Stash o' Candy

I love candy. I LOVE it. I could eat it all day, every day. Chocolate! Sour Patch Kids! Swedish Fish! BRING IT ON!

Or, at least, that's what I seem to think. When faced with a candy-buying opportunity, I am Entirely Convinced that I love candy, and will be So Happy with some in my life. I'll cheerfully buy a treat or two (or more, if it's on sale), and tuck it away in my handbag, eagerly awaiting that beautiful moment when I will sink my teeth into a big delicious bite.

And there the candy bar stays. I carry it around in my purse for a while, only to find it later on a purse-cleaning mission. Then I pull it out, happily considering the delight ahead. Still pleased with myself for making the truly excellent decision to purchase this product, I lovingly place it in The Bag. And there, my friends, it stays. For the rest of its edible life, the candy will reside in this bag. Oh, sure, some will be fished out and eaten eventually (I was just able to indulge a craving for a Milky Way because of this very bag, which is what began this post in the first place)... but most of it? Most just... sits there. The bag must weigh four or five pounds by now.

The only conclusion I can draw here is this:

I LOVE candy-- but I love storing it far more than I like eating it. The potential of candy-- it's a delicious prospect.

22 Things I've Done

This post is part of Mama Kat's weekly Writer's Workshop. Oh, how I love a good excuse to make a list!

1. I have been skydiving over the Gold Coast of Australia

2. I have been to 22 different countries (ok, that's if you count generously-- do you consider the Vatican its own country? It has its own postage....)

3. I've ridden an elephant in Thailand

4. I partook in wine tasting in the South of France

5. I went to a RIDICULOUS concert (Ke-dolla sign-ha), and had a simply marvellous time

6. I've graduated from college

7. I've lived in 13 different houses and apartments (dorm rooms not included)

8. I have dressed as a peacock for Halloween, complete with feathers down the back of my dress.

9. Gave my mother two Russian tortoises as a birthday present one year.

10. I've had the same chocolate cake every year for my birthday since I turned 10. (The only exception being the year I turned 17-- I couldn't find the electric beaters.)

11. The one year I DIDN'T make that cake (a delicious recipe that involves things like baking chocolate and sour cream), I made a box cake mix... and totally messed it up. I've never messed up the other cake. Go figure.

12. I once ran into a girl from I knew from Scripps in a club in Cambridge. Neither of us knew the other was even in Europe.

13. I went to school with the same girl in middle school in Taiwan (each grade had about 30 students) and in college in California (each graduating class had about 230 students). What are the odds?

14. I once had a handbag shaped like a teapot. It was pretty useless, because the opening was so small, but it was very cute!

15. Over my lifetime, I've had 3 dogs, 3 cats, 2 tortoises, 2 hedgehogs, at least 4 hamsters, 1 rabbit, countless fish, two mice, a guinea pig, and a salamander. This is NOT counting my brother's and mom's pets-- 2 snakes, more fish, 1 toad, 1 lizard, 1 hedgehog, and 2 tortoises. These were not all at the same time, of course.

16. I once got stuck in a tree in the middle of a river due to poor canoe-steering.

17. I rode a camel around at Uluru (Ayer's Rock). His name was Jiles.

18. I had a season pass to Disneyland for 3 years.

19. I have gotten truly, horrifically, divinely lost in my own town more times than I would care to admit.

20. I went to two preschools (Mexico and Indiana), two elementary schools (Indiana and Colorado), two middle schools (Colorado and Taiwan), and two high schools (Taiwan and Washington)... but I graduated from the same college I started at!

21. For whatever reason, several of my "friend groups" have had names. The "primary club" in 4th-ish grade, the RTS in high school, and the Moose in college. There have also been many un-titled groups, of course.

22. I've known the children I nanny for for about 5 1/2 years now. We've had many good adventures, both at home and afield. Our farther-flung adventures include Disneyland, Hawaii, Cancun, Montana (including Yellowstone and llama trekking), and soon another adventure, which I will write about after the fact!

Oops

Well, I had every intention of writing on my blog every day in October. And, with the exception of one day early in the month (the 8th?), I did pretty well. Except then everything kind of went to hell in a handbasket (which, by the way, is one of my favourite sayings). To apologise, and make it up to you, I give this picture of a very cute dog. Her name is Hazel, and I want to steal her away and keep her for my very own.

