Nazi Chic: Fashioning Women in the Third Reich. by Irene Guenther.
You should read it, too!
Monday, March 27, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
P.S.
My friend John is engaged to be married. News came the day after the previous post. Inspite of my happiness for him, and the knoweldge that he will live a full and happy life with his soon to be wife, I just wanted to point out that John is 21. This, aside from being great news (because I really do believe that they will be happily married) just serves as further proof of what I was just saying. So. Yeah.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Great Balls of Fire
May I just say, I think the day just hit me, when I realized that I am starting to live in an adult world. And may I also just say, the hints were not so subtle. My roommate just bought a house. Her very own, with her very own money. She's 24. And my highschool sweetheart called me the other day to tell me that he is getting married. He's 22. All my other friends are working full-time jobs, starting to be financially secure, building little nest eggs for "the future." Goddamn.
And here I am, close to 23 years old and still in school (albeit graduate school); soon to be back living in a dorm, not working full-time, certainly not buying a house, and nowhere close to even considering the possibility of marriage. And for my birthday, while grownups go to dinner, I'm going to a Lynard Skynard concert to scream my lungs out to a group of leathery-skinned, raggedy-old hippies. Peter Pan syndrome? Perhaps.
It's not that I don't want to grow up. No, wait. Maybe it's just that. I don't want to grow up. I remember being a child and saying to mysef that old people were boring and I never wanted to be an adult. Because old people don't know how to have fun. I also remember the moment that I stopped considering myself a child.
I was riding my bike in our house in Turin. We lived in a sort of gated community, and I would always go up to the gate and say hello to the guard and help him push the buttons to open the gate so that they cars could get in and out. And when you are a child in Italy, you don't have to address adults with the formal "you," but when you are no longer a child, you are expected to be respectful towards adults by using the formal "you" ("lei" versus "tu"). So I was riding my bike up there, I must have been thirteen or so, and I stopped and panicked, because I didn't know how to address the guard. So instead of going there, I turned around and went back. I just thought about what it meant that I now belonged to a different social world, with rules that I was expected to follow, and customs I was meant to uphold. That's how I knew I was no longer a child. And it just made me sad.
And now, I'm close to that point where I'm no longer a girl, but becoming a woman. And that is even worse. Because all "girls just wanna have fun," and most women just want to get by. Adults settle. They buy houses, they get married, they raise families, they build financial security... they grow roots and bear fruit. And there's nothing wrong with that. Except that I think most adults grow roots in places where they are not given room to grow. They cultivate bonsai trees instead of California redwoods. And I like feeling like I'm a little seed, still "blowing with the wind," looking for that soil which will allow me to grow into a full-fledged human.
Okay. All of these TERRIBLE analogies and musical references aside (you can sigh relief now, I said it first) -- I don't want to grow up. And everyone around me is doing just that. And it scares me because I don't know whether I should get with the times or just "keep on keeping on."
And here I am, close to 23 years old and still in school (albeit graduate school); soon to be back living in a dorm, not working full-time, certainly not buying a house, and nowhere close to even considering the possibility of marriage. And for my birthday, while grownups go to dinner, I'm going to a Lynard Skynard concert to scream my lungs out to a group of leathery-skinned, raggedy-old hippies. Peter Pan syndrome? Perhaps.
It's not that I don't want to grow up. No, wait. Maybe it's just that. I don't want to grow up. I remember being a child and saying to mysef that old people were boring and I never wanted to be an adult. Because old people don't know how to have fun. I also remember the moment that I stopped considering myself a child.
I was riding my bike in our house in Turin. We lived in a sort of gated community, and I would always go up to the gate and say hello to the guard and help him push the buttons to open the gate so that they cars could get in and out. And when you are a child in Italy, you don't have to address adults with the formal "you," but when you are no longer a child, you are expected to be respectful towards adults by using the formal "you" ("lei" versus "tu"). So I was riding my bike up there, I must have been thirteen or so, and I stopped and panicked, because I didn't know how to address the guard. So instead of going there, I turned around and went back. I just thought about what it meant that I now belonged to a different social world, with rules that I was expected to follow, and customs I was meant to uphold. That's how I knew I was no longer a child. And it just made me sad.
And now, I'm close to that point where I'm no longer a girl, but becoming a woman. And that is even worse. Because all "girls just wanna have fun," and most women just want to get by. Adults settle. They buy houses, they get married, they raise families, they build financial security... they grow roots and bear fruit. And there's nothing wrong with that. Except that I think most adults grow roots in places where they are not given room to grow. They cultivate bonsai trees instead of California redwoods. And I like feeling like I'm a little seed, still "blowing with the wind," looking for that soil which will allow me to grow into a full-fledged human.
