“Like my baby on Facebook!”

I have a lot of problems with social media, but I’m also a total hypocrite, so I’ll be quiet.

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Who am I kidding – of course I won’t be quiet.

I follow a lady on Facebook with children. Both the boy and girl are under age 15, so neither are involved with Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, or anything of that nature…to their knowledge.

You see, she’s the type of mother you don’t see often who is a little old fashioned but knows how to be a smart parent; for her kids there’s no watching TV all day, attendance at school and extracurricular activities are a must, it’s OK to want to look good but vanity is wrong – that sort of thing.

I reiterate; she’s a smart woman and I respect her a lot.

But how do I know these things about a woman I only had a handful of conversations with in person? And perhaps the more important question is, how do I know these things about her children?

Because she broadcasts it all over her Facebook.

Her son accidentally discovered porn and was subsequently banned from the computer. Her daughter wants to go to camp this summer but it conflicts with a sporting event that’s equally as important (what to do?!). I know this stuff about two children I’ve never met and probably never will.

People don’t seem to realize that they’re creating online profiles of their children as they do this, and their children have absolutely no say in it. I have friends with entire Facebook photo albums of their babies, and nobody seems to stop and think, “What will my baby think of this when they’re in high school?”

Maybe Facebook and Twitter won’t be important by then, but these online profiles will continue to exist no matter what the medium is. How would you like it if the photos of you in all your naked, crying, glory at age two were plastered all over the internet by someone you loved and trusted?

I’m guessing that most people wouldn’t appreciate it.

And believe it or not, those pooping, crying, flailing lumps of human you made a few months ago are going to grow up and not appreciate it either. Unless you’re Beyonce and you have a team of PR people already working on branding your child so that they can grow up to be successful, back away from the status update.

But as I said before, I’m going to get called a hypocrite because I’ve put things on the Internet that are admittedly inappropriate.

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But I will follow that up with this: I did it. I, of sound mind and free will, did it. I will accept the consequences because I did it and am old enough to know better.

On the other hand, these kids with entire Facebook profiles had no say in anything. If their parents are idiots, they’re the ones who are going to pay the price later.

I’m totally fine with posting the occasional picture of your kid, but to create an entire online persona just isn’t fair to the adult they’ll grow up to be.

Give them a chance to get to middle school and mess up their online identity themselves.

A Feminist Fairytale – #4

There once lived a fair-haired boy in a village near a forest

                                                                                     -because all villages are near forests.

The boy was adventurous and did not listen to his mother, and so one day, against her wishes, he ventured too far away from home and found a cottage.

 

 The cottage had bowls of porridge on the table, so the fair-haired boy sat down to eat.

     “This bowl is too big,” he said before finishing the whole thing.

     “This bowl is too small,” he said before finishing that one too.

     “This bowl is just right,” he said and finished off the whole lot of them.

 

Next, the fair-haired boy came upon several living room chairs.

     “This chair is too big,” he said before breaking the arm off with a baseball bat.

     “This chair is too small,” he said while stomping it to pieces and laughing maniacally.

     “This chair is just right,”he said before tossing it across the room.

 

Finally, the fair-haired boy came upon a large, orphanage-style bedroom with three beds in it.

     “This bed is too big,” he said while bouncing up and down on it.

     “This bed is too small,” he said while jumping on that one as well.

     “This one is…”

 

     BOOM

You see, the father of the fair-haired boy had noticed his sons absence and came upon the cabin just as the family of bears

                                         –   who had been out on a picnic, I promise you   –

                                                                                                                           returned home.

     BOOM     BOOM

went the fathers gun again as he killed all three bears with shots to the head.

“Daddy!”screamed the fair-haired boy as the two embraced.

“You should be more careful, you know,”the concerned father said.

“I will Daddy, I promise!”the fair-haired boy said.

And as both father and son began trashing the small cottage in the woods, the mother wondered absentmindedly if either her husband or son would be home for dinner.

                                                                                 Because she was making porridge.

-The End-

A Feminist Fairytale – #3

One day in a land far, far away, Adam went to visit his grandmother.

