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(10/11/07 4:00am)
We live in a society void of romance. Writer-director Robin Swicord reminds us of this in the first two minutes of the charming the "The Jane Austen Book Club" via a montage of how technology is a constant source of annoyance and awkwardness, not to mention how hard it is to do much of anything correctly when we have cell phones pasted to our ears.\nAlso void of romance, the women in this film seem to have thorny relationships with men: Sylvia (Amy Brenneman) gets a surprise divorce from her husband after 20-some years of "happy marriage;" her best friend Jocelyn (Maria Bello) is receiving the unwanted attention of Grigg (Hugh Dancy), an Orlando Bloom look-alike who ends up roped into the Jane Austen Book Club despite his dedication to sci-fi over chick lit; and Sylvia's daughter Allegra is a hot lesbian who needs no men but still has romance trouble. \nSylvia's mother Bernadette (Kathy Baker), cheerful six-time divorcee, recognizes the solution that we Austen fans hold as gospel -- "All Jane Austen, all the time. It's the perfect antidote to life!" Hence, the book club is born: Six Austen novels to be read by the members in six months. \nThe film, in its acting and shooting style, feels like TV, lacking the type of depth, breathtaking shots and character study found in "great movies." But this movie isn't attempting to be "On the Waterfront." Is there something for everyone? Probably not. Most men will be turned off by jokes obviously pitched to middle-aged women, such as lingering shots on Dancy's package in a cycling suit, but they won't complain during the lesbian bathing scene. Austen fans will be amused at the notion that a gorgeous man might actually pick up an Austen novel.\nThe movie reminds us of the power Austen has to stir, heal and guide us. The books that the characters read and discuss connect to and parallel their lives in ways that would seem contrived, except that the same thing is true for all of us. As they all negotiate their relationship strife with each other's support -- as this movie is about female bonding as much as anything else -- they follow the principle WWJD: "What would Jane do?" Moral of the story? Any character with staying power has read Austen and, therefore, wised up. Men, take note.
(10/04/07 4:00am)
Fear, paranoia and infestation abound in this skillful adaptation of Broadway play "Bug" from playwright (and screenplay adaptor) Tracy Letts. Director William Friedkin, who also directed "The Exorcist," provides the audience with all they need to know in the opening two shots of the film: The first is only about two seconds long and consists of a slain man laying in a room covered in tin foil. The second is an aerial shot of vast farmland with a tiny, rundown motel in the middle. As the camera descends on the motel, a transparent shot of a ceiling fan is superimposed onto the shot, and you hear helicopters. \nWithin the first two minutes of the film, the audience is alerted to the threatening nature of life in this motel -- of something bigger, of invasion. Friedkin's camera work is economical and intentional. Though this film reveals itself as a work for the stage in its reliance on symbol and focus on character rather than plot, Friedkin's fixation on images reveals the motifs central to his audience's understanding of this film.\nStructurally, "Bug" is a descent from reality to total paranoia, but it is also an ascent from isolation to union. This movement is executed with commitment and love by Ashley Judd and Michael Shannon, an actor who garnered very favorable reviews for his work in the stage version. Judd plays the lonely and ordinary Agnes White, a trailer-trash resident of Rustic Motel in the farmlands of Oklahoma whose room becomes infested; and Shannon portrays Peter Evans, the unsuspecting friend of a friend who Agnes takes in to stave off loneliness. His paranoid worldview fills the voids in Agnes' empty life.\nThis film is scary. The depths of delusion the human mind can reach and the consequences thereof are terrifying. But "Bug" is less about scaring and more about deception and truth, the vulnerability of loneliness and how paranoia is an infestation.\nThe special features are OK. Friedkin's commentary oscillates between insight and plot retelling. There is a conversation with Friedkin about the film industry and the way it has evolved since the 1960s. There is also a little feature called "Bug: An Introduction" in which the cast gushes about Letts' play, the film and the characters; but that's not to say it isn't fun to watch.