Good Choices

I am so pleased that, somewhere along the line, someone decided to ADD a toilet instead of just replacing one.

My Reputation Preceeds Me

I will be volunteering in Clover's class, helping to teach some lessons, and even teaching a little bit by myself. I'm so excited, and Clover is too. She has been asking me when I'm finally going to come in, and we're both delighted that now I have a project and an idea of a date. As I was leaving, she came up to me, grinning.

Clover: I'm going to tell Jennifer that you're volunteering. And Bryce is gonna get it!
Me: It? Get what?
Clover: You know, get it. He talks a lot.
Me: Oh, so you think I'm going to yell at him, and get mad at him, is that it? Is that what you think of me, hmmmm?
Clover: No! I don't think you'll be mad or mean. You'll just say, 'That is not respectful and you need to stop right now.'

It was actually a fairly good approximation of my tone and words. Good to know she's paying attention-- and that she thinks I can whip those 6th grade hooligans into shape!

Read, learn, love

This is a wonderful, wonderful blog post that I came across recently. I hope you read it and enjoy it as much as I did. The original post can be found here.


Today I’m feeling 101-y, I guess, so let’s talk about privilege.

It’s a weird word, isn’t it? A common one in my circles, it’s one of the most basic, everyday concepts in social activism, we have lots of unhelpful snarky little phrases we like to use like “check your privilege” and a lot of our dialog conventions are built around a mutual agreement (or at least a mutual attempt at agreement) on who has privilege when and how to compensate for that. But nonetheless fairly weird, opaque even if you’ve never used it before or aren’t part of those circles. It’s also, the way we use it, very much a cultural marker – like “Tolkienesque” or “Hall-of-famer” or “heteronormative,” you can feel fairly assured that a large number of people will immediately stop listening and stop taking you seriously the moment you use it.

The fact that people are stupid isn’t news, however. And actually that’s kind of why the concept of privilege is important – because privilege isn’t about being stupid. It’s not a bad thing, or a good thing, or something with a moral or value judgement of any kind attached to it. Having privilege isn’t something you can usually change, but that’s okay, because it’s not something you should be ashamed of, or feel bad about. Being told you have privilege, or that you’re privileged, isn’t an insult. It’s a reminder! The key to privilege isn’t worrying about having it, or trying to deny it, or apologize for it, or get rid of it. It’s just paying attention to it, and knowing what it means for you and the people around you. Having privilege is like having big feet. No one hates you for having big feet! They just want you to remember to be careful where you walk.

At this point maybe I should actually start talking about what privilege is, huh?

Well, we’re right here online, so let’s start with the Google definition. As per standard for googledefs, it’s hardly comprehensive, but entirely adequate for our purposes here, particularly the second entry:


If you talk about privilege, you are talking about the power and advantage that only a small group of people have, usually because of their wealth or their high social class.

This is the basic heart of the idea. Privilege is an edge… a set of opportunities, benefits and advantages that some people get and others don’t. For example, if it’s raining in the morning, and you get up, get dressed, climb into the nice warm car in your garage, drive to the closed parking lot at work, and walk into the adjacent building, you don’t get wet. If you go outside and wait at the bus stop, then walk between busses for your transfer, then walk from the bus stop to work, you do get wet. Not getting wet, then, is a privilege afforded you by car and garage ownership. So far, so straightforward, right?

Some examples of social privilege work exactly the same way, and they’re the easy ones to understand. For instance, a young black male driver is much, much more likely to get pulled over by the cops in America than an old white woman. Getting pulled over less, then – being given the benefit of the doubt by an authority figure – is in this case, a privilege of being white. (I’m not getting into the gender factor here, intersectionality is a whole different post.)

Okay, again, so far so straightforward. And thus far, there’s not much to be done about it, right? You’re not going to, as a white person, make a point of getting pulled over more often, and nobody’s asking you to. (Well, I’m not, at least.) So if someone says “check your privilege,” if I tell you to watch where you’re putting your feet, what the hell does that mean?

Well. This is where things get a bit tricky to understand. Because most examples of social privilege aren’t that straightforward. Let’s take, for example, a basic bit of male privilege:

A man has the privilege of walking past a group of strange women without worrying about being catcalled, or leered at, or having sexual suggestions tossed at him.