He packed a picnic basket with –

     1. Two ham sandwiches with swiss cheese and mayonnaise

     2. One large carton of sliced pears  (grandma’s favorite)

     3. Four Samuel Adams Boston Lagers

     4. One medium tub of macaroni salad

     5. One small package of assorted plastic cutlery

On his way out the door, Adam grabbed his red coat and threw it over his broad shoulders

                                                                                   –   and they were broad, I promise you that.

Adam went on his merry way to his grandmother’s house   –   

                                                                 and nothing out of the ordinary happened whatsoever.

 

-The End-

 

A Feminist Fairytale – #2

In a mystical land many, many years ago, there was a poor farmer with not a penny to his name.

He did, however, have a strong son named Thomas.

These things always end badly, I promise you they do.

Anyway, one day, a tiny man came to the poor farmer and offered him all the riches in the world

                                                   –   with one catch.

His son Thomas was to work day after day spinning straw into gold.

The poor farmer, seeing no other choice, accepted the offer.

Thomas knew hunger.

               Thomas knew want.

                              Thomas knew what it was to be poor.

So he worked, day in and day out, spinning straw into gold.

 Until one day, a tiny man came to Thomas and said he could spin straw into gold for him

                                                  –   with one catch.

Thomas would have to give up his first born child to the tiny man unless he could guess his name.

Sure enough, Thomas accepted the offer but could not guess the stranger’s name –   but went about living his life with his rich family anyway.

Not long after that, Thomas met and married Matilda, who bore him a beautiful baby girl.

But soon after that, the forgotten little man showed up to claim his prize-

                                                                                        unless Thomas could guess his name.

Sadly, Thomas could not guess the man’s name

                         so when the man reached for their newborn baby girl

                                        Thomas shot him in the head

                                         with his new pistol

                                         he had just purchased with a small amount

                                         of his families wealth.

-The End-

A Feminist Fairytale – #1

Once upon a time there was a man Leroy. He wasn’t very happy, I promise you that.

He was a slave to his two brothers, you see.

                           A slave.

He did the cooking, the cleaning, and the laundry, just to name a few things.

Until one day he saw a beautiful lady walking down the street.

The beautiful lady was going to a ball, and Leroy wanted to go too.

So he threw down the dirty socks, the Windex, and the awful pink rubber gloves –

                                                                                                                                 and he went.

-The End-

Magic

-a prose poem-

Touching them is magic – at least for an 8-year-old. They hold some sort of power only the adults have, and this allows you to touch, to feel, to play, to dream about as many as you want; for free! 

The bright colors are the best. They make great bookmarks, paperweights…name tags…ok, mostly bookmarks. The dark ones and ivory ones serve a purpose as well. They allow talking, conversing, helping decide which shade of ‘Lilac Gray’ to paint the foyer. 

This must be what being an adult is all about. This must be magic.

You cannot wait to wield their full power one day. You cannot wait until the day when your mother finally lets you paint your room your favorite color – ‘Chartreuse Cilantro.’

But for now, they are merely magical bookmarks with names. They read off like an enchanting spell of sorts;

‘Orange Abyss’

‘Muted Cardamom’

‘Blushing Ivory’

‘Creamed Kahlúa’

‘Touch of Lime’

Their names roll off the tongue in your mind like satin and dance across your fingers as you clutch as many as you can hold; for free!

Fashion follies & shoulder pads; an introspective look at beauty

I have to admit ‘Groundhog Day’ isn’t my favorite movie. In fact, I think I’ve only seen it three times. Maybe four. But we had to watch it in a class today and it got me wondering what; what were people thinking in the 90s?!

The hair. The absolutely atrocious hair and the absolutely horrifying shoulder pads paired with absolutely horrible 70s-inspired patterns.

For starters, Andie MacDowell is a beautiful woman, but her hair in that movie is one of the frizziest things I’ve ever seen. Bill Murray is no looker himself, but I’m here to concentrate on the women in this film. Overall, I think images speak louder than words.

What’s with the frizz?
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And why the 18th century updo?

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It all makes me wonder if we’re going to look back on our own movie stars and celebrities of the 2000s with horror and disgust. I mean, look at Andie now.

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Older, yes, but definitely gorgeous.

Or is she? And what does that say about the ever-changing standard or beauty in today’s world? Is there any way to win?

In the end, I think the only way to win is to change with the standards over the years. Look at Cher; she’s been rocking it for decades and doesn’t appear to have plans to stop. But is that possible for the every day woman or the every day college student, and more importantly, is it even worth it?