(12/11/06 4:36am)
In light of Lindsay Lohan's recent e-mail debacle and the fact that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I have decided to take this opportunity to make a similar public statement in response to Lindsay's. Here is my own e-mail. Please enjoy.
(12/06/06 5:45am)
It was Monday of finals week, and I had no tests until my Spanish exam Wednesday. So I got up, enjoyed a leisurely morning and began my normal routine of checking my e-mail and Facebook account and the away messages of everyone I know. I was perusing the usual items -- the default away messages, the quotes, the day's agenda -- when I came across a startling one: "Spanish final." Ordinarily, this wouldn't be so unusual, but this particular buddy was in my Spanish class, meaning if he was in a final, I should be too. Needless to say, I threw on some shoes and rushed in my pj's over to Ballantine. I got there just a few minutes late for my final. In a way, it was a relief. I had my exam out of the way without all the hassle of studying.
(12/04/06 3:48am)
I'm sorry. Fates -- consider this my formal apology.\nI did something really bad, and I know it has caught up with me. The karma police have come, and they've come for me.\nI live far away, and I have to take the C Bus to campus. On days when I was running late, I would park at the Jordan Crossing complex lot. Thanks for my distaste for the C Bus, I began to "run late" a lot and parked illegally every time. I started just parking there every day, leaving my car there from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. I did this for about a month, maybe a month and a half. I won't lie; I began to feel above the law.\nAround this time, I began parking in the Pizza Express lot on 10th Street next to the Student Recreational Sports Center when I would go to the library. These people are kidding about towing me, I thought. I mean, if they haven't towed me yet, why would they start now?\nI was wrong. The week before Thanksgiving, I was walking back to my car in the Jordan Crossing lot -- and found no car. It had been towed. Eighty of my hard-earned bucks went to the impound lot in exchange for my Toyota Corolla, but, worse, my parking spot was taken from me forever.\nAt least I still had Pizza Express -- or so I thought. I've just started seeing someone and, for some reason, a few days after the Jordan Crossing fiasco, we exchanged cars for the night. I parked his car the following morning at the Pizza Express lot while I finished a research paper in the stacks. He came to meet me, and when we went to go get his car -- lo and behold -- it was gone. We saw the sign that read, "Car missing?" with a phone number of the impound lot below. No, my car's not missing, I thought. My car was taken by you, you shady impound jerks who only take cash. And this impound lot asked $110 in exchange for his car. Great.\nOn top of the sting of having my checking account decimated by the cost of having two cars towed in a week, I had gotten someone else's car towed -- someone in front of whom I was hoping to maintain some semblance of normalcy, perhaps even someone I wanted to impress. Needless to say, getting someone's car towed is not only not impressive, I would go as far as to call it downright humiliating. OK, I get it, I thought. Stop parking illegally. Fates, I hear you loud and clear.\nI thought I had paid my karmic penance -- then I woke up Monday morning, got in the shower and felt a blinding pain in my side. Yup. I ruptured an ovarian cyst and spent all week on painkillers.\nI don't know what I did to deserve this, so I am just apologizing now for everything. So Fates, get off me. I'm sick of being hassled.
