We've done a lot of outdoor meandering since Mom's been here, and she has the gorgeous pics to prove it. Have a looksee for a glimpse of goldener Oktober in the Pfalz!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Eye, part II
So I have to add an addendum.
Reading that last post, I sound pretty high and mighty, scorning the poor fools who check out my apparently irresistible backside. This isn't quite how I meant it (though I was pretty mad).
People being attracted to each other is one thing. I have no problem, for example, with flirting. A guy or girl who goes out on a limb to engage another in lighthearted talk is not only taking a risk, they're also showing a willingness to interact (on some level) with the other as an individual, a person. Flirting can be flattering.
What is not flattering is the wordless staring from a distance that is nothing more than cold appraisal. There is a difference. Men don't flirt with mannequins and images, which is what they make you feel like when craning around to evaluate anything vaguely female.
I'm also aware that an alternative is simply to be overtly ugly. One scornful response to my griping could be, "Well, imagine if nobody looked!" But really, that's not a solution, either. "Get used to being disrespected and objectified, because hey, your other option is to be hideous!"
How about we just teach our men better manners, instead?
Reading that last post, I sound pretty high and mighty, scorning the poor fools who check out my apparently irresistible backside. This isn't quite how I meant it (though I was pretty mad).
People being attracted to each other is one thing. I have no problem, for example, with flirting. A guy or girl who goes out on a limb to engage another in lighthearted talk is not only taking a risk, they're also showing a willingness to interact (on some level) with the other as an individual, a person. Flirting can be flattering.
What is not flattering is the wordless staring from a distance that is nothing more than cold appraisal. There is a difference. Men don't flirt with mannequins and images, which is what they make you feel like when craning around to evaluate anything vaguely female.
I'm also aware that an alternative is simply to be overtly ugly. One scornful response to my griping could be, "Well, imagine if nobody looked!" But really, that's not a solution, either. "Get used to being disrespected and objectified, because hey, your other option is to be hideous!"
How about we just teach our men better manners, instead?
Eye of the beheld
Much of the time -- despite the claims of industries, like entertainment and politics, who benefit from insisting the contrary -- I don't believe there's such a yawning chasm between the way men and women think. Sure, the production of different quantities of hormones is bound to translate into varying group behavioral patterns; but for the most part, if you show a nice sunset to a man and to a woman, both are pretty much bound to think, "hey, nice sunset." Both would enjoy a scoop of ice cream. Both would be disappointed not to be rewarded for hard work. The friends I know who are most capable of yakking on the phone for hours are actually dudes. Behind the eyes, people often are just people.
The obvious and most visible differences, however, appear when sexuality is involved (of course). And it is here that I do believe there are vast differences between the way men and women think.
For example, if a guy is walking down the street and a woman cranes her neck around to take a better look at him, he'd likely be flattered. Perhaps this is why men think it's okay to do the same to women. And although it's quite likely that the behavior isn't really conscious enough to have thought it through that far, I would still like to take the opportunity to announce to all the men in Western society, from my own personal blog-soapbox, that this is NOT ACCEPTABLE.
Okay? Please. Stop doing it. It's not flattering; it's not unnoticeable. Even if it's unconscious, show some self-awareness and just stop it.
The thing is, from the moment girl-children grow to a sufficient height to be possibly mistaken for women from a distance, we are evaluated and watched by every man who drives, walks, or bicycles by. It occurs regardless of attractiveness, age, race, or any discernable attribute beyond your identification as "female." They can't possibly get a good enough look at you to gauge whether you're actually attractive or not; they just see a non-male-looking outline on the side of the road, and crane their necks to get a better look. You could be quite plain and they'd still check you out, just to make sure. So again, it not in the least complimentary or flattering; it is only because you're not a guy.
For those few who clearly do get a good look at you and then stare mindlessly as you pass each other on the sidewalk, it is just as offensive. Being rated "acceptable enough to stare at" by someone whose opinion you didn't ask for -- and, frankly, don't give a rat's ass about -- is not compensation for the indignity of being rated in the first place. It's the attitude I object to: the idea that women, sheerly by virtue of being women, are rightfully subject to physical appraisal by any man who shares their public space. It's like the choice to walk to work is the same thing as agreeing to put yourself on display -- or at least that's how every driver and male pedestrian seems to interpret it.
And I mean it. I'm not exaggerating. I sat down to write this because I just arrived home after deciding to enjoy the weather, reduce my carbon footprint, and get some exercise by walking home from work; but the entire thirty minutes was one long ordeal of watching every single face crane around to stare at me. Their thoughts were as clear as if written in bubbles floating above their heads: "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she..."
