesty it's not an unfair one. We share mannerisms, turns of phrase, vocal cadence, love of coffee and Gilmore Girls (simultaneously or individually), and have perfected the Death Glare.

Sometimes though, we work backwards. I used to be the wildly successful one while she had problems learning how to read and making her own friends, whereas now she's objectively the more successful sister. She used to be a huge worrywart--to the point where she was prescribed ulcer medicine as an 8 year-old, and I was fairly carefree.

As I've grown, I've developed into a deceptively calm nervous wreck. Worst Case Scenarios are my specialty, and always my first conclusion. Because this has manifested itself as I've been maturing, I've also figured out ways to cope with it.

You see: by reassuring myself that I've never, not once, been confronted with a WCS, good ol' left brain can show me a venn diagram that looks something like this:

Therefore: by panicking I am guaranteeing a benign result. Case in point:

I woke up this morning with an annoying tickle in the back of my throat. "Great" I thought, "I hope I'm not catching Durbin's cold". Although I must admit, in my now-feverish state it's almost nice to be able to share this experience with him, far away though he may be. I went to work and the tickle turned into post-nasal drip soreness. I ran some very successful errands, and by 4pm I started to suspect that I wasn't going to be able to vitamin-C this away. I started realizing I was cold despite continuing to wear my jacket indoors, and by 7pm I was a shivering, vomiting mess. My stomach hurts, my back hurts, every hair on my body hurts. I took a bath to try to futilely try to warm up, and took the effort in what felt like an ice bath to shave my legs so at least they wouldn't have the painful hairs.

I'm convinced I have H1N1, and I'm convinced that, with my luck, I have some undiagnosed heart condition and that I'm going to die in my sleep tonight. I'm thinking I should call Alex and leave him a voicemail to tell him that I love him one last time, that I should call Linda and have her tell me how stupid I am, that I should write some epic blog entry that will bring meaning to my life.

Fortunately, we have the above venn diagram. So, while at the moment my state of nausea is being exacerbated by a clenching worry of impending mortal expiration, statistically I will be alive, if only marginally well tomorrow when I wake up to go judge Richard's debate class.

Wish me luck!
CMart

Here's to you, the good life, and me

Oh. Hello.

It's been so long since I've been to this site that my browser history didn't even contain "www.diaryland.com". I had to type out the full URL. And now I've typed it out twice. My life is hard.

A brief synopsis of my life:

-After accidentally winning my store-level bar champs, in three days I shall be competing at the regional level. I not-so-jokingly keep telling people that if I get through it without bursting into tears, I will consider it a personal success.

-Living with the individuals I do is slightly more challenging than anticipated, largely because the challenges that I had anticipated aren't the ones that have arisen. Also: every male over the age of 40 who knows about my living situation seems to think my roomies are going to burst into my room in an unwashed mass with a chainsaw to break open my chastity belt. I'm not worried about the roomies, I am, however, worried about what these adult men were like when they were my age.

-As a kind-of birthday present to myself I purchased a couple month's worth of personal training sessions. They're going alright; I'm getting stronger, I'm seeing very slight muscle changes in my body and while I still can't say I like physical exertion, I can say I no longer categorically loathe it. The PT, Grant, is also making me Eat Healthy. Not "healthier", actually Healthy. It's very difficult and I find it more depressing than being squishy in the mid-section.

-For the last couple months I've been moping about due to a severe lack of an intimate-social life. Alex is in Kentucky, Miranda's in a cornfield, Linda's buried under a pile of Virginia Woolfe novels, and the couple other people I consider true, good friends have a schedule opposite mine. Despite working in a bar and hanging out at said bar holding conversations with coworkers and regulars, I've been feeling very isolated. A few drinks at a not-Friday's bar and some time spent at a delightful clam bake (food, not herb) has opened my eyes to the fact that my coworkers are, like, real people who I could possibly actually relate to. This is the first time in my whole life I'm actually having to make friends on my own merit, and I'm feeling reassured that it seems to be going just fine.

-Accidentally hung out with the elder Durbin's the other night when they appeared at Friday's while I was off-duty. While it felt a little strange, it wasn't uncomfortable, and I'm fairly sure they think I'm a fine, upstanding, responsible young lady who is perhaps suited for their son. I did start getting suspicious, though, when after mentioning I've paid off my student loans despite not having a Big Kid Job, they asked me if I have enough money for a down payment on a house. Dear Alex, tell your parents I'm not going to buy you a house, love Cathi. PS we can have joint custody of Guitar Hero if you wish, though.

-I'm discovering that being in a LDR is sad, but not horribly difficult. This is probably a fringe benefit of having the emotional depth of a puddle, in that while things like "sadness", "loneliness" and "hug withdrawal" exist, they aren't crippling me. I've gotten so good at ignoring my feelings that when important ones like these crop up I can Not Think about them with a practiced ease. It's kind of nice, in a pathetic way. I also think the distance, however vehemently I was/am against it, is helping us to put things in some major perspective, individually.

See you in a few months or something, Interested Party. Maybe I'll be skinnier.

Love Story,
Cathi

HDU

We were never meant to be, baby, we just happen

For the most part I live my life in fairly quiet complacency. I keep my head down, my eyes and ears open, and my mouth fairly well shut. It keeps things simple, and I prefer life to be as uncomplicated as possible. Every so often, however, something will set me off and jolt me from my even keel.

The most recent arsonist to light a fire under my feet antagonized me with words meant to be generic, but ended up landing squarely in the Very Personal section of my brain. I try to keep an open mind when it comes to other people's world views, but when push comes to shove, if someone with a different opinion than me actively attacks my point of view, shit gets real.

And by real, I mean that most of my formal logical argumentation training flies out the window and my tactics pretty much devolve to me stuffing my fingers in my ears and shouting "WHAT'S THAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU! IS THAT THE SOUND OF YOU BEING WRONG?!" The instant it gets personal is the instant I stop caring about having an open mind and being a shining example of rationality.

My version of an "open mind" boils down to a sheer perception of rationality and maturity. If a person has spent time thinking about something and therefore reached some sort of conclusion, however wrong I may feel said conclusion to be, I will respect it. When my own rational decisions and conclusions are disrespected, my little feelings get hurt. I like to think that I've made pretty good life choices, and I also like to think that anyone who knows me also knows that I do most things with some sort of well thought-out purpose.

The rough part about my personal-opinion bubble being invaded is that I can't stop obsessing over it, going round and round in my mind, finding newer, stronger, and better reasons that I Am Right. Unfortunately, it all pretty much comes back to the fact that I'm a grown-ass woman, and I'll do what I want! You don't know me!

Step off before I pop off, son.
CMart