A pretty common male response to this point is “that’s a privilege? I would love if a group of women did that to me.”

And that response, right there, is a perfect shining example of male privilege.

To explain how and why, I am going to throw a lengthy metaphor at you. In fact, it may even qualify as parable. Bear with me, because if it makes everything crystal clear, it will be worth the time.

Imagine, if you will, a small house, built someplace cool-ish but not cold, perhaps somewhere in Ohio, and inhabited by a dog and a lizard. The dog is a big dog, something shaggy and nordic, like a Husky or Lapphund – a sled dog, built for the snow. The lizard is small, a little gecko best adapted to living in a muggy rainforest somewhere. Neither have ever lived anywhere else, nor met any other creature; for the purposes of this exercise, this small house is the entirety of their universe.

The dog, much as you might expect, turns on the air conditioning. Really cranks it up, all the time – this dog was bred for hunting moose on the tundra, even the winter here in Ohio is a little warm for his taste. If he can get the house to fifty (that’s ten C, for all you weirdo metric users out there), he’s almost happy.

The gecko can’t do much to control the temperature – she’s got tiny little fingers, she can’t really work the thermostat or turn the dials on the A/C. Sometimes, when there’s an incandescent light nearby, she can curl up near it and pick up some heat that way, but for the most part, most of the time, she just has to live with what the dog chooses. This is, of course, much too cold for her – she’s a gecko. Not only does she have no fur, she’s cold-blooded! The temperature makes her sluggish and sick, and it permeates her entire universe. Maybe here and there she can find small spaces of warmth, but if she ever wants to actually do anything, to eat or watch TV or talk to the dog, she has to move through the cold house.

Now, remember, she’s never known anything else. This is just how the world is – cold and painful and unhealthy for her, even dangerous, and she copes as she knows how. But maybe some small part of her thinks, “hey, it shouldn’t be like this,” some tiny growing seed of rebellion that says who she is right next to a lamp is who she should be all the time. And she and the dog are partners, in a sense, right? They live in this house together, they affect each other, all they’ve got is each other. So one day, she sees the dog messing with the A/C again, and she says, “hey. Dog. Listen, it makes me really cold when you do that.”

The dog kind of looks at her, and shrugs, and keeps turning the dial.

This is not because the dog is a jerk.

This is because the dog has no fucking clue what the lizard even just said.

Consider: he’s a nordic dog in a temperate climate. The word “cold” is completely meaningless to him. He’s never been cold in his entire life. He lives in an environment that is perfectly suited to him, completely aligned with his comfort level, a world he grew up with the tools to survive and control, built right in to the way he was born.

So the lizard tries to explain it to him. She says, “well, hey, how would you like it if I turned the temperature down on you?”

The dog goes, “uh… sounds good to me.”

What she really means, of course, is “how would you like it if I made you cold.” But she can’t make him cold. She doesn’t have the tools, or the power, their shared world is not built in a way that allows it – she simply is not physically capable of doing the same harm to him that he’s doing to her. She could make him feel pain, probably, I’m sure she could stab him with a toothpick or put something nasty in his food or something, but this specific form of pain, he will never, ever understand – it’s not something that can be inflicted on him, given the nature of the world they live in and the way it’s slanted in his favor in this instance. So he doesn’t get what she’s saying to him, and keeps hurting her.

Most privilege is like this.

A straight cisgendered male American, because of who he is and the culture he lives in, does not and cannot feel the stress, creepiness, and outright threat behind a catcall the way a woman can. His upbringing has given him fur and paws big enough to turn the dials and plopped him down in temperate Ohio. When she says “you don’t have to put up with being leered at,” what she means is, “you don’t ever have to be wary of sexual interest.” That’s male privilege. Not so much that something doesn’t happen to men, but that it will never carry the same weight, even if it does.

So what does this mean? And what are we asking you to do, when we say “check your privilege” or “your privilege is showing”?

Well, quite simply, we want you to understand when you have fur. And, by extension, when that means you should listen. See, the dog’s not an asshole just for turning down the temperature. As far as he knows, that’s fine, right? He genuinely cannot feel the pain it causes, he doesn’t even know about it. No one thinks he’s a bad person for totally accidentally doing harm.