The maddening part is that I'm quite sure they don't realize they're doing it. Which makes it feel even more as if they're just mindlessly looking at a thing instead of a person with a name and identity.
And yes, I know, supposedly it's just natural behavior. Males in the wild are programmed to fertilize as many wombs as possible for the survival of the species, thus they're eternally on the lookout for any nearby wombs. But you know what, a big kid pushing over a little one to get his toy is also "natural behavior." We're not in the wild. Being explainable and being acceptable are not the same thing.
So to all the inconsiderate, self-absorbed, oblivious people who ogled me today:
WATCH THE DAMNED ROAD.
The obvious and most visible differences, however, appear when sexuality is involved (of course). And it is here that I do believe there are vast differences between the way men and women think.
For example, if a guy is walking down the street and a woman cranes her neck around to take a better look at him, he'd likely be flattered. Perhaps this is why men think it's okay to do the same to women. And although it's quite likely that the behavior isn't really conscious enough to have thought it through that far, I would still like to take the opportunity to announce to all the men in Western society, from my own personal blog-soapbox, that this is NOT ACCEPTABLE.
Okay? Please. Stop doing it. It's not flattering; it's not unnoticeable. Even if it's unconscious, show some self-awareness and just stop it.
The thing is, from the moment girl-children grow to a sufficient height to be possibly mistaken for women from a distance, we are evaluated and watched by every man who drives, walks, or bicycles by. It occurs regardless of attractiveness, age, race, or any discernable attribute beyond your identification as "female." They can't possibly get a good enough look at you to gauge whether you're actually attractive or not; they just see a non-male-looking outline on the side of the road, and crane their necks to get a better look. You could be quite plain and they'd still check you out, just to make sure. So again, it not in the least complimentary or flattering; it is only because you're not a guy.
For those few who clearly do get a good look at you and then stare mindlessly as you pass each other on the sidewalk, it is just as offensive. Being rated "acceptable enough to stare at" by someone whose opinion you didn't ask for -- and, frankly, don't give a rat's ass about -- is not compensation for the indignity of being rated in the first place. It's the attitude I object to: the idea that women, sheerly by virtue of being women, are rightfully subject to physical appraisal by any man who shares their public space. It's like the choice to walk to work is the same thing as agreeing to put yourself on display -- or at least that's how every driver and male pedestrian seems to interpret it.
And I mean it. I'm not exaggerating. I sat down to write this because I just arrived home after deciding to enjoy the weather, reduce my carbon footprint, and get some exercise by walking home from work; but the entire thirty minutes was one long ordeal of watching every single face crane around to stare at me. Their thoughts were as clear as if written in bubbles floating above their heads: "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she hot?" "Is she..."
The maddening part is that I'm quite sure they don't realize they're doing it. Which makes it feel even more as if they're just mindlessly looking at a thing instead of a person with a name and identity.
And yes, I know, supposedly it's just natural behavior. Males in the wild are programmed to fertilize as many wombs as possible for the survival of the species, thus they're eternally on the lookout for any nearby wombs. But you know what, a big kid pushing over a little one to get his toy is also "natural behavior." We're not in the wild. Being explainable and being acceptable are not the same thing.
So to all the inconsiderate, self-absorbed, oblivious people who ogled me today:
WATCH THE DAMNED ROAD.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Did I understand that right?
Did McCain really vow he'll "whip" Obama's "you-know-what"? Really? Was this shortly before the threat to give him a wedgie and take his lunch money, too?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Happy Bert'sday!
Berti turned 30 on Friday!
And you know, 30 has so far proved the yummiest age for guys. Or maybe it's just that as the years go by, the peer group that I find attractive keeps the same pace. Whatever. Suffice to say that somewhere around their mid-twenties is when long-necked boys become bewhiskered, sexy, broad-shouldered men, and that Saxon is no exception.
To honor the occasion, I kidnapped Bert to a hotel in the spa town of Baden-Baden, directly across from the Roman bath house (Friedrichsbad); and we spent his birthday in our birthday suits.
Yep -- no better way to say, "hey, check me out, I'm 30!" than being naked in front of a bunch of rich people! It was really fun. At the top of an enormous, carpeted marble staircase are two separate doors for the men's and women's changing rooms, so we had to part ways for the first couple steps of the fourteen-part ritual; but the lady at the posh front desk assured us we'd meet up in the main baths around step six, so I pushed open the frosted-glass door and stepped into... opulence.