Okay. All of these TERRIBLE analogies and musical references aside (you can sigh relief now, I said it first) -- I don't want to grow up. And everyone around me is doing just that. And it scares me because I don't know whether I should get with the times or just "keep on keeping on."
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Pre-Coffee Thursday
I'm at work. I've been here for 10 minutes. Nobody emailed me, so I feel my pre-coffee, even-more-undiluted-than-usual-urge to communicate with the world. And today this urge translates into the very rarest of communiques -- a movie review.
Yesterday my friends and I watched "War of Lords". It probably hasn't come out anywhere yet except English speaking countries. In any case, the movie was... without spoiling it for anyone... exceptional. Mais pourquois, you ask? Because in spite of being full of the usual Hollywood crap (which alas, is a lot of why I watch) it was able to relay an underlying truth about the world. As fantastic as it was (and I mean that in the literal sense), it was also realistic. Realistic to the point of depression, maybe... but certainly at least realistic to the point of awareness. It was a new cinematographic spin on a very old story... and I must say I recommend it to the general populace, and especially to the American one, which is slightly less acquainted, overall, to international afairs.
Yesterday my friends and I watched "War of Lords". It probably hasn't come out anywhere yet except English speaking countries. In any case, the movie was... without spoiling it for anyone... exceptional. Mais pourquois, you ask? Because in spite of being full of the usual Hollywood crap (which alas, is a lot of why I watch) it was able to relay an underlying truth about the world. As fantastic as it was (and I mean that in the literal sense), it was also realistic. Realistic to the point of depression, maybe... but certainly at least realistic to the point of awareness. It was a new cinematographic spin on a very old story... and I must say I recommend it to the general populace, and especially to the American one, which is slightly less acquainted, overall, to international afairs.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Looking Up
Today I'm getting my super fancy ACL brace. I will finally be able to play sports again.
The weather is beautiful, sun is shining - 80 degrees. And hopefully I'm getting my new phone today, too. Life is good.
The weather is beautiful, sun is shining - 80 degrees. And hopefully I'm getting my new phone today, too. Life is good.
Monday, February 27, 2006
An Oyster Roast
One of the great things about Charleston is its seafood tradition. The annual oyster roasts are believed by many Charlestonians to be the only saving grace of the winter months, since they afford the natives with an opportunity to go out, meet people, and stuff their faces with these delectable ocean mollusks.
So what is an oyster roast? It is an event to which you have to come prepared. You have to wear a coat, because it's going to be cold, and gloves, because oysters can cut your hands. You have to possess a "shucker" because some of those crazy little oysters have no intention to be eaten. Essentially what happens is that long plywood tables are set up with two square holes on either end. Everyone stands around the table, shuckers and gloves in hand and waits for the cook to bring out the oysters. They are thrown on the tables by the shovels, freshly boiled. As the steam starts to escape for the bounty of food, everyone digs in. You grab a cluster of oysters and start opening them with your shucker. Then you take the succulent fruit of your labor and enjoy its warmth and goodness before opening another. You throw the empty shell in the square hole, under which an enormous trash can has conveniently been placed. Mostly oyster roasts are social events in which people do not know each other, yet everyone is friendly and conversation comes easy. Once you've had your fill, you leave your spot and someone comes in to replace you. And that's how it goes until the oysters run out or your belly explodes.
What a fantastic Charleston tradition.
So what is an oyster roast? It is an event to which you have to come prepared. You have to wear a coat, because it's going to be cold, and gloves, because oysters can cut your hands. You have to possess a "shucker" because some of those crazy little oysters have no intention to be eaten. Essentially what happens is that long plywood tables are set up with two square holes on either end. Everyone stands around the table, shuckers and gloves in hand and waits for the cook to bring out the oysters. They are thrown on the tables by the shovels, freshly boiled. As the steam starts to escape for the bounty of food, everyone digs in. You grab a cluster of oysters and start opening them with your shucker. Then you take the succulent fruit of your labor and enjoy its warmth and goodness before opening another. You throw the empty shell in the square hole, under which an enormous trash can has conveniently been placed. Mostly oyster roasts are social events in which people do not know each other, yet everyone is friendly and conversation comes easy. Once you've had your fill, you leave your spot and someone comes in to replace you. And that's how it goes until the oysters run out or your belly explodes.
What a fantastic Charleston tradition.
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