Sometimes I get out of bed and simply don’t want to put any effort into how I look. Ideally, I’d like to go to class in whatever I slept in without even glancing at a mirror as I leave the house. But sometimes, I do want to play my daily dress-up and slap on some mascara and straighten my unruly hair.

I’m not a feminist, but I believe in equality. For those women out there who say putting effort into your appearance is submitting to male dominance and becoming things for men to objectify – you’re wrong. As a woman, I think it’s great that I have the opportunity to play with how I look, whether it makes me look better or worse. I can go to class not wearing a speck makeup and have hair that looks like I just touched something that was electrically charged, or I can go with my eyes more accentuated and my hair pulled up into a polished bun.

Guys are pretty much stuck with what they’ve got.

So why do I watch ‘Groundhog Day’ and cringe when the actresses walk into the shot? They’re simply doing what I relish; playing with their looks to fit the times because they can. Maybe that means I’m the one objectifying them, not men, and that’s where the true problem lies.

Women dress for other women; to be honest, 99% of my male friends wouldn’t notice if I wore the same shirt three days in a row. Four days might be pushing it.

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^Also, why does this happen? Come on Mark Zuckerberg, get it together.

So, ladies, the next time you’re criticizing and scrutinizing the actresses and models in a magazine or movie, remember that it all comes around full circle. I don’t have a solution other than to try to better myself and the way I look at beauty in the world around me, so maybe you’d like to join me in that. Maybe we can turn a molehill into a mountain. Or a groundhog hill – whatever.

Beginning of the Year Rant: Ode to Philosophy

I’m a senior in college and I’m in Philosophy 101 with a bunch of freshmen. The class is fine on the surface – but the combination of our clueless professor and the classes’ weird compliance with learning about the history of philosophy instead of actually discussing philosophical issues baffles me. All I can do is sit back and watch.

 

Example 1: In the middle of a sentence, our bumbling and lovable professor who has to be in his mid  ‘60s stopped and said “How do you spell Socrates?”

Someone answered. He wrote it down. He then turned reproachfully to the class and asked, “Are you sure? Are you really sure?”

Yes, sir, we are. You, on the other hand, have 15 misspelled words on the board behind you so I would suggest you stop second-guessing us and pick up a dictionary.

 

Example 2: In the middle of a rant about Plato (spelt ‘Platoe’ on the board a couple of times), our professor will stop abruptly and begin talking about how he tends to confuse his wife and cats’ names. And to make it even funnier, that cat’s name is something like “Fluffy” or “Scratchy” and his wife’s is “Eugenia” or “Meredith.”

It goes something like this:

“Yeah, Socrates and Aristotle (spelt ‘Aristotles’ on the board) are easy to confuse. Kind of like my cat *Giggles and my wife *Angie.”

The entire class immediately perks up.

“Yeah, my wife Angie and….mumble mumble….Giggles gets on the table… mumble mumble…and then I’ll say ‘Angie! Get off the table!’ and you can imagine how mad that makes my wife!”

Crickets chirp while our professor pauses for a laugh that will never come.

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Example 3: While going over potential quiz questions, our professor began to write a sentence with an em dash in it – (<that is an em dash.) I know it is an em dash because we use them in the newspaper frequently and when you insert them, you have to go up to the menu, click insert, and scroll down to ‘em dash,’ which is right next to ‘en dash.’ I also know that there are shortcuts on both Microsoft and Mac computers to just insert them using keystrokes instead of selecting it with your mouse.

I acknowledge that I am one of the few people in the universe who have this knowledge stored away and will ever need to use it. Our professor didn’t seem to think that way.

“Oh, this!” he said, rambunctiously pointing to his em dash, “this is an em dash. You know how you get one of these to pop up when you’re typing up a paper or something?”
No one answered.

“Well, first you have to type the word, and then a space and then two of those dashes in the upper right hand of your keyboard…and then you…”

And the entire time he explained this, he was writing out a visual explanation on the board as well that was complete with ‘word^space – – space^word.’ Then, to top it all off, he writes it on the board as an ‘M Dash.’ My inner editor went insane.

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And no, he wasn’t done yet. He went on to explain the difference between what he wrote down as an ‘M Dash’ and an ‘N Dash.’ Who honestly cares? And what does this have to do with Greek philosophers?

