Drives me crazy

"How come there are so few girls here?" Blonde Niece asked me.

We were sitting inside the ski lodge, eating lunch at a table full of teenage boys, some of them related to us. She's thirteen, taking snowboarding lessons for the first time, and she reported that she's the only girl in her group. We looked around the lodge and counted. The ratio of males to females was about 6 to 1. Not even close to being equal.

I don't understand why this gender inequity on the ski slopes still exists. I know that for my parents' generation, traditional gender roles dictated that on Sundays, men got to play on the ski slopes while the wives stayed home with the children to cook the Sunday dinner. But that was the 1950s and this is 2005, and almost every person in the lodge was younger than I am. Most of them were teenagers.

We discussed the physical differences between men and women. Women are more flexible and have a lower center of gravity, all of which should work in their favor when skiing. Women have more fat on their bodies, which makes them more insulated from the cold. Looking at the biological factors alone, the slopes should be dominated by women. But clearly, they aren't -- at least in this rural area where the skiers and boarders come from conservative small towns.

I asked Blonde Niece how come her male friends snow board and her female friends don't. She said that the boys think it's cool and macho and makes them look tough. The girls don't want to get bruises and get sweaty and have their hair look bad. And of course parents encourage boys to ski or board, willingly buying them lift tickets, but girls don't get that encouragement.

How frustrating that in the year 2005 junior high kids are still socialized to fit into these gendered stereotypes. Boys are supposed to be tough and be good at outdoor physical activities. Girls are supposed to look pretty. This kind of thing drives me crazy.

Filled with moonlight and screaming

Last night as a special birthday treat for Shaggy Hair Boy, I took him to the ski slopes at night. He wanted to snowboard with some friends so I decided to make the sacrifice and spend a few hours skiing. I managed to get in twelve runs on a gorgeous winter night AND feel like I was being a good parent by driving him there and back.

I'd never been skiing at night before. The scene was so beautiful that I felt like I was in some kind of 1930s movie: Big lights lit up the hills of snow and the nearest trees, pines and hardwoods all edged in white, while the woods beyond looked dark and mysterious. The chairlift pulled me right into the night sky, with a crescent moon moving into the sky just ahead of me.

The slopes were throbbing with adolescent energy: thirteen local schools bring their students on Friday nights. There were 20 buses in the parking lot! The lodge was filled with kids combing their hair, showing off, giggling and shouting, jostling each other. Outside, these kids travel in herds: I'd be skiing along and hear the sound of snowboards rattling against ice, see the shadows approaching, and whoosh - suddenly they would be all around me, a whole pack of laughing, screaming kids, fast but out of control. It's such great energy.

We came home to a warm house to have birthday cake with the gang who gather here on Friday nights. The great thing about Friday night sleepovers is that it gives me hours of peace and quiet on Saturday mornings. They will all sleep until noon, and I'll get lots of work done.

Monet's Palette with Rorschach's Method

Last year I decided that I would try to nurture my artistic talents, which were unfortunately stamped down at an early age by an elementary school teacher who thought an art project was successful only if it looked like hers.

So I bought myself some pastels and cool art paper. I spent several days happily drawing and smearing color about until I had used up all the paper and my fingertips were sore.

I quickly learned that art is way harder than it looks. I could not make the images look like anything I had planned. So instead I just decided to go at each picture instinctively, adding whatever colours I felt like, until I could think of a title that would make some sense of whatever bizarre image I had created. This method, which will henceforth in art schools be referred to as "jo(e)'s method" is far less frustrating than trying to learn any art skills. And it is so much fun.

I know you are all hoping that I will scan in the pastels and show you them but Shaggy Hair Boy says that the dust would hurt the scanner. And besides, I haven't figured out how to post pictures yet. You will just have to read these titles and imagine for yourself how wonderful the images are; it's highly possible that what you are picturing might be better than the real thing.

jo(e)'s art gallery

What a rose looks from the perspective of a bee
View from the hammock without my contacts in
Breakfast through a blurry window on rainy day
When moonlight distorts the world
Alien vomit
Autumn view from inside a train moving fast
Eyelashes up close
What a tree trunk looks like to a spider
Weird sea shapes made by hair in the shower
What the marsh would look like if the world was flat
Bottom edge of a hoopskirt, swaying
If a tornado came at us upside down
The train yard inside my head
Sunlight through hair on a pillow
Dreams twisted through clenched fists
Chimes tangled by wind
Moonbeams in jar
What seashells would like if I was in charge of the ocean
Reflections and refractions on a stormy lake
Rose petals in a pile
If tear drops came in colours