Chandeliers, mirrors, cushioned seats, hairdryers, fluffy towels on heaters. Simple, elegant signs posted at each step inform you exactly what is to be done at each station and for how long ("16 Minuten," "3 Minuten" -- adorable Germans, even relaxation is timed and organized!). I follow the instructions to the changing booth, hang my clothes on the hangers, attach the locker key to my wristband, and step out. Naked. Okay. We are supposed to be naked at this point, right? I look around, but don't see anyone else in order to check their be-robed status. Gingerly, nakedly peek around the corner which leads to the baths. See someone!
She's dressed.
Er.
She spots me and waves me over. "Good day!" she says. "Do you speak German?"
I nod (nakedly).
"Then welcome to to the Friedrichsbad! Here is the first step, the shower room. After you've finished, you can take a sheet to lay on the bench in the next room, the hot-air bath. Just follow the signs, they'll take you through. Any questions?"
Since I still didn't see any other bathers, I couldn't help asking. "Just one. I see you're fully dressed. Am I supposed to be this, well, nude??"
Her, feigning surprise: "Certainly not!"
Before my heart could quite stop, she burst out laughing. "Haha, just kidding! The Friedrichsbad is of course entirely in the buff. Enjoy your visit."
I cracked up. I mean, who plays such a joke on visitors? How could you not? Her laid-back attitude dissolved any remaining sense of self-consciousness and I stepped on through into another world.
The hot-air sauna was particularly wonderful: pinkly glowing women recline on wooden benches in peaceful silence, and after around minute 3.46 you feel your bones start to melt. Enjoyable as it was, though, by step six (the steam sauna) I started looking for Bert. This is where the baths were supposed to mix, and I wanted to find my birthday boy! So I pushed the door open to the next room and found a hot pool.
Full of soaking middle-aged men.
Who turned and looked at me.
Feeling a little bit sheepish again, I scuttled into the next room. Here only one person, also a guy, was stewing in some bubbles. Still no Bert. So I had a seat in the bubbles, too, and tried to act natural. (Ha, very natural!) But finally, a tall gorgeous figure appeared through a side door, and from then on the evening was perfect.
It's funny how quickly you get used to a bunch of nekkid folks. In fact it's quite pleasant, much more so than at some public pool where we're trying to self-consciously stuff ourselves into spandex and wire in an attempt to simultaneously cover and flatter our bodies. When really, we humans are a rather nice-looking species already! Women especially are much prettier au naturale than in pinching, bulging, garishly-colored swimsuits: their curves are allowed to flow in smooth, uninterrupted lines that make hippy girls in particular look like lovely ripe pears. Unabashed, Bert and I soaked and swam and bubbled and frolicked and steamed until our fingers were so wrinkly we probably could have gained enough traction to gecko up the walls. We'd been hanging out for almost three hours by the time we reluctantly went back to our respective dressing rooms, applied warm towels and lotion and hairdryers, and re-emerged, damp and pink-cheeked, into the real world.
Dinner was a cozy Sicilian place with about six tables and Italians yelling their southern dialect back and forth into the kitchen. "Maria! Lelinguineaifruttidimare!" (We even heard one waiter yell, "Capisch?!") The food was of course delicious. A short walk through downtown took us back to our posh hotel and we slept until the last minute before going down to a china-served breakfast.
Pleasant as Baden-Baden is, though, we realized it's not one of those places we'd really want to live. Most German towns take their sense of belonging from a nearly tangible shared heritage; Baden-Baden residents, though, seem to share only the fact of their wealth. We went for a walk the next day and had a seat on a bench next to a path where rich mothers clopped by in their high heels to pick up their kids from some Saturday-morning program. All the same fashionably-dressed, blond-highlighted women in their early forties with the same Esprit-backpack-carrying schoolaged children. We had fun speculating about their jobs and wondering where the fathers were (playing tennis, we decided). They were probably perfectly nice people; but not quite our crowd.
On your 30th, you've gotta do something posh. But for my 28th, we'll probably go camping. (Maybe naked.)
Happy birthday, darling!
And you know, 30 has so far proved the yummiest age for guys. Or maybe it's just that as the years go by, the peer group that I find attractive keeps the same pace. Whatever. Suffice to say that somewhere around their mid-twenties is when long-necked boys become bewhiskered, sexy, broad-shouldered men, and that Saxon is no exception.
