Trials of being a woman – Gender trap

Standard

There must be a lot of overly aggressive, unhinged cab drivers. I came across this article about a girl taking a cab ride that took a turn for the creepy, and I remembered my own very similar taxi ride in from JFK into the city. All the same feelings the girl describes crossed my mind. Was I soon going to be dead or raped? All the weird suggestions and insistence on “being in love” with me, after having me, a complete stranger with a language barrier in his cab for five minutes, also came to pass. This cab driver was Egyptian, and even though I took a different path from the girl in the article – I lied and said I was in a relationship, he was persistent about his love and how I should call him any time, night or day while in the city. He was pushing and pushing and really had no concept of how uncomfortable a trap the whole thing felt.

The article triggered not just this unpleasant memory but memories of all the times, as a woman, that I have been in uncomfortable situations like this. How many times have I wanted to be completely invisible or genderless? How is it that these men have no sense of how threatening, frightening, disgusting and discomfort-inducing these kinds of persistent and horrifying encounters are?

The admin mindset

I was recently in a meeting in which one of the middle-management layer (a middle-aged woman) kept repeating, rather inexplicably, “If you get anyone treating you like you’re an admin, giving you admin tasks, push back. We are professionals.” No one has treated anyone like an admin, so I could only assume that this “admin mindset” is internal. Yes, there was a time and a place – and there probably still is – where this treating employees (especially women) as admins was/is common. But in this situation, the admin mindset was all about self-assigning value to work. Somehow, despite this woman being in a senior position, she was assigning this label to herself. And maybe people do treat her like an admin because she sets herself up to be a kind of senior-level, paper-pushing process goblin.

I wanted to say to her: “You feel like an admin because you act like an admin”. Sure, people may not understand what you do, but the perception you talk about is your own. Is it the person’s age? The lack of self-confidence? The sense of going crazy?

recuperation

Standard

Nothing like watching a show about death (Dead Like Me – which is also long dead as TV shows go) to speed the recuperation process along.

Random abandon – I am a wee marshmallow fox

Standard

I can’t sleep. Checking out the ridiculous Eastbound & Down and overdosing on cute pics of twin baby polar bears. Thinking I will switch over to news even though I am tired of hearing about Crimea now. How is that story a surprise to anyone?

Reading about the talented and alluring Yasmine Hamdan – always wish I knew Arabic.

Love – I never knew I needed or wanted to hear sweet words. You can just call me a wee marshmallow fox. I have completely melted.

I like multimedia, multitask, multithought, multifeeling multistories that are as full of random abandon as I am.

And poetry, of course. Uncertainty.

ДРУГОЕ

Белла Ахмадулина, 1966 / -Bella Akhmadulina

Что сделалось? Зачем я не могу,
уж целый год не знаю, не умею
слагать стихи и только немоту
тяжелую в моих губах имею?

Вы скажете – но вот уже строфа,
четыре строчки в ней, она готова.
Я не о том. Во мне уже стара
привычка ставить слово после слова.

Порядок этот ведает рука.
Я не о том. Как это прежде было?
Когда происходило – не строка –
другое что-то. Только что?- забыла.

Да, то, другое, разве знало страх,
когда шалило голосом так смело,
само, как смех, смеялось на устах
и плакало, как плач, если хотело?

 

under the knife, under the gun

Standard

Nerves, nerves, nerves and nerves. Yes, by all means, have another cup of coffee (well, no, actually don’t). After all, early to bed, early to rise… will not necessarily make one wise but will get me where I need to go on time.

Driving north, the temperature is much, much lower. Not that much further north – snow on the ground and all. Driving on winding, country roads, I always find myself elated when I get long stretches all to myself with no other cars to impede my path. Usually I drive to work at 2 in the morning, and thus avoid almost all other cars. But coming back, it is usually evening – tons of cars who definitely view speed limits as “letter of the law” over “spirit of the law”. It is not even that I want to be a speed demon – when I am on the road alone, I don’t necessarily exceed the speed limit. I just don’t want to be stuck behind someone who is going exactly the speed limit (or less) and who has some kind of twisted love affair going with his/her brakes.

 

Toddler fears – closeted mannequins – an exit

Standard

Since I was a baby, I have been afraid of mannequins. I am not literally afraid of them now, but I do find them creepy. I suppose it dates back to my having seen mannequins in a museum (Eisenhower Museum probably – the boyhood Kansas home of good old Ike) my parents took me to when I was three or younger. I had nightmares afterwards about the mannequins crashing out from behind the glass – maybe it was not even nightmares and was just me imagining that they would crash out and try to get me?