(11/27/06 4:12am)
I'm officially old. My friend Caitlin became the first of my friends to get engaged, and with that diamond, she made me old. \nDon't get me wrong. I'm thrilled. This past weekend, I attended a bridal sleepover, or a wedding pep rally, if you will. Caitlin's closest friends from home all gathered at our friend Sarah's house for smores, champagne, girl talk and "The Wedding Planner." And in the middle of this sleepover, I distinctly remember confessing, in spite of myself, "This is the most exciting thing ever!"\nMost girls have been planning weddings their whole lives. I am no exception. I played Perfect Wedding tirelessly and Barbie and Allen (better than Ken because his head moved with greater freedom for the part when they kiss) got married at least 36 times in my basement alone. As a girl, you dream about planning your wedding: the dress, the bridesmaids, the flowers, the cake, the music. And, like most, I always planned on having a real wedding of my own to plan someday.\nAmong all of this pre-wedded bliss at the sleepover, though, my friend Sarah and I, comprising the single-girl contingent, found ourselves not engaged or engaged-to-be-engaged like the other girls. As Sarah and I had our own side conversation about wedding venues, I was struck by a flash of genius. I applied the fail-safe Field of Dreams theory to marriage. While Sarah and I might not have fiances yet, it shouldn't stop us from the fun of planning. After all, I theorized, "If you plan it, he will come." \nIf this theory would work at all, Sarah and I posited that she and I would be engaged sometime between the first and second cake tasting.\nWe laughed for about five minutes, and we informed our friends of our ingenious plan, to which they responded, "You don't actually believe that, do you?"\nDuh. Of course not. But it's awfully funny to think about. Picture it: me, Sarah, two wedding dresses, a lot of champagne and no grooms. Phenomenal.\nWhat if it were true, though? I can't imagine actually doing it. Maybe I'm strange, but I think most ladies my age would agree that a wedding without a marriage would be ideal. I'm not ready to be that responsible yet. I can't even decide what shirt to wear in the morning without trying on seven of them, and even then, sometimes I change midday. How can I be expected to handle something like, "'Til death do us part?" \nAs all these thoughts ran through my head, I heard Caitlin mention the guests to be invited to the wedding. She said there would be a limited number of guests to be invited with a date. However, being a part of the wedding (I'm going to be the wedding singer, believe it or not), for the first time in my life, I have been invited plus one. And Jess plus one, not married to one, sounds pretty good to me.
(11/20/06 5:09pm)
Girls can play a lot of angles. There's the blond angle. There's the twin angle. There's the damsel-in-distress angle. There's the good-girl angle. There's the bad-girl angle.
(11/14/06 4:05am)
There I was, at the races, trapped in a building where people were allowed to smoke indoors, and Starbucks was a foreign concept. In fact, there was no hot coffee at all. All I could get my hands on to feed my monstrous caffeine addiction was a cold cup of something that can only be described as dirty water with coffee grounds stirred in. \nAhh, the joy of returning to your roots.\nPeople ask me where I'm from, and often I say Cincinnati because I find that it's more representative of where I'm from than Kentucky. I am, in fact, from northern Kentucky, eight miles south of downtown Cincinnati and about two and a half hours due east of Bloomington. Still, I am Kentucky born and bred and almost never say it. Even when I do admit that Kentucky is my place of origin, it's always, "northern Kentucky, by Cincinnati," as if that dying city is better than the Bluegrass herself.\nBut moments like that, when I return home and find myself in gambling establishments surrounded by smokers and drunk middle-aged men with Southern accents who like to hit on blond twentysomethings like myself, I am reminded of the words of Ben Folds (And why not? He is the voice of middle-class white kids): "Try to put it all behind me, but my redneck past is nipping at my heels."\nThere, in the middle of Churchill Downs, I had to suppress the urge to cry out, "You don't understand! I write poetry! I go to the theatre! I spell theatre 't-h-e-a-t-r-e' for God's sake!" I want to sprint to the nearest Starbucks, bang on the doors until they let me in, throw myself prostrate on the ground at the feet of the barista and claim sanctuary. But there was no Starbucks. There was no sanctuary. There was no coffee -- and I was left grouchy, with a headache from caffeine withdrawal. The country music only exacerbated the problem, so I turned to my mother and asked, "Where are we? What happened to civilization?"\nI guess the most embarrassing part of all of this is that I secretly love the track. Horseracing is a pretty baller sport, and I can handicap the horses with the best of them. I've been going to the track my whole life. The truth is that these are my people.\nInstead of trying to reject my redneck past, I suppose I should embrace it. I will always be Jessie Leigh from Kentucky, who grew up at the horse track and saw Reba McEntire in concert at least three times. I've seen Brooks and Dunn, too. I've do-si-do'd with my dad at the father-daughter hoedown. I've been to a motor speedway race. I was in a commercial for a flea market. Maybe I'm the Osmond kids -- a little bit country, a little bit rock 'n' roll. I'm Cincinnati and Kentucky. I'm a Yankee and a Southerner. After all, Kentucky was a border state. Maybe I'm a border person. All that said, though, I still need my coffee. So, Churchill Downs, if you're reading this, get a Starbucks.
