Wednesday, October 12, 2016

almost political

as someone with irrational trust and intimacy issues, reading comment threads like the screenshot below in response to certain tapes of certain presidential candidates describing/confessing to/bragging about certain horrific behavior, is my worst nightmare...

essentially these people are saying that 75% of men talk about how they've groping women, and the other 25% think it.
or perhaps, to be more forgiving, maybe they're saying that 75% of men talk about women using degrading, predatory language and the other 25% think it.
that's just how men are.
so people shouldn't be so offended.

again, it's my worst (relationship) nightmare that THAT IS TRUE.

so thanks for that, social media world.

Friday, August 19, 2016

my little homophobe

(i wish the following story reflected better on me)

well, i met a homophobe the other day.
and i'm telling you this because i haven't had an interaction with an overt, unapologetic homophobe since i was 13 years old.*
THAT's how sheltered my life is. i so rarely have to deal with in-my-face ignorance that i tend to think it doesn't really exist (except in presidential campaigns (zing!)).
i mean, i know that all those "-isms" exist, but in my circumstance, i see them in subtle undertones. i see them in patronizing, throw away comments in passing. i'm used to dealing with the -isms that are apparent in what's NOT being said, so that if i point something out as being homophobic or racist or sexist, people can tell me i'm crazy and over-sensitive. those are the interactions i'm used to.

i'm not going to lie, i didn't know how to react to my homophobe. i'm going to tell you about our conversation because i feel like a few of you are probably thinking, "you're just crazy and over-sensitive."

i was making polite conversation with this guy at a bonfire and he asked me what area i live in and if i like it and if there's somewhere else i'd rather live. and i think i said something about how i love where i live, but it think it would also be cool to live in the heart of downtown or in the lower avenues (the first neighborhood built in salt lake. it's kind of a cool, artsy area). and he said, "the avenues? isn't that where the gays live?"
and i wasn't sure what he said, so i was like, "gangs?"
and he was like, "no. the gays."
and so i ever so eloquently was like, "...i mean... i'm sure some... i don't... i think 'the gays' are everywhere, dude."
so then he upped the ante and said, "i'd never want to live in the avenues. i'm afraid i'd get raped."
and so i ever so eloquently inquired, "...you think that if you lived in the aves, you'd get raped?"
"by the gays."
"... i don't think that's a thing."
"listen, i'm from atlanta. so i know."
"are gay people doing a lot of raping in atlanta?"
"... i'm just saying that i'm from atlanta. so i know what i'm talking about."
"i just... i mean... i don't think you need to worry. none of my gay friends have ever mentioned the need to start a raping epidemic. but, granted, they don't live in the avenues."
"oh, ya?"
"and if anything, i think i'm in more danger of getting raped by being around [as i look dude right in the eyes] straight men."
[awkward laugh]
and then i every so elequently shut it down, "well, i'm going to head home. bye."

guys, it was super awkward. his nonchalance and his assumption that i would agree with what he was saying threw me for a loop. so i defaulted to sarcasm because that's what i know how to do. however, i keep thinking about this conversation and if i should've done more. i keep trying to think what i would want my friends to say to someone who was nonchalantly saying hateful, but absurdly ignorant statements about my sexuality or my gender or my religion, and i think i'd be okay with mockery. but, again, i've never had to deal with constant, in-my-face, make-me-fear-my-physical-safety hatred because of my sexuality or gender or religion. i'm used to homophobia and sexism in undertones, and sarcasm and mockery are truly the best way to hit back at that. but maybe the best way to deal with out-in-the-open bigotry is out-in-the-open "you are foolish and wrong and you need to stop talking"-otry.
this is new to me.
and i'm so sorry to the many people for whom this is not new. i am so sorry.



*when i was either in 8th or 9th grade, a group of students at my high school started a "s.a.f.e." petition in an effort to get rid of our school's gay/straight alliance club. in response, the school board got rid of all non-academic clubs at my school.

Wednesday, June 01, 2016

a rant, a point, an awkward story

my rant, supported by anectdotal evidence.
as an older, single lady, interactions with all men are a little bit awkward. because no matter my intentions, i'm "on the market" a.k.a. "open for business." so it doesn't matter if the guy i'm talking to is old or young or married or single or all of the above. if i'm talking and joking around, the guy might think i'm flirting with him, other third-parties might assume we're flirting, or i might actually be flirting.
the world will never know.
for example, the other night i went to a big group outdoor movie party thrown by one of my friends. i was standing around the snack table with a frenemy and a couple of people i didn't know and started joking around with one of the guys and one of the girls. then a girl came up and kissed the guy we were talking to and we all kind of dispersed. as we walked away my frenemy was like, "so you didn't notice his wedding ring, did you?" a question which suddenly morphed what i thought was a  two-minute banter with a funny stranger into me flirting and being rebuffed by a married guy.

my point.
my point is simply that whether you're married or single, there's a certain level of self control and adapted behavior that has to happen as you become stupid grown up.