Copy this

Yesterday I drove to campus, risking my life on roads covered with freezing rain, all because I thought it would be a good idea to get to the copy machine during this quiet week before classes start and get everything copied for that first class. Even getting into my car was a chore because all the doors were frozen shut. Luckily, I know from experience how to deal with this: I climbed in through the back and then kicked the driver's door open from the inside. Always you have to open a frozen door from the inside or you can break off a door handle. Trust me on this one. So I braved the ice storm to come into campus, only to find the copy machine on its worst behavior. Three sheets in, it began jamming on me. I hate machines of all kinds. I think they pick up on my vibes and rebel. I looked into the machine and saw a crumpled piece of paper stuck way in the back. Now if anyone sensible had designed this copy machine, there would be a hinged door on the back of it so that this kind of problem could easily be fixed. Unfortunately, the copy machine for our department (and yes, we have only one because we are a small department) was designed by some kind of sadist. By kneeling on the floor, I could peer through a crack and see the crumpled paper, but I could not fit even a finger through any of the cracks. The secretary, who had been happily chatting with me about her dance class, offered to call the Service People who Usually Take Three Days to Show Up. No, I said, don't bother calling the Service People From Hell, I will fix this machine. So I duct-taped two rulers together, and duct-taped a paper clip to the end, and went after the machine with this weapon. By lying on the floor, I managed finally to get the right angle, even though of course, I could not see what I was doing. I also could not see much of what was going on in the office, although I believe that during this saga I was introduced to some new administrator. ("Those legs on the floor? That's Jo(e). Maintenance? Oh, no, she is a member of the faculty.") I am nothing if not persistent, though, and in the end, I finally managed to get the crumpled piece of paper out of the machine. I danced around the office, waving the paper in glee, and the secretary was happy for me. Then I settled back to get my copying done .... and the machine still did not work. I hate copy machines.

Brought to you today by the letter W

So what does the W stand for? asked my youngest son.

Maybe it stands for Wealthy. Or White.

Wanton, perhaps. That means: done maliciously, without regard for what is right.

Wrong. Worm. Wasteful. Weak.

Not worm, my son said. I like worms. They never hurt anyone.

You know how they name streets after places they've bulldozed? Maybe that's it. The W could stand for everything getting crushed under the machine: wolves, wildflowers, woods, wilderness, women.

Perhaps it could stand for Whopper.
A hamburger? asked my son.
No, a Whopper means a big fat lie.

Oh, he said. The W could stand for Weapons of mass destruction, pretend ones.

Yes, I said. And it could stand for Warmonger. Willful.

Widow.
War Wounds.
Weeping.

Bumper Stickers

Don't blame me
I voted for Kerry

Feminism is a moral value

Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity

Well-behaved women rarely make history

Stylish on occasion

Blogging has made me admit something that I've known deep down for a long time: I am a fashion geek.

I don't do retail therapy. I hate shopping. Much of my wardrobe comes from the local thrift store because buying previously owned cothing fits in with my anti-consumerism philosophy. I don't blowdry my hair. I don't usually spend more than $20 on a haircut. I don't wear make-up. I've never pierced my ears or any other body part. I shave my legs randomly. I don't own a black dress.

At conferences, I usually wear jeans and a brown shirt. (I used to wear black with the theory that it was a dressy colour, but I switched to brown because it looks better with my colouring.) If I'm presenting that day, I might dress up with a blazer or black pants, but not usually both at the same time. For teaching, I wear jeans, some kind of plain shirt, and either sneakers or hiking boots. I could defend this practice by explaining that this attire is entirely appropriate where I teach -- many of my students are studying to be forest rangers or lumberjacks -- but the truth is that I'd probably dress like this if I taught at Columbia. My younger sister, that is, Urban Sophisticate Sister, who lives in the Upper Snob Section of Manhattan and dresses every day like she is going to a photo shoot, rolls her eyes at my clothing choices. She exudes Trendy, yet Classic, Well-Tailored and Expensive. I look like a woman who just doesn't care what I wear.

Yesterday, though, I had a revelation. I am not a complete and total fashion geek. Once every week, I wear expensive, well-made clothing. My skiing outfit! I will spend any amount of money on outdoor clothing because I enjoy winter sports more if the clothes I am wearing fit well and keep me warm and comfortable. My ski clothes are even color-coordinated: all red and black. When I caught I glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror at the ski lodge yesterday, I looked so well-dressed that people were probably mistaking me for a tourist rather than a local.