(11/12/06 5:00am)
There I was, at the races, trapped in a building where people were allowed to smoke indoors, and Starbucks was a foreign concept. In fact, there was no hot coffee at all. All I could get my hands on to feed my monstrous caffeine addiction was a cold cup of something that can only be described as dirty water with coffee grounds stirred in. \nAhh, the joy of returning to your roots.\nPeople ask me where I'm from, and often I say Cincinnati because I find that it's more representative of where I'm from than Kentucky. I am, in fact, from northern Kentucky, eight miles south of downtown Cincinnati and about two and a half hours due east of Bloomington. Still, I am Kentucky born and bred and almost never say it. Even when I do admit that Kentucky is my place of origin, it's always, "northern Kentucky, by Cincinnati," as if that dying city is better than the Bluegrass herself.\nBut moments like that, when I return home and find myself in gambling establishments surrounded by smokers and drunk middle-aged men with Southern accents who like to hit on blond twentysomethings like myself, I am reminded of the words of Ben Folds (And why not? He is the voice of middle-class white kids): "Try to put it all behind me, but my redneck past is nipping at my heels."\nThere, in the middle of Churchill Downs, I had to suppress the urge to cry out, "You don't understand! I write poetry! I go to the theatre! I spell theatre 't-h-e-a-t-r-e' for God's sake!" I want to sprint to the nearest Starbucks, bang on the doors until they let me in, throw myself prostrate on the ground at the feet of the barista and claim sanctuary. But there was no Starbucks. There was no sanctuary. There was no coffee -- and I was left grouchy, with a headache from caffeine withdrawal. The country music only exacerbated the problem, so I turned to my mother and asked, "Where are we? What happened to civilization?"\nI guess the most embarrassing part of all of this is that I secretly love the track. Horseracing is a pretty baller sport, and I can handicap the horses with the best of them. I've been going to the track my whole life. The truth is that these are my people.\nInstead of trying to reject my redneck past, I suppose I should embrace it. I will always be Jessie Leigh from Kentucky, who grew up at the horse track and saw Reba McEntire in concert at least three times. I've seen Brooks and Dunn, too. I've do-si-do'd with my dad at the father-daughter hoedown. I've been to a motor speedway race. I was in a commercial for a flea market. Maybe I'm the Osmond kids -- a little bit country, a little bit rock 'n' roll. I'm Cincinnati and Kentucky. I'm a Yankee and a Southerner. After all, Kentucky was a border state. Maybe I'm a border person. All that said, though, I still need my coffee. So, Churchill Downs, if you're reading this, get a Starbucks.
(11/06/06 3:30am)
'Tis the season.\nMarked by falling leaves, crisp air and flocks of scantily clad freshman women in huddled masses walking toward frat houses, fall is in full swing. As someone with impeccable taste, let me say that, though the cash reserve accumulated by a summer's hard work is dwindling fast, there are some things this season worth the splurge.\n• Seasonal beverages. Treats like the Pumpkin Spice Crème latte at Starbucks or the Fireside Cocoa at the Copper Cup are a delight. They are also temporary, so let them help you get in the spirit of the season. If you are looking to entertain or want DIY fall libation, pick up some cider, and heat it on the stove top. Add a little ginger, nutmeg and cinnamon. Yum. That's fall.\n• Scarves and hats. These are the gifts that keep on giving. Nothing adds more style, color and texture to a boring jeans-and-coat combo like a great scarf and hat, not to mention the warmth they provide when you're making the trek from Teter to Swain West. \n• A pair of boots. Nothing will make a person grouchier than cold, wet feet, so boots are a must. You will be happier, which will make you nicer, and nothing makes other people happier than people who are nice to them -- except maybe cash or free stuff. But there's only so much we can do.\n• A good thermos. If you are indeed looking to save money, and you drink half as much coffee as I do, a thermos is a must. In this cold weather -- and at this time in the school year when the workload can seem insurmountable -- coffee is necessary in large quantities and served hot. I recommend the cup-as-lid, pop-and-pour variety. It makes for very hot coffee, pleasant drinking and something to keep you occupied if a lecture gets boring. As in every season, quality coffee is a must. That means no Folgers, not even that shoddy excuse for "gourmet" it's put out. I recommend, for fall, Starbucks' Caffè Verona or the perennially delicious Blackbeard's from Soma.\n• Dinner for your friends. This can get pricey (especially depending on the size of the invite list), but I have always found it to be a worthwhile experience. The cold weather lends itself to warm get-togethers with delicious food and a few big bottles of Pinot. Cooking is a skill that can only be achieved by practicing, so why not let everybody win? You learn, they eat free, and everyone has a fine time. Plus, it can be done in an affordable fashion. Keep it intimate, and check out what deals are happening at the grocery store. There is always a meat on sale, and vegetables aren't too expensive. Food, drink, friends and good conversation -- these are the fine things in life, and fall just isn't fall without them. If you want to survive the chill of the season, let these things keep you warm inside and out, and have a classy fall.
(10/30/06 5:20am)
I Veeted. So sue me. If all you uber-feminists judge me because of it, so be it.\nIn honor of this Halloween holiday season, I thought it appropriate to have silky smooth legs -- the silkiest smoothest legs of my whole life. And according to the commercials, Veet can give me a silky smooth sensation that can last up to twice as long as shaving.\nI was cheerful, hopeful, filled with the promise of the silky smoothness to come, but two minutes later, my legs covered in cream, I felt the slight burn of chemicals eating the hair from my legs. I passed it off as though my legs were "breathing," and "breathing" is good. Right?\nTurns out, though, "breathing" was actually Veet hair removal cream eating not only the hair off my legs but my skin as well. My legs broke out in hives and I sat in pain as they itched and burned for the next hour. My roommates went from friends to special task force. Their mission: Find antihistamines.\nI took a large dose of NyQuil and went to sleep itching and scratching before waking up hive-free but hungover. I had overslept, so no time for coffee, but without coffee, I had no real ability to function, so I was stuck in a lose-lose. I felt silly and ridiculous -- and I hate feeling silly and ridiculous -- all because of Veet.\nBut the stinging pain of my Veeting was nothing compared to what I felt when a female peer recently belittled me because of my status as friendly blonde. I could see her condemning me for crimes against the feminist agenda -- for general silliness. I have a brain, and I like silky smooth legs. It's often a tough thing to reconcile as a woman, and I find I'm judged not by men for my blond hair and primping but by my fellow women. Serious girls with brown hair like to turn up their noses at me when I laugh, say hello or tell them I like their bag. This, I would argue, is the downfall of feminism. Women are too quick to judge one another.\nLadies, let's get a few things straight. We're on the same team. And men are on our team too -- Team Humanity. You can Veet at your own peril, but on top of agonizing itching, you should not have to fear the backlash of the bitch brigade judging you for wanting smooth legs. The only people who stop us from being able to be our whole selves -- thinkers, lovers, fighters, etc., all in one woman-shaped package -- are ourselves, as we immediately place our fellow women into categories, identifying them as "one of THOSE girls."\nSo don't trip, and don't judge. Sure, Veeting is an exercise in silliness. It doesn't mean anyone who Veets is dumb. And, sure, having a super-short hair cut and not shaving your legs is low-maintenance. Those choices don't make a woman any smarter; they just make her less hairy on her head and hairier everywhere else.