i don't know what it's like for the married folk, but as an extroverted singleton, every once in a while you just have to say, "what the fudge" (tom cruise's character in risky business just rolled over in his grave. because, yes, he died of syphillis.) and do a little harmless flirting.
it's healthy.
and good for the complexion.
and good for the soul.

awkward story.
last night, i went to 7/11 at like 11:00 at night and bought a giant soda. as is my prerogative to do. the cashier was this really cute young guy. like, young. but really cute. so while he rang me up, i chit chatted.
looking at my giant soda i said, "hopefully this'll keep me going for another couple of hours."
"ya? why? what're you up to?"
"i have to finish a paper."
[surprised] "for what class?"
"oh. i'm taking a bunch of psychology classes."
"cool. i'm only taking one class this semester."
"which one?"
"rock climbing."
"that sounds fun. i've been thinking about taking a month of classes at momentum with some friends. are you climbing outdoors?"
"ya... blah blah list of places in the area for rockclimbing blah... it starts pretty early in the morning, but my dad has been really cool about dropping me off."

and then i got a pit in my stomach and blacked out until i got home.

i flirted with a fetus.


Friday, May 13, 2016

like the corner of my mind

my mom found an old vhs tape of my old 1992 dance recital last week and as a family we watched my sister and me dance through our awkward preadolescence.

the tape filled my mom with nostalgia.
the tape filled my young niece with glee.
the tape filled my sister with shame.

the tape filled me to the brim with all three emotions because, seriously guys, i was 11 years old, and just starting to have my growth spurt, and i was not good. like, embarrassingly not good. but i loved it. i watched myself spazz out in front of an audience with my giant, BEAMING, brace-faced smile, and was just so glad that i'm not 11 years old anymore.

okay, but seriously guys, my perfectionist sister was mortified. "why did you make us do that?" she asked my mom. "we were so bad! and we, like, worked so hard at it! why weren't we better??"
my sister watches a lot of reality dance shows, so i think her standard for a 90's era, low to middle income, community dance studio is a tad skewed, but i also think she's genuinely that hard on herself all the time.
my (equally perfectionist) mom kept trying to say that we were beautiful dancers. however, the video evidence was pretty damning.
my (burgeoningly perfectionist) niece asked my sister why she thought we weren't good.
and my sister ranted a little more and then my mom turned off the tape and said, "you were really good."

i- the flighty bumblebee- marvelled at the fact that i STILL KNEW all of the choreography. and yes, during the entire exchange between my mom and sister i was standing in the middle of the room, dancing along. get off my back!!

but truthfully, i was annoyed.
not because of the harsh, yet accurate, criticism of my youthful hoofing.
but because it took me decades to learn how to be bad at things. i still really, really struggle to do things i like when i'm not good at them.
and i hated seeing that attitude of only enjoying the things you're good at getting passed on to the next generation.

i feel like i need a better ending than that... um... i love that i suck!

Thursday, February 18, 2016

news binge

uggh. over a 24 hour period, i have STUPIDLY read...

this: https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-intersect/wp/2016/02/17/in-the-battle-of-internet-mobs-vs-the-law-the-internet-mobs-have-won/

and this: https://www.yahoo.com/beauty/14-women-were-brutally-attacked-140600254.html

and i spent way too much time reading this: https://www.instagram.com/byefelipe/

oh! and i also read this: http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2016/feb/14/love-conquers-all-child-brides-sweetheart-spouse-ashley-judd?platform=hootsuite


... and now i feel overwhelmed and overloaded. and angry. and the kind of sad that stems from not being able to be helpful in any way.
and asexual.

there's probably a word in german that encompasses all of that.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

i'm taking an online social psychology class which involves a weekly "discussion post."
i have copied and pasted old blog posts for two of the five posts so far.
which i think serves as proof that my blog is therapy.

also serves as proof that i'm too lazy to come up with original thoughts, but, whatever.



***update: 02-17-16***
three out of six.

Friday, February 12, 2016

revertigo

i’ve been taking a pottery class the last month or so. and it’s been so much fun. i’m not good, but i’m decent enough. and i have enough of a sense of humor to really enjoy the weird stuff i unintentionally create. (so many ashtrays!) plus i my teacher is really great and chill.
i was sick last saturday so i went in on monday night for a make-up class, which isn’t supposed to be a big deal. you slip in and find a wheel in the back corner and go about your business. people do it all the time. so i slipped in and found a wheel in the corner and i started to prep my stuff.
and then the teacher stopped teaching class and started giving me a hard time for being there. he announced that he had a full class and i needed to leave.
i don’t know what it was about me that rubbed him the wrong way, but there was another non-class member who came in the same time as me and set up a wheel and started throwing with no problems. i’d counted the number of people in the room and the number of wheels when i first got there and there were enough. so when he confronted me, i pushed back. i explained that i’d been sick on saturday, that i’d tried to come in the saturday before and waited an hour for some space to free up before i gave up and went home. i also offered that instead of throwing, if he’d just let me trim my two finished pieces, i’d be done by the time he finished his instructions to his class.
he begrudgingly agreed to let me trim my pieces. he made me move my stuff from one corner to another, which, you know, whatever. