Thinking Aloud

A recent post by Dru Blood regarding responses to “The Pussification of the Western Male” (the original “Pussification” piece can be found here), led me to the hilarious and fascinating response titled “The Dickification of the Western Female”. It also led me to surf Michele’s site a little bit, which is not something I usually do, although I’ve been aware of the existance of her blog for about a year now; it’s nothing personal, but I’m one of those lazy shiftless young’uns that can barely be bothered to keep up on current events, so reading a blog dedicated mostly (from my glimpses) to political analyses isn’t my idea of “lite reading”. At any rate, I surfed up a few entries and ran across this: what do you do if your thirteen-year old daughter is running a blog on which she uses foul language and disrespects members of her family?

My immediate, knee-jerk reaction? It’s just like any other blog–if you don’t like the content, don’t read it.

Of course, that doesn’t take into account the fact that this is the girl’s mother reading this stuff. Parents feel strongly about these types of things. I mean, after all, everything the child writes and says and does is immediately a reflection of how her parents raised her. Isn’t it?

Is it possible for a child to be raised in such a vaccuum that, if by some chance, someone outside of the family should have an influence on her that was not a part of the initial “defense system” put into place by the parents, that said parents will automatically be able to step in, identify the situation, and correct it?

Continue reading Thinking Aloud

What I have learned today, a Kindergarten-esque entry

This is a good thing to know. I consider myself duly corrected on my previously ambivalent position on the issue. Note the utter lack of any hint (other than the link title, of course, as that would defeat the purpose of aiming for accessibility) on what the linked site mentions or talks about? That’s my way of tempting you to click said link and read it, rather than just continuing to read the shit I’m spouting.

The idea of sociolinguistics fascinates me. I think it may be time to electronically raid Indiana State University’s library again. Bru-ha-ha.

I also learned today (well, yesterday) that I can’t fucking stand Walt Whitman. One of the guys in my Major American Writers class said something to the effect of, “I’ve heard it’s pointless to teach 20-year-olds Walt Whitman, because you can’t have an understanding of his poems until you’re in your thirties.” Perhaps. But I still don’t like The Scarlet Letter, and my teacher said the same shit to me when I was ten. Give me Hughes, Dickinson, Browning, Poe, Keats, hell, even Frost (that man is so overdone, though), but not Whitman. And tonight I get to read a forty-page poem by Whitman, all about… Walt Whitman! Imagine my joy.

I’ve also learned that I have nothing to say about Saddam’s capture other than to ask a bunch of questions that those dismissed as Fucking Hippy Liberals are asking. Hannah sums up many of them quite well. (Not that Hannah is particularly liberal, but she is fairly confused moderate, like me.) I would also ask what kind of clusterfuckery this “trial” is going to be, but I know I should just sit on my hands and pop up a big-ass bag of popcorn and await the event. Oh, and, what was the connection between Iraq and September 11, again? I seem to have missed that bulletin. I feel very conspiracy-theorist saying this, but I would not put it above G Dub the Shrub to have orchestrated the entire capture. I find myself having no faith in the government, the media, any of it. Le sigh.

Continue reading What I have learned today, a Kindergarten-esque entry

Hold up.

Folks, I’m going to break my commenter for a little while. I need to find out why it’s not keeping linebreaks. Hold your horses on my diatribe against a Chemistry flunky for a minute.

Update: Just kidding about that taking time. I found the line I needed to change mercifully quickly. Recommence testing my general chemistry knowledge.

[Listening to “Smell of Desire” [Enigma / LSD: Love, Sensuality and Devotion]]

Continue reading Hold up.

And this week in chemistry (don’t be scurred)…

Hey Dude,

How’s it going, guy? You have no idea how happy I am about this latest bit of news: I am your Chemistry partner for this whole term! Ha ha! Who would have thought when we were working in that group of four that we were going to later become two groups of two? And that I, because I wanted the damn aisle drawer, would be partnered with you? I am such a lucky girl!

I mean, who wouldn’t want to work with a completely unprepared and mentally slow fuckwad? For rizzle, I just love that slack-jawed look–okay, okay, that even moreso slack-jawed look–that sits on your face in the pre-lab when Dr. M begins to discuss approaches we may want to take. Oh, and is that my lab manual you’re asking to see? And, what lab are we doing? What page is it on? God-damn I’m a lucky chica.

I also just love the way you can’t be bothered to write the measurements for your trials in anything approaching English or legible script. I should “burninate” in hell for not having gotten a jump on my scientific Chinese vocabulary, guy. My fault.

Then there’s that oh-so-endearing way you have of completely fucking up our experiments. Don’t think I didn’t see you fudging those data, son, or suddenly remembering to watch the clock as we reacted that sodium hydrogen carbonate. It’s so cute how you try to be all independent and macho-man and insist on not listening to my suggestions on how to conduct the lab–or the lab manual’s for that matter. I read the damn lab, figured out the measurements we need to take, and an efficient method of staggering the trials so work is equal and we get done fastest with good data. You’re still trying to find the list of step-by-step procedures in our lab manual, which don’t exist. You are so adorable! I just want to kill you with a fork eat you with a spoon.