(10/23/06 3:06am)
I can't take it anymore. I'm calling for revolution.\nAfter rereading Gertrude Stein's wonderful "The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas," I couldn't help but ask, what happened to our culture? \nAllow me to explain:\nIf you don't know Gertrude, she was the writer of novels, plays, poems and an (auto)biography of her lover, Alice B. Toklas. Gertrude was also best friends with Pablo Picasso, another American in Paris, and tight with the likes of Matisse and Hemingway. They'd hang out, talk about art and poetry, eat, drink, start artistic movements like cubism and modernism and change the face of art as we know it. Sigh. A lifestyle oozing with intellectual stimulation: That's what I call living the dream.\nI'll admit I'm too hopeful sometimes. I have reveries of Pulitzers for napkin scribbles and a Nobel Prize for improving the style of those around me. Who doesn't have these ridiculous fantasies? I, of course, am aware that they are silly, but they can't be helped.\nAnd I guess you could say one of my ridiculous fantasies is being the next Gertrude Stein, hanging with the new Lost Generation and starting a new artistic movement, or, dare I say it, a society of intellectuals -- you know, helping people have good taste.\nSo that's it. I'm calling for revolution. I know it's ridiculous, but what happened to art? It's all become so esoteric, which would be fine except that it means the masses just aren't interested. And this means the vast majority of people are, well, crass. I see shows like "Yo Mamma" and "Parental Control" and hear songs like Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" and -- perhaps the greatest example of the death of taste in mainstream culture -- Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas' horrendous "London Bridge." Let me go on record as saying this is the worst song I have ever heard, and I would venture to say it is the worst song ever written and recorded. I wrote a song about cleaning my room while waiting for someone when I was 7. The whole song was played on black piano keys, and I would say that song is better than "London Bridge." \nRegardless, though, what happened to poetry? The "Facebook Favorite" for literature at this University (and all of Facebook) is "The Da Vinci Code." Um, for real? If Dan Brown is your favorite writer, you just aren't reading enough books.\nThis is a call for sophistication to return to the masses. What if we became a more refined society? Martha Stewart is doing her part. She's brought some classy hand towels to Kmart, and I appreciate that. And sure Martha's done time, but let's be honest: White collar crime is to blow as blue collar crime is to crack. There is a whole world of fine arts and fine dining that today's society is just overlooking in favor of Larry the Cable Guy and McDonald's. I'm done with this middle-school attitude that has taken over adult culture. Who's with me?
(10/17/06 2:57am)
I don't like animals. OK, I said it. I confess, I don't like them, not one bit. This isn't to say I hate animals. I have befriended a handful or two in my lifetime, and I don't wish death upon all your pets or anything. That said, I won't apologize for eating meat, and the only thing stopping me from buying a fabulous fur coat is my tragically empty wallet. More than these, though, I can't get it up for your pet just because it is an animal.\nPet things I abhor:\n• Your pet jumping on me and sniffing my crotch. I find this rude and inappropriate. I accept that your pet isn't a person. However, Fido can't have it both ways. We're either going to have a human-friend relationship or we will relate as human and animal. Either way, I don't care, but tell your dog to get out of my crotch and stop knocking me over if you want us to be friends. \n• Pictures of your pet. Your animal looks exactly like every other of its kind to me. I know how desperately you want me to be excited about this creature, but I just don't get it. I might fake it and say, "Aw, that's cute." But I don't think it's cute. I think it's irritating. I would rather look at pictures of you, your family, other humans. I don't show you photos of my computer, which I like probably as much as you like your pet. My computer (her name is Gertrude) actually knows the meaning of personal space. Gertrude tells me important information, like the weather and when I have e-mails. Your dog just makes on the carpet. \n• The smell of your animal when it breathes in/licks my face. Like the crotch invasion, your creature should learn the meaning of personal space. I have met a few dogs in my day that understood this concept. Well, either they understood it or were too old to be interested in getting all up in my business. Regardless, they're better for it.\n• The fact that your pet wears a Halloween costume, a sweater, a tutu, etc. Nothing is more frightening than an animal in clothing. There are probably children in Third World countries who could use sweaters, but you are choosing to give one to your pet instead. I can guarantee your cat hates it. Your dog might tolerate it but probably just because it doesn't get it. Don't animals have built-in clothes anyway? I thought so. Actually, I know they do because that's what I would use to make my fur coat, if I could afford it.\nThere's an old phrase that goes, "Love me, love my dog." If that's the way it goes, your animal and I can co-exist, but don't put your pet above humans. It's creepy and weird, and I can't get it up for that. Excuse me, now, I need to go eat a steak.