To honor the occasion, I kidnapped Bert to a hotel in the spa town of Baden-Baden, directly across from the Roman bath house (Friedrichsbad); and we spent his birthday in our birthday suits.
Yep -- no better way to say, "hey, check me out, I'm 30!" than being naked in front of a bunch of rich people! It was really fun. At the top of an enormous, carpeted marble staircase are two separate doors for the men's and women's changing rooms, so we had to part ways for the first couple steps of the fourteen-part ritual; but the lady at the posh front desk assured us we'd meet up in the main baths around step six, so I pushed open the frosted-glass door and stepped into... opulence.
Chandeliers, mirrors, cushioned seats, hairdryers, fluffy towels on heaters. Simple, elegant signs posted at each step inform you exactly what is to be done at each station and for how long ("16 Minuten," "3 Minuten" -- adorable Germans, even relaxation is timed and organized!). I follow the instructions to the changing booth, hang my clothes on the hangers, attach the locker key to my wristband, and step out. Naked. Okay. We are supposed to be naked at this point, right? I look around, but don't see anyone else in order to check their be-robed status. Gingerly, nakedly peek around the corner which leads to the baths. See someone!
She's dressed.
Er.
She spots me and waves me over. "Good day!" she says. "Do you speak German?"
I nod (nakedly).
"Then welcome to to the Friedrichsbad! Here is the first step, the shower room. After you've finished, you can take a sheet to lay on the bench in the next room, the hot-air bath. Just follow the signs, they'll take you through. Any questions?"
Since I still didn't see any other bathers, I couldn't help asking. "Just one. I see you're fully dressed. Am I supposed to be this, well, nude??"
Her, feigning surprise: "Certainly not!"
Before my heart could quite stop, she burst out laughing. "Haha, just kidding! The Friedrichsbad is of course entirely in the buff. Enjoy your visit."
I cracked up. I mean, who plays such a joke on visitors? How could you not? Her laid-back attitude dissolved any remaining sense of self-consciousness and I stepped on through into another world.
The hot-air sauna was particularly wonderful: pinkly glowing women recline on wooden benches in peaceful silence, and after around minute 3.46 you feel your bones start to melt. Enjoyable as it was, though, by step six (the steam sauna) I started looking for Bert. This is where the baths were supposed to mix, and I wanted to find my birthday boy! So I pushed the door open to the next room and found a hot pool.
Full of soaking middle-aged men.
Who turned and looked at me.
Feeling a little bit sheepish again, I scuttled into the next room. Here only one person, also a guy, was stewing in some bubbles. Still no Bert. So I had a seat in the bubbles, too, and tried to act natural. (Ha, very natural!) But finally, a tall gorgeous figure appeared through a side door, and from then on the evening was perfect.
It's funny how quickly you get used to a bunch of nekkid folks. In fact it's quite pleasant, much more so than at some public pool where we're trying to self-consciously stuff ourselves into spandex and wire in an attempt to simultaneously cover and flatter our bodies. When really, we humans are a rather nice-looking species already! Women especially are much prettier au naturale than in pinching, bulging, garishly-colored swimsuits: their curves are allowed to flow in smooth, uninterrupted lines that make hippy girls in particular look like lovely ripe pears. Unabashed, Bert and I soaked and swam and bubbled and frolicked and steamed until our fingers were so wrinkly we probably could have gained enough traction to gecko up the walls. We'd been hanging out for almost three hours by the time we reluctantly went back to our respective dressing rooms, applied warm towels and lotion and hairdryers, and re-emerged, damp and pink-cheeked, into the real world.
Dinner was a cozy Sicilian place with about six tables and Italians yelling their southern dialect back and forth into the kitchen. "Maria! Lelinguineaifruttidimare!" (We even heard one waiter yell, "Capisch?!") The food was of course delicious. A short walk through downtown took us back to our posh hotel and we slept until the last minute before going down to a china-served breakfast.
Pleasant as Baden-Baden is, though, we realized it's not one of those places we'd really want to live. Most German towns take their sense of belonging from a nearly tangible shared heritage; Baden-Baden residents, though, seem to share only the fact of their wealth. We went for a walk the next day and had a seat on a bench next to a path where rich mothers clopped by in their high heels to pick up their kids from some Saturday-morning program. All the same fashionably-dressed, blond-highlighted women in their early forties with the same Esprit-backpack-carrying schoolaged children. We had fun speculating about their jobs and wondering where the fathers were (playing tennis, we decided). They were probably perfectly nice people; but not quite our crowd.
