In 2010, Lulu Miller was biking across the country, taking some time to clear her head for a new phase of life. And somewhere in Nevada, she ran into a guy named Jeff Viniard who was on a similar journey. They shared the road for two weeks, pedaling hundreds of miles together until Utah. Along the way, they got to be pretty close, and Jeff, a geologist by training, rekindled Lulu’s long-lost love of rocks. But it turns out the ground beneath his own feet was shifting that summer… and he found himself desperately searching for some rock-solid evidence to help him figure out his future. (via Rocked by Doubt - Radiolab)
Really cool Radio lab segment last week about a couple from Columbus, Ohio.
Holy shit. I went to high school with that guy (Jeff).
Abortion seems to be the only medical procedure that people want to deny you based on how you got in that situation.
Drove drunk, got in an accident and need an organ transplant? No problem.
Messing around with a gun, accidentally shoot yourself in the leg and need surgery? Of course.
Smoke tobacco for most of your life and need treatment for lung cancer? Yep.
Climb a tree, fall out and break your leg? We’ll fix that right up.
Have sex and get pregnant when you don’t want to be? YOU GOT YOURSELF INTO THIS SITUATION AND YOU DESERVE NO MEDICAL HELP OR COMPASSION! THIS IS YOUR FAULT AND YOU WILL DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES!”
Worry About Your Own Uterus: (via veruca-assault)
“Worry about your own uterus” wise wise words.
Or the fact that the GOP wants government out of every aspect of life except women’s health.
The financial sector? Out!
The healthcare system in general? Out!
My uterus? Oh, we’ll tell you what to do with that.
It’s baloney, I say.
He doesn’t put the lid back on the toothpaste. He often disrobes in the living room and leaves pants, shoes, socks, coats, shirts, belts, strewn across our furniture and floor. He never re-uses a glass, and a combination of nicotine patch and nicotine gum wrappers litter our floor.
He often leaves his towel hanging on the door in the bedroom, so when he gets out of the shower, the only available towel is mine. Which he then also leaves hanging on the door in the bedroom. There are flat picks, thumb picks, old guitar strings, and cables weaving a pattern across the hardwoods.
But coming home to him is my favorite part of the day. A year, two months, two weeks, and five days later, living with him is still a worthy adventure.
He is the best thing that’s ever been mine.
Today my thoughts are falling into two categories.
The first: the incredible array of powerful women in my life. There are so many different ways to be a woman, and I have been blessed to know as many as I do.
Octa. My mother: When I was young. Visits to grandma’s house. The whole family would come over for a meal. My mother and her sisters would stay up long after the kitchen was clean, telling stories of their childhood and their shared experiences. I remember barely being able to keep my eyes open, but being so enthralled with their cackling laughter and hushed “Well, I’ll be…” and “Bless her heart”s (always paired with a head shake, or a hand to the bosom.) This was one of the first times that I realized that people can have different perceptions of the same event. I don’t have a sister, so their interactions were foreign to me at the time, but I can now recognize as true sisterhood.
Carole. My girl scout troop leader from 4th grade to 12th grade.
Leslie. Blair. Heather. Linda. Valerie.
Kate. My favorite philosophy professor in college: She and her husband both worked in the same department. She was smarter than her husband. She was more educated than her husband. She had made an impressive career for herself. They also raised three kids, and live in an old farm house. They keep goats, chickens, and maintain an impressive garden. She serves as a constant reminder: There are no rules here. Do what you want and don’t apologize.
My team: Our company is made up of almost entirely women. Out of 60 employees, 3 are male; a standing tradition. Though it has its advantages and disadvantages, there is an unmistakable sense of solidarity. When problems arise, we have been accused of ‘circling the wagons’. No one in, no one out, until the problem is fixed. It may have been intended as an insult, but I took it as a compliment. I work with an incredible group of women who are making a difference in children’s lives on a daily basis. Working there has made me fierce and strong and proud.
Secondly, I think of my relationship with my mister. I think of how difficult the struggle has been to reconcile my feminist heart with my southern upbringing. How to balance my independent heart with my urges to take up all the housework. I am thankful for the feminists before me that explored these same issues, and deciding that you can do both. You can be a woman however you feel like being a woman, and it doesn’t matter if anyone likes it.
It turns out procrastination is not typically a function of laziness, apathy or work ethic as it is often regarded to be. It’s a neurotic self-defense behavior that develops to protect a person’s sense of self-worth.
You see, procrastinators tend to be people who have, for whatever reason, developed to perceive an unusually strong association between their performance and their value as a person. This makes failure or criticism disproportionately painful, which leads naturally to hesitancy when it comes to the prospect of doing anything that reflects their ability — which is pretty much everything.
But in real life, you can’t avoid doing things. We have to earn a living, do our taxes, have difficult conversations sometimes. Human life requires confronting uncertainty and risk, so pressure mounts. Procrastination gives a person a temporary hit of relief from this pressure of “having to do” things, which is a self-rewarding behavior. So it continues and becomes the normal way to respond to these pressures.
Particularly prone to serious procrastination problems are children who grew up with unusually high expectations placed on them. Their older siblings may have been high achievers, leaving big shoes to fill, or their parents may have had neurotic and inhuman expectations of their own, or else they exhibited exceptional talents early on, and thereafter “average” performances were met with concern and suspicion from parents and teachers.”
12:15 pm. 2.14.13
The first time his song was played on the radio. It was a warm, sunny day, unusual for the season. He threw open the window and yelled into the street below: “I’m on the radio!!” Two exclamation points needed.
He turned and gathered me up and squeezed me tight. We joined our dog in a jump-hop sequence. The smile that spread across his face and the look in his eyes was enough to tell me that we are doing the right thing.
His first day on the radio was one of the good days. A day when I can feel how right this is in my bones. Most days, though, I am overwhelmed by the knowledge that he will never be fully mine. There is a part of him that will always belong to the wild, unrestrained creative. That is the part of loving a musician that they don’t warn you about. Reveling in their glow and sharing in their successes is easy. It’s the sharing of his heart, the constant awareness that there are three of us in the room that weighs me down. But. But! The reasons why he is meant for this are the reasons why I love him so deeply. I can’t have him without the other, and really, I wouldn’t want it any other way.
After about two months of waiting on the job to be approved by the board, posted in the job listings, applied to, interviewed for, and considered, my delightful company chose to offer me a promotion!
The position is freshly created, and I will be the first to fill it. I am nervous about not having a precedent, but also very excited to design the details of the position myself.
I still LOVE my current job, but I feel ready to wrap my arms around something new. Bring it on, challenges.
In related news, how does one work a leather pencil skirt or leggings into work-appropriate dress?
I am way late to this party, but it was so good. I’ve brought audio-books back into my life, as my commute to work is about 40 minutes each way. This one was read by Tina, so it was extra hilarious.
Tina Fey fits into my favorite category of feminists: those who know that being a woman is a fantastic thing to be, and throw out the archaic ideas of radical feminism calling for burning bras and beating men at their own game. There is no place for that anymore. We need to make our own game, and Tina Fey is doing just that.
I especially liked the story about Amy Poehler and Jimmy Fallon:
Amy Poehler was new to SNL and we were all crowded into the seventeenth-floor writers’ room, waiting for the Wednesday read-through to start. There were always a lot of noisy “comedy bits” going on in that room. Amy was in the middle of some such nonsense with Seth Meyers across the table, and she did something vulgar as a joke. I can’t remember what it was exactly, except it was dirty and loud and “unladylike.”
Jimmy Fallon, who was arguably the star of the show at the time, turned to her and in a faux-squeamish voice said: “Stop that! It’s not cute! I don’t like it.”
Amy dropped what she was doing, went black in the eyes for a second, and wheeled around on him. “I don’t fucking care if you like it.” Jimmy was visibly startled. Amy went right back to enjoying her ridiculous bit …
With that exchange, a cosmic shift took place. Amy made it clear that she wasn’t there to be cute. She wasn’t there to play wives and girlfriends in the boys’ scenes. She was there to do what she wanted to do and she did not fucking care if you like it …
I’m up for a promotion at work. 14 months in.
I am currently a direct care worker for a residential treatment facility for teenage girls with behavior problems.
My pay is live-able, but lousy. My hours are horrific (getting off work at 9p, going back in at 5a) and my days off are irregular. I am in charge of ensuring my clients physical safety, emotional stability, and managing their interpersonal conflicts.
Sometimes this means a hug, a few minutes of encouragement, and a shove in the right direction. Sometimes this means physically restraining them, to the detriment of my health, if it is necessary. Sometimes this means allowing a client to use me as the out for their emotions: yelling, cursing, blaming, manipulating, etc. Sometimes this means being firm and consistent.
It is always trying. It is often rewarding.
What this particular promotion would mean for me:
- continuing to work for my lovely company
- pay increase
- better schedule
- less traumatic work
Keep your fingers crossed, yeah?
An Object of Beauty | Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin)
Novel. Easy to read. Interesting and well-researched. Two thumbs up.