(09/25/06 3:59pm)
Booze is a funny thing. It betrays us, makes us sick and induces reckless behavior. We drunk dial, we go home with boys we shouldn't, we spend money we don't have on cab fares and bar tabs and we dance all night in uncomfortable shoes (inevitably causing blisters to be dealt with the next morning alongside hangovers). For these things, I blame alcohol. \n"I'm never drinking again ... ever," my roommate lied. She threw up three times after sampling a little too much Everclear the night before. She traditionally drinks beer, and, unfamiliar with the potency of this particular libation, drank herself sick. So I can't blame her for lying. She probably thinks right now, staring at her bile in the toilet bowl, that she will never drink again. However, by next Friday, she'll be back at it. \nHow do I know? I've been there, of course. I won't tell stories (a lady never drinks and tells); let's just say that there was many a time I should have been benched. However, not only am I still in the game, I'm a starter. How? I've gone through intense conditioning, made many mistakes on game days and I had to learn from them.\nWhy, though, is this a team I even want to play for? It seems as though it would be better to be on some sort of Saturday night Balderdash squad. It takes me back to a simple truth: Once alcohol came into our lives, things that might have been fun before became less fun. You can argue me on this one all you like, but I won't listen. Drinking changed fun. \nIn considering my pre-booze life, I recalled my days of middle school: the dawn of "boy-girl parties," where we would all dance (yes, we even slow danced) sans alcohol. We just wanted to dance, and we wanted to dance with members of the opposite sex. We'd play truth or dare (which was basically a way to justify kissing), and no feelings were held back because of sobriety. \nDid we have it right back then? Has alcohol stunted our social and emotional growth to the point of an inability to have the kind of fun we used to have in middle school? And, trust me, middle school was just as bad for me as it was for you, if not worse -- I wore headgear. However, sometimes I am nostalgic for a sweeter time, a time before this social crutch. \nBut here's the simple truth ...\nWill I stop drinking? Don't be ridiculous. I like it, and it's my team. Drinking can turn an average night into a great one. And even if I wanted to go back to the days when my mouth was more familiar with orthodontia than alcoholic beverages, I couldn't. Social interaction is irreversibly different now. Accept it, move on and be somewhat responsible. Just think of my roommate -- she won't stay away because drinking rocks. If retching up your insides for hours won't deter you from something, nothing will.