Continue reading And this week in chemistry (don’t be scurred)…

Dear god, a whole ten more minutes…

…of intervals. I went to workout with The Other One this morning–that was my attempt to make something I do very privately a little more public and social. I had to run after class to get to my room, change, and get to the SRC in ten minutes, but I made it just as The Other One was pulling up in her car. She brought a book. A book. Now, I can’t even drink and walk at the same time, so reading small print on a page while trying to keep my balance on a treadmill is completely out of the question for me. Not only that, but exercising is my time away from even reading. It’s my time away from the girls on my floor, my profs, my studies, everything except music, which I only listen to when on treadmills these days.

The wonderful thing about treadmills is the fact that I didn’t have to care a fig that she was walking much slower than me, running slower than me, and not running on the same intervals I was. That made the problems I had when I worked out with Andrea a couple of months ago disappear; nothing is more fucking annoying than a nagging voice of “Let’s go slower” and “Slow down, Lissa” for an hour and a half while I’m trying to get my walk on. I also kept my headphones on, which The Other One complained about, because she wanted to talk. But I’m pushing myself hard enough that keeping up a conversation would exhaust and annoy me rather than pleasantly distract me. I sort of saw this whole arrangement as The Other One wanting someone to help motivate her to go workout, just like she uses a co-worker to motivate her to stay on the Atkins diet. That’s fine, within certain limits. I’m not going to attempt to drag her out of bed if she doesn’t want to go, but I’ll cajole her into doing the whole hour when we’re there. I’ll let her complain to me about the aches and pains, and we’ll pass suggestions for improvement back and forth. But using that time to chat about how much she dislikes the Thorn’s own George Dawkins (I’m not surprised she doesn’t much care for him) is not really my idea of focusing on the non-intellectual and -mental for a while.

I’m working on this little nine-week program that is (theoretically) supposed to take you from being a couch potato to being able to run about 5 km. Each week is labelled and is a little set of three self-contained, thirty minute workouts, so just doing the program gets you the minimum amount of exercise recommended for good health. For those of us that are really out of shape, it’s very much “repeat weeks as neccesary” until comfortable before moving to the next week. At any rate, I’ve been stuck on, like, Week 1 (pathetic, I know) for about two weeks now with no noticable gains in ability. When I did the workout the past couple of times, however, I started out with a fast-paced 35 minute walk before going into the intervals in order to increase duration and mileage and all that. No luck on getting better at running. Until today. Today I decided to do the intervals first to make sure I would complete them, just in case I copped out and decided to quit after only thirty or forty-five minutes. The good thing was this: while I was tired by the time the last bit of running came up, I was able to go extra on the last interval without feeling like my lungs and windpipe were refusing to expand fully. I also recovered much better on the walking stints between running, much better than I had previously. I even had energy to throw in some high inclines on the remaining thirty minute walk. This is good; I was started to get a teeny bit discouraged there. I had thought of being tested for exercise-induced asthma for a variety of reasons, but remembering a Bill Cosby joke convinced me not to: “‘I’m not going to the doctor, man.’ Well, why not? ‘Cuz then I might have it.'” That sounds silly, but I don’t have it if I don’t get told by a doctor and have to fill the prescriptions and puff the inhalers, which means I don’t have something else to worry about (other than falling, twisting or pulling something, etc.) that will give me an excuse to slack off. I’m just fat and out of shape. I’ll get over it.

I’ve discovered that I like to watch people run. I figure they look a hell of a lot better doing it than I do, and the differences in styles are fascinating. For instance, there’s a guy that’s on the Thorn staff that is down in the SRC just about everytime I go down there. He comes in, stretches a bit, runs about 400 meters, lifts weights, runs about 600 meters, and does lots more stretching. He’s a very compactly built guy–not particularly buff, but not that lanky sinewy strength, either. When he runs, he sort of throws his shoulders back, holds his arms tight against him, and just sort of bounds around the track, very controlled and tight in movement, but not really overly tense. He looks like a tight ball of energy bouncing around the track. It’s fascinating to watch. There’s another guy, a professor here, that gets on the treadmill and runs steadily at a good clip for about 45 minutes at a time. He’s quite the opposite; tall and sinewy, his hands fly around loosely when he runs. You definitely wouldn’t want to be right beside him on the road or anything. He’s equally fascinating to watch, as he’s got that long-distance runner’s build and doesn’t seem particularly exhausted after lifting weights and running for 45 minutes. (I only know these times because I stay in the SRC even longer than they do.) Then there’s the girl that gets on what I think is called an elliptical machine and stays even longer than I do, reading and “walking” on the machine without holding on (I must just have abnormally bad balance, but it took me a while to get the hang of treadmill walking without holding on–it’s different from road walking and much different from road running) and without seeming to deviate in her straight posture and steady pace. She has short spiky hair and a slight “punk” look about her, but actually has a very soft voice (I expected her to have a hard or tough voice) and is very nice (we’ve chatted while toasting bagels in the morning). Every single day I’m down there, those three show up, all within the hour.

Continue reading Dear god, a whole ten more minutes…