Here’s where he becomes an asshole: the minute the gecko says, “look, you’re hurting me,” and he says, “what? No, I’m not. This ‘cold’ stuff doesn’t even exist, I should know, I’ve never felt it. You’re imagining it. It’s not there. It’s fine because of fur, because of paws, because look, you can curl up around this lamp, because sometimes my water dish is too tepid and I just shut up and cope, obviously temperature isn’t this big deal you make it, and you’ve never had to deal with mange anyway, my life is just as hard.”

And then the dog just ignores it. Because he can. That’s the privilege that comes with having fur, with being a dog in Ohio. He doesn’t have to think about it. He doesn’t have to live daily with the cold. He has no idea what he’s talking about, and he will never, ever be forced to learn. He can keep making the lizard miserable until the day they both die, and he will never suffer for it beyond the mild annoyance of her complaining. And she, meanwhile, gets to try not to freeze to death.

So, quite simply: don’t be that dog. If you’re straight and a queer person says “do not title your book ‘Beautiful Cocksucker,’ that’s stupid and offensive,” listen and believe him. If you’re white and a black person says “really, now, we’re all getting a little tired of that What These People Need Is A Honky trope, please write a better movie,” listen and believe her. If you’re male and a woman says “this maquette is a perfect example of why women don’t read comics,” listen and believe her. Maybe you don’t see anything wrong with it, maybe you think it’s oh-so-perfect to your artistic vision, maybe it seems like an oversensitive big deal over nothing to you. WELL OF COURSE IT DOES, YOU HAVE FUR. Nevertheless, just because you personally can’t feel that hurt, doesn’t mean it’s not real. All it means is you have privilege.

That’s not a bad thing. You can’t help being born with fur. Every single one of us has some kind of privilege over somebody. What matters is whether we’re aware of it, and what we choose to do with it, and that we not use it to dismiss the valid and real concerns of the people who don’t share our particular brand.

There is?

K: There's a chicken on the car!
A, Clover, Neptune, me: WHAT?!

Indeed. It was a chicken.

A Fall Haiku

Hot apple cider
I drink you by the gallon
You are my life blood

This post is part of Mama Kat's writer's workshop.

An Open Letter to Middle Schoolers

Dear Middle Schoolers,

I'm so sorry for you-- really, I am. The ages of about 11-13 suck, no matter how you cut it. Ok, I'm sure there are some good things (I'll get back to you once I figure out what they are), but on the whole, it's just kind of rough. Not entirely a kid, definitely not an adult, and only barely a teen (if that), you are guaranteed to struggle at least a little bit. Still, you'll get through it, I'm sure. Adolescence sucks for everyone-- anyone who says otherwise is lying-- and the vast majority of us get through it relatively unscathed. We look back, laugh ruefully, and joke about "the awkward years." You'll joke too, I know, once the braces are behind you and you've come out of the other side of puberty.

Right now, though, I'm choosing to focus on one of the most delightful, ridiculous, and fun aspects of the pre-teen experience... the Middle School Dance.

I had great fun chaperoning one of these dances on Friday night, and it brought back a lot of memories-- of pretty terrible music, over-active smoke machines, and many entertaining evenings. Anyway, current middle schoolers, here's some advice I'd like to share:

1. Leggings are NOT TROUSERS. Not now, not ever, no.
2. Please, please, please wear deodorant.
3. Related: Cologne is NOT A REPLACEMENT for deodorant. Not only that, but one little spray is enough. No need to go overboard, friends.


Oh, middle schoolers. I'm giving you a hard time in this letter, but let's be honest. I admire you. I love your enthusiasm, your intensity, your ups and downs, and your evolving friendships. It's a crazy time of life, and a lot of things change; I gotta be honest, it's a delight to know those of you I do.

Love, Blythe

Update

Remember when, a couple of weeks ago, I told you that I had exchanged e-mails with a water bottle company?

In case this wasn't as much of an Experience for you as it was for me, here's what I wrote about it. Go back and read it if you're going to read the rest of this post-- it's not funny, otherwise.

Ok?

Ok.

So after I sent them an e-mail with my address, I didn't expect to hear anything in response. I mean, they clearly weren't too into my e-mail (having not even read it properly before sending me a form response), so I thought the e-mail was good for a chuckle, and I'd move on with my life.