(09/18/06 11:06pm)
Make free the tampons! I'm serious. Tampons should be free. \nI know what you're thinking -- "Sweet cheeks, nothin' comes from nothin.'" However, they shouldn't be free for everyone. That would be silly. They should be free for me and my fellow ladies of menstruating age, and Uncle Sam can pay the tab.\nI saw a distressed girl the other day in front of the tampon dispenser in a women's restroom. Terrified, she looked at this archaic piece of machinery, which read: "Feminine napkin: 10 cents. Tampon: 10 cents." I knew that sinking feeling well. I had been that girl, losing hope that obtaining the tampon I needed so desperately just might not be a possibility. Just look at all the red flags! First of all, those things look like they haven't been touched in 35 years, much less refilled. Second, the term "feminine napkin" is just plain creepy. It grosses me out, gives me the heebie-jeebies. I know you feel me on this one.\nFortunately, a very good Samaritan who understood the horrors, too, offered the poor girl a tampon, and I couldn't help but wonder about the financial ramifications this could have on the generous woman's life. Tampons are expensive. Very expensive. Not 10-cents-per-tampon expensive but up to 20-cents-per-tampon expensive. And they aren't an option; they are a necessity.\nLet's do the math. The average woman loses about 1 to 2 ounces of blood per month via menstruation. And let's say women start their periods at 13 and end them at 55 (which is being generous enough). That is 42 years (504 months) of menstruation. Let's suppose, then, the most average of women would lose 1.5 ounces of blood per month over 504 months. That is 756 ounces of blood. A regular tampon absorbs on average .265 ounces of blood, and assuming each and every tampon used is fully saturated before removal (which it never is), a woman can easily use about 2,852 tampons in her lifetime. Multiply this by the cost of the average 40-count box of Tampax Regular ($0.16 per tampon at Walgreens), and you end up with a cost of more than $456 that women have no choice but to pay.\nPlease understand: Being a woman is awesome. I love every second of it, even my more menstrual moments. However, I cannot think of one required cost men are subjected to that parallels the cost of tampons. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. We didn't even discuss those girls who start their periods at 11, last until they're 60, and suffer from menorrhagia (excessively heavy periods that affect one in five women).\nSo why not make the government pay? It pays for public education, and it ought to pay for my tampons. Until my tampons are subsidized by the government, I will see it as the continuing oppression of my gender. Let's even the playing field, shall we? Pay for my tampons. Make the world a more just place.
(09/11/06 5:22am)
I have achieved! After four grueling semesters with zero luck, I finally was given my first attractive AI! I attended 23 -- yes, I said 23 -- first days of class hoping to see the man I saw today. I have to ask, though, what's taken so long? Doesn't the IU administration know this is an important, nay, necessary piece of the collegiate experience?\nLike a package wrapped up in stubble, an old T-shirt and a furrowed brow, the good-looking assistant instructor is the University's gift to the amotivation-prone coeds. And damn, do we deserve it. We suffered through a many unsightly profs to get here. \nWhat makes an instructor more dreamy than a fellow undergrad, you ask? Men with or obtaining advanced degrees are the natural choice of crush for their intelligence, pretentiousness and egos. My young mind was shaped by such quality television programming as "Saved by the Bell" and its awesomely bad spawn, "The College Years." This was, for at least a year, my vision of college life. Aside from the totally fictive, enormous coed dorm rooms, there was the more intriguing element -- the dashing professor Jeremiah Lasky.\nProfessor Lasky, or "Jer," as Ms. Kelly Kapowski so affectionately dubbed him, taught Zack and Kelly anthropology -- and taught Kelly a little something else on the side. Kelly's choice was clear. Lasky could distinguish Australopithecus robustus from Australopithecus afarensis, but the only thing Zack knew was how to trick Mr. Belding out of his office so Screech could make phony announcements over the PA. \nThe fine writers of this program know we desire sophisticated intellectuals (handsome instructors) who grasp how women of integrity (us) ought to be treated. We seek men who are GOING somewhere, and we don't mean going over to "broseph's" for some "Madden." And men, we all know you have the hots for older ladies. That almost goes without saying.\nHowever, what's taken so long? I have waited for two whole years, and this is the first attractive instructor I have ever had (names withheld to protect the handsome, of course). But even so, I am not convinced he knows who I am, and I know the man will never date me. Though these fantasies are pipe dreams of a girl with too many inappropriate thoughts and too short an attention span, they might give me that added motivation to attend class on a rainy day.\nAnd I guess the grade compensation question cannot be avoided. My freshman roommate's math A.I. probably had the biggest crush on her ever. He offered private tutoring sessions and even asked her on a date in front of her entire class when she handed in her final exam. My roommate knew the odds of getting a bad grade were slim to none, and he got to hang with a cute girl once a week. What's the harm in that?\nAdministration, I cry out to you: Hire more studs! And hired studs: Date more students! Or at least flirt a little and throw these girls some bones. After all, "A" is for Action, and in this situation, everybody wins.