 

So, all I’ve learned in this class, which costs nearly $1,000 at my college, is patience. Lots and lots of patience. 

Stupidity & Connect 4

Ignorance can be corrected. Stupidity is an attitude – a decision to not notice the things around you and learn from them. Ignorance says “I don’t know.” Stupidity says “What? New information makes me uncomfortable, so I’m going to go back to watching cat videos on YouTube. No, I do not think interracial marriage is OK and only white, land-owning men should be able to run for office!”

My grandma on my dad’s side has always had this thirst for knowledge that’s almost disturbing. Back when she was healthy, she would sit at the computer all day and learn about everything from the best way to fertilize her roses to the valves in the human heart. I know she graduated from high school, but that was back in the day where women were expected to get married and make babies, so their education got coated with Home Ec classes and child development studies. She’s a sweet woman with such a high pitched voice she refuses to answer the phone for fear of a telemarketer asking to “speak to your mommy or daddy please?” And even though she had been stricken with polio as a teenager, married young, had children, raised them and then began to grow old under the dominating shadow of my grandpa (who I love dearly) – she refused to stop learning.

Granted, she would call me frequently with questions like “I lost the AOL internet. Where do I find it?” and “How to I email a picture?” she caught on fairly quickly and retained most of it.

It always frustrated her that I wasn’t ever as excited about my education as she was, but I wasn’t going to lie. Things came easy to me at a young age – reading, writing, basic math, memorization – it all left me thinking “Yeah, I can do that. Now what?” I never valued sitting in a classroom and listening to teachers drone on and on about the context clues in ‘White Fang’ because I had already picked up on the context clues and I already understood that the whole book was a metaphor for the struggles of everyday life (i.e. “the wild”). I already knew to be suspicious of our textbook writers becasue there’s always two (and sometimes more) sides to every story. I already understood that the oppression of women in the early 1900s (and for like…ever…before that) could be compared to the oppression of women that was (and is still) happening in the Middle East. What I didn’t understand was why we had to sit there and re-discuss it over and over.

I take that back – I understood we had to re-discuss it because most of the kids in class still hadn’t gotten it. That was fine, and I didn’t love them any less because of it. But why did I have to sit there?

I hoped things would change as I got older, but they never did. We still sat there and overanalyzed every little thing (and I always already understood it). Even the literature class I took during my freshman year of college consisted of re-hashing Kurt Vonnegut while I sat there thinking ‘This is his brilliance! He’s laughing at us in his grave right now while we make futile attempts to grasp something he never wanted us to grasp in the first place!’

Except for math – which got progressively difficult once they threw letters in there. When it comes to math, I know that to this day I still have the mental capacity to grasp it all, I just don’t have the desire. Seriously – I picked my college major partially based on the fact that I would only have to take one math class (I passed it! Woohoo!).

I was always told that this would be the year it got hard, this would be the year I really had to buckle down. But it never happens. I’m not overly-intelligent and I’m not a genius – I still need spell-check, I do addition and multiplication with my fingers, and for about a year I thought euthanasia was some phenomenon to do with “youth in Asia.” I’m just really good at playing real-life-connect-the-mental-dots. Most of the time. It sounds like I’m complaining about being intelligent, but really, I’m unintelligent with a desire to become intelligent, and that’s really all it takes.

Which takes me back to my grandma. She refuses to be stupid and she refuses to stop cramming as much information into her brain as possible. Even now, with her health worse than before and her ability to use a computer almost nonexistent, she loves for me to explain to her what it is I do at the newspaper office at school and how exactly I do it. Even if I explain it seven times.

I’ll never value traditional education like my grandma does, but I’ll always value learning things. Heck, I think that’s why I’ve loved my internships so much. I’ve learned more on the job that I ever will in a classroom, and I think that’s something our political leaders need to look at. Teachers serve their purpose, but it’s really hard and really ineffective to put a blanket ‘fix-all’ over every child in America who has the desire to learn. I feel like if I had had the opportunity to shadow a writer or spend a year living with a music video producer I would be 100 times better in my field than I am right now, but I would have had to sacrifice my friends and my childhood. You win some, you lose some.

So is there a fix for stupidity? No, but there will always be those who want to learn and those who don’t, and maybe it’s just better that way.