On your 30th, you've gotta do something posh. But for my 28th, we'll probably go camping. (Maybe naked.)
Happy birthday, darling!
Sunday, October 05, 2008
My mommy is here!!!
She arrived on Friday, October 3rd -- a.k.a. "Tag der deutschen Einheit," the national holiday celebrating Germany's reunification in 1990. Well, we had our own reunification to celebrate! Namely, by running around the Frankfurt Airport (and environs) in an attempt to ransom the cat, Lucy, from the Evil Bureaucratic German Customs Office. Who actually turned out to be quite nice. While still very bureaucratic. It took about three hours from start to finish, and we covered quite a lot of ground running from Office A to Office Z to Room X to Storage Unit Y to Vetrinary Service L and back to Room X. But in the end, we had a healthy, curious kitty and a towel full of healthy, curious cat poo (kindly presented to us as a gesture of thanks while still trapped in her kennel in the back of the taxi).
This was made up for the next day when we zoomed off to the Deutsches Weinlesefest in search of Neuer Wein:
We also poked around a farmer's market, and today, Sunday, we found The Perfect Apartment. Really! Perfect! One of my colleagues at the Fachhochschule mentioned that her kids don't come to visit so often any more, leaving her with a rarely-used, furnished apartment upstairs in her house that does nothing but gather dust. So I asked if a nice American lady can come rent it from her... We met up today to have a peek, and it's fabulous. Adorable, two-bedroom, hardwood-floored, newly-renovated, furnished, with an attic for storage and a washer downstairs and a cat-friendly garden. Not to mention the nicest landlady you could wish for. We walked in and fell in love. And then found out that the rent is completely reasonable and includes utilities! The house is in a nice residential neighborhood in eastern Mannheim -- on the other side of the Neckar river -- and only 40 minutes away from our place by Strassenbahn. It's also a mere 15 minutes away from downtown Mannheim... we're already fantasizing about meeting up of a Saturday afternoon for shopping and coffee downtown.
Life is good!!!
This was made up for the next day when we zoomed off to the Deutsches Weinlesefest in search of Neuer Wein:
We also poked around a farmer's market, and today, Sunday, we found The Perfect Apartment. Really! Perfect! One of my colleagues at the Fachhochschule mentioned that her kids don't come to visit so often any more, leaving her with a rarely-used, furnished apartment upstairs in her house that does nothing but gather dust. So I asked if a nice American lady can come rent it from her... We met up today to have a peek, and it's fabulous. Adorable, two-bedroom, hardwood-floored, newly-renovated, furnished, with an attic for storage and a washer downstairs and a cat-friendly garden. Not to mention the nicest landlady you could wish for. We walked in and fell in love. And then found out that the rent is completely reasonable and includes utilities! The house is in a nice residential neighborhood in eastern Mannheim -- on the other side of the Neckar river -- and only 40 minutes away from our place by Strassenbahn. It's also a mere 15 minutes away from downtown Mannheim... we're already fantasizing about meeting up of a Saturday afternoon for shopping and coffee downtown.
Life is good!!!
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Amy and John
...are a great pair. I knew the perfect Mr. Amy was out there; I'm just so happy she found him so soon.
John, thank you for taking care of my loved ones.
John, thank you for taking care of my loved ones.
My Right to Vote
A little follow-up to Mom's post of the same title:
I opened the mailbox yesterday to find a fat package from the Pima County Recorder's Office. Across the top was a cute little banner that said "Official Election Mail", and inside was indeed an official election ballot.
I went immediately inside, sat down at my desk, got a thick black pen, and filled in the most perfectly complete oval the election office has ever seen. Then, sealed, signed, and adorned with about a billion Euros worth of postage (or maybe it was just four), I sent that bad boy right back to the Pima County Recorder.
And damn that felt good. Thank you, thank you, Alice Paul and everyone else who suffered jail and indignities so that I could be counted a citizen, too.
I opened the mailbox yesterday to find a fat package from the Pima County Recorder's Office. Across the top was a cute little banner that said "Official Election Mail", and inside was indeed an official election ballot.
I went immediately inside, sat down at my desk, got a thick black pen, and filled in the most perfectly complete oval the election office has ever seen. Then, sealed, signed, and adorned with about a billion Euros worth of postage (or maybe it was just four), I sent that bad boy right back to the Pima County Recorder.
And damn that felt good. Thank you, thank you, Alice Paul and everyone else who suffered jail and indignities so that I could be counted a citizen, too.
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