My office is full of mannequins (not to be confused with the film, Mannequin, about which I have improbably written before), which are unnerving enough just standing there in unnatural poses modeling clothes. But in my office they are wearing surgical gowns, caps and face masks. The face masks especially add an extra creep factor – only the hauntingly vacant eyes of the mannequin are visible.

The cold, dead eyes of the mannequin

The cold, dead eyes of the mannequin

When I went into the small printer room off the main office area today, I was surprised to find one of the mannequins hidden in a dark closet. Its awkward arm/hand gesture looks a bit like a twisted “Heil Hitler” salute. What is she pointing at? An exit?

closeted freaky office mannequin

closeted freaky office mannequin

Me at Three

Standard

The other day a colleague told me that she gave her daughter a pair of roller skates for her seventh birthday.

It made me think of a tale I have been told about when I was three. My neighbors had a skateboard, and I was determined that I would have one too. My parents told me I could have a skateboard when I was “a big girl”. Sometime later – not sure if it was days or weeks – they told me I could do something myself because I was “a big girl”. I replied, “No, because if I was a big girl, I would have a skateboard.”

Or when my grandma came to visit my family, she took me to my bedroom for a nap – but not long after that, I reappeared from my room and told my mom, “I put grandma down for her nap.”

Let’s not even touch the fact that by the time I was three, I already had my second boyfriend.

I was a take-charge, personality-filled leader then.

I don’t know what happened after that – it is like I became a different person, something in me snapped before I turned four.

But when I was three, I was very alive and a force to be reckoned with.

Urinal cakes: Flushing it out – “Nothing’s wasted if it’s human”

Standard

I was recently told more than one story about someone who seems to have a sick and unnatural obsession with urinal cakes (that is, removing urinal cakes from urinals and throwing them around in a public place – like a bar). Yeah, no details, but my thinking was less about how disgusting and freaky this quirk of obsessively handling urinal cakes and more about how the word “urinal” is pronounced.

In American English, we say /ˈjʊr.ən.əl/and in UK English they say /jʊˈraɪ.nəl/. Have a listen. Hearing “urinal” the UK way in the course of hearing the aforementioned story, I almost spit my coffee out all over the place. I had heard it before but had somehow forgotten how it sounded – the stress being on a totally different syllable. Lots of words like that between the two Englishes.

Amidst all this urinal talk, I suddenly remembered the episode of Frasier in which Niles finally gets a satisfactory divorce deal. He had labored under the false belief that his wife’s family fortune came from the timber industry. His wily lawyer discovered that the family fortune really came from urinal cakes. Niles decided to phone Maris, the soon-to-be-ex-wife, who refused to come to the phone until Niles craftily and smugly stated, “I have flushed out the family secret.” Haha. Maris immediately came to the phone.

Frasier was such a fantastic show.

Urinal-cake talk makes the brief but vivid poem “Bladder Song” from Leonard Nathan spring to mind.

Bladder Song
On a piece of toilet paper
Afloat in the unflushed piss,
The fully printed lips of a woman.

Nathan, cheer up! The sewer
Sends you a big red kiss.
Ah, nothing’s wasted, if it’s human.

swedish drivers

Standard

Drivers in Sweden need to learn to drive. All extremes. It is like they are either dangerous lunatics or totally timid chicken shits.

Where is the middle ground?

Tonight the roads were covered in standing water from the sudden rainstorm – torrential rain most of the evening. And then the wind – it was exceptionally bad. I have been in a lot of very windy, crazy situations, and this was really quite unpleasant. The Swedish drivers did not help the situation at all.

On a semi-related note, every single time I have stopped to get petrol, there is some asshole pumping petrol with his/her engine running.

Also, learn to use high-beam headlights, people. Seriously, they wait too long to dim them when they are in the oncoming lane, and then they turn them back on right at the moment when they blind you (wait two seconds until you are beyond the other driver’s direct line of vision!).

I drive too much. It’s clearly too much to bear. I envy those who do not drive.

Guru

Standard

It has been said many times before that if you have to refer to yourself as a guru, you aren’t one.

Why someone would adopt the term and self-appoint as a “guru”, I can’t really explain… but it’s a damn funny word when it pops up here and there. (Apparently one of my brother’s commanding officers wrote that my brother is a “fitness guru” in his performance review. That cracks me up. Mentioning “commanding officer” reminds me of Jacques Prévert – “Quartier libre“. You know: “Ah good/excuse me I thought one saluted/said the commanding officer/You are fully excused everybody makes mistakes/said the bird.”)

I don’t want to call myself a guru, especially not after the incident a few weeks ago when I told someone I was “in awe of myself”. But given this lifelong blessing/affliction of being something like a therapist to everyone, I feel the urge to apply “guru” to myself just for fun. Just for today. Just because the sun’s out and I am loopy-level tired now.