And on top of this, I am working on a belly dancing outfit. When I finally finish getting all the accessories that I can wear with my pantaloons, I will have yet another fashionable outfit, although the only people to ever see it will be the women in my belly dancing class since I have no intention of joining a troupe and performing in public. Oh, and I am partial to nice lingerie, especially anything silk, which means that I'm fashionable in the evening after the kids go to sleep, although only in the privacy of my own home. I don't know if that counts though.

How to Ruin the Sensual Thrill

On Saturday night, which is officially date night in my household, Spouse and I went to see the movie Closer. During the opening scene, Spouse leaned over and whispered, "Doesn't Jude Law remind you of John-Boy Walton?"

Going Downhill, Fast

A few years ago, my seven-year-old son begged to go skiing. I looked into the prices at the nearest ski resort and realized that the deals they have for local people are pretty affordable. ($110 for six Sundays of skiing, which is less than $20 for each day.) When I called to sign up my son for lessons, I asked, "Do grown-ups take lessons too?"

"Oh, yes," the voice on the phone assured me, "We get lots of adult students."

Well, when my son and I showed up for the first lesson, I noticed immediately that I was at least 20 years older than anyone else, including the instructor who looked about seventeen. Luckily, I have no problem making a fool of myself because really, that is the only way to learn to ski. The cheerful instructor would say confidently, "Follow me," and then head down the hill, while this straggly line of small children and me would weave after him. I had absolutely no control over my speed and I'd often take out a few of the little kids before crashing into some deeper snow and falling into a crazy position, with no clue of how to get up. The instructor told me later that he could always tell when I'd fallen because he'd hear all this wild laughter behind him.

I don't think I actually harmed any of the little kids. A pretty resilient bunch, they were, and pretty good natured. By the sixth Sunday, the little kids were zooming all over the mountain like they owned it. Patiently, they'd wait for me at the bottom while I skied back and forth, zigzagging my way down, attempting to go as slow as possible.

This will be my third year of skiing and I'm still not particularly good at it. But I think I enjoy skiing more than most people because I have so damn much adrenaline going through my bloodstream while I'm out there. I'm so terrified most of the time that even the easier slopes are a thrill.

And I love everything about the whole ski scene. I like riding the chairlift and catching a glimpse of the show-off boarders doing fancy moves on the halfpipe. I love the trails that go through stands of pine trees all piled with fluffy snow. I love the encouragement I get from local teen-agers who yell hello from the chairlift above as they watch me wipe out dramatically. I love spending a whole day outside in the fresh cold air in the middle of the winter. I love the speed, the rush, the feeling of accomplishment when I do make it down the hill. I even love getting cold and wet and chilled through because then it feels so wonderful to come home to a cosy house, take a hot bath, sit in front of a crackling fire, and get into bed with a warm spouse.

Foray into Fashion

I spent yesterday morning with my Wonderful Smart Beautiful Daughter. You probably think that's a pseudonym, but actually that is what I call her in real life. Her pseudonym is Daughter. Anyhow, she is only home from college for another week, so I want to spend time with her whenever I can. That's how I ended up going to the place I detest: Stupid Suburban Shopping Mall. (If I seem unreasonably angry at the malls here in the Snowstorm City region, it's because I remember what life and the landscape was like before they existed. Oh, but that's a different post.)

This mall has many stores with names that might be familiar to you, but I am going to change them because I don't want to give them any free advertising. Most of them are clothing stores: American Raptor, Urban and Short, Antique Dark Blue, Sizzling Themes, the Queen's Mystery, Big City and Company, Empty Space, Burns Horribly, and several well-known department stores. Oh, and the bigger mall in Snowstorm City has a restaurant called Peckers, a place which deliberately hires well-endowed men to wear tight shorts so that female customers can ogle them.

So here is how the mother/daughter bonding goes. We go into a store and each gather an armful of clothing. That's the rule: we both have to try stuff on, even if one of us doesn't like the store. Even if one of us is too old for the stuff in the store. Then we go into the dressing rooms and try everything on. Here's a typical conversation:

Me: "Well, how does this look?"
Daughter: "Uh ... that depends."
Me: "Depends on what?"
Daughter: "Were you going to wear it in public?"

I save a lot of money by shopping this way. Of course, what money I save by not buying stuff for myself gets spent inevitably on Daughter because she just happens to look good in everything. And she wears an extra small, which is always the size on sale, so she comes home with all kinds of new clothes, paid for by me because her scholarship doesn't cover wardrobe expenses.

As for me, I went to the mall with the vow to buy something decent, something different than what I usually buy, and I came home with a pair of jeans (Empty Space Store Flare Size 10 Average). They were identical to the jeans I was wearing. But of course, they were on sale, so that counts for something.