WELL.

Imagine my surprise when I received the following in the mail today:

Huzzah! Hopefully this will be the end of spilled water bottles in my car or our swim bags.

Ten Tips to Prevent Rape

1. Don't put drugs in women's drinks.

2. When you see a woman walking by herself, leave her alone.

3. If you pull over to help a woman whose car has broken down, please remember not to rape her.

4. If you are in an elevator and a woman gets in, don't rape her.

5. When you encounter a woman who is asleep, the safest course of action is to not rape her.

6. Never creep into a woman's house through an unlocked door or window, or spring out at her from between parked cars, or rape her.

7. Remember, people go to the laundry room to do their laundry. Do not attempt to molest anyone who is alone in the laundry room.

8. Use the buddy system! If it is inconvenient for you to stop yourself from raping women, ask a trusted friend to accompany you at all times.

9. Carry a rape whistle. If you find you are about to rape someone, blow the whistle until someone comes to stop you.

10. Don't forget-- honesty is the best policy. When asking a woman out on a date, don't pretend you are interested in her as a person; tell her straight up that you expect to be raping her later. If you don't communicate your intentions, the woman may take it as a sign that you do not plan to rape her.


I love this list. It wasn't until reading it for the first time that I realised how often I read "rape prevention tips" that advise women (only women, mind) to use the buddy system, not dress "provocatively," and never leave a drink unattended. While I recognise the sad reality of the situation-- and will continue using the buddy system and guarding my drink like a crown jewel-- I think it's worth pointing out that the best "rape prevention techniques" should probably be practiced by, you know, the people who might decide to rape someone. The way we advertise women's safety right now just makes it sound like... well, if you were raped, it's kinda your own damn fault.

Which it's not.

It never is.

One of the many reasons I love Fall:

WHAT.

I love J.Crew as much as I ever have, but sometimes they produce clothes that just really, really puzzle me.

And then they charge an amount for them that leaves me positively baffled.

I would like to submit into evidence this picture:

Do you know how much this "Porcupine Popover" (which sounds more like a disgusting side dish than a shirt anyway) costs?

$550.

Yes. Exactly.

Please watch this right now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gkIiV6konY

Weeping

Today, I heard a 3rd grade girl sing the first part of a Ke$ha song. It broke my heart. Don't get me wrong, I love me some Ke-dolla sign-ha, but I think it's pretty important to note that I'm 24, not eight.

Words that should never pass an 8 year old's lips:

Hot and dangerous
If you're one of us, then roll with us
'Cause we make the hipsters fall in love
When we got our hot pants on and up
And yes, of course we does
We runnin' this town just like a club
And no, you don't wanna mess with us
Got Jesus on my necklace.

Did you hear the Hallelujah chorus?

I'm sure you must have heard it, it was echoing through the hills all of yesterday afternoon. The angels sang, rainbows stretched across the heavens, and flowers bloomed bright and unseasonal across all fields and in sidewalk cracks. Given the unlikely nature of these events, it is certain that you observed them. Did you realise the reason behind them, though?

I'd be happy to clear up the confusion.

Over the weekend, I got some long sleeve shirts for Clover to consider. She has very specific tastes (as do many of us, to be fair), and it is not always clear to the rest of us what those tastes entail. Still, our shopping experience together had not resulted in many shirts that she would wear (ie, we got ONE), so I struck out on my own. I bought five shirts and one sweater, and every single one met with her approval. Two shirts had to be returned due to their size (she's itty bitty, the shirts weren't itty bitty enough), but stylistically, all were acceptable.

She looked at the shirts, and looked at me. "It's just... it's hard to believe that you picked these out."

"Gee, thanks."

"No! No, that's not what I meant. I meant... normally when other people choose clothes for me, I don't like it that much."

Whatever. I'm counting it as a success.

She's a witch!

Unasked for input from 3rd graders should be taken with a grain of salt. A girl in Neptune's class told me that I should be a witch for Halloween. Why, you may ask?

Because of my hair.

I think I'm going to take it as a compliment.

Adventure Awaits!

In a few weeks, Clover, Neptune and I are going on a Grand Adventure. We are headed off to their cousin's bar mitzvah. (And, heck, we'll call him "Mitzvah" for this blog, because my understanding is that doing a "mitzvah" for someone is to perform a kindness, and this boy is certainly kind.)

I have never been to a bar mitzvah before, though I understand that many people practically lived at the events all the way through their middle school years. I hear there is dancing. I hear there are games. I hear there is a reallllly looonnng serrrviiice (which, actually, I'm quite looking forward to-- I think Mitzvah will do a wonderful job with his part of the service, and I can't wait to see him do it.)

I've never even been to a synagogue, so this will all be new to me. I anticipate being fascinated, entertained, amused by the young teenage frivolity at the reception, and enjoying myself thoroughly.

Though, of course, I will not tell you When we are going, or Where we are going (because, after all, this is the internet, and one of you might be a PSYCHO KILLER-- hey, you never know), I will tell you this-- it involves a plane trip. And planes ALWAYS mean adventure. This is true partially because of the distance involved (if you're getting on a plane, after all, it means you're going a significant way from home), and partially because there are a series of plane-related Wonderies and Potentials:

- Will the plane be delayed, or arrive on time? Or even early?
- Will there be a screaming baby, an enthusiastic child kicking my seat from behind, or any particularly Interesting Characters? (Planes and airports are always good for people watching.)
- Will all luggage and carry on pieces arrive with you at your destination?
- Will the beverage trolly carry delicious options? (The answer to this is ALWAYS yes, because Ginger Ale is remarkably delicious on airplanes.)

More stories after the fact, of course, but for now?

I'm so excited.

Too Tired

I meant to-- Really Meant To-- write a longer post today, one with pictures and a story of some kind.
But...

I went shopping with The Tween (aka Clover) today, and I'm afraid it's all I can do to sit upright.

Fall

Whenever I am not actually COLD, I love Fall. (Note: This means that, a goodly percentage of the time, I do NOT love Fall.) I find damp cold to be incredibly miserable. I tend to dress for bed as if I'm going out to play in snow. I don't. like. cold.

But I do love just about every other aspect of autumn, including:

Brightly coloured leaves
Hot apple cider, hot chocolate, hot tea (which I drink at other times of the year as well, but find even more satisfying in the fall)
Fall clothes
Rainboots
Halloween
Thanksgiving


So, having given it due thought, I've decided to give Autumn a try this year, and I'll try to do it right.

Bring on the cider.

Update

So, after consulting with the Best Vet Ever (second only to Scarlett's regular vet), we are waiting on surgery for a while. There's a possibility that her bone will heal itself, and no surgery will be needed after all.

Wouldn't that be AWESOME?

Specialties Galore

I have to take this fuzzy critter to an orthopedic veterinary surgeon surgeon tomorrow:

Did you even know that this profession EXISTED? I thought there were, you know, vets. Vets who work with pets, vets who work with farmyard animals, and vets who work with wild beasties. Probably there are other vets too, but orthopedic veterinary surgeons?

Well, knock me over with a feather.

Lunchboxes

I have a problem.

Last school year, probably in early spring, I got started making cute little lunchbox notes for Clover and Neptune. They're sort of like mini scrapbook pages-- decorations on the front of a 3"x3" square, a friendly little note on the back.

This was all well and good at the beginning, when I was full of ideas and enthusiasm, but now I seem to have set a precedent, and it's hard to escape. I LIKE doing this, and I LOVE that the kids love it, but there's still a certain level of expectation at this point. The following are some examples of the notes of which I speak:

Fascinating

Before too long, my grandmother will be moving into a retirement home. This is no surprise; she IS 91 years old, and it is an entirely logical, totally perfect choice. The challenge before the move, however, is going through the 65+ years of STUFF that has accumulated in the house in which she currently lives. This summer, I spent some time with my cousin and dad going through the stuff in the closet. Here's a sampling of what we found...

What is it, do you think?

A small pair of knitted shorts, sewn together at the waist. Purpose?

A multiple-year-old cookie

A space station/serving dish

And, the very best of all, a small angel sealed inside two wine glasses.

October

Well, I have pretty much failed at my rather poorly defined goal, "post more on blog." Instead, I'm going to give myself a much more specific goal: Post something to the blog every day of October. That means 31, friends. They will not all be insightful, that will not all be pretty, they will certainly not all be funny... BUT. There will be 31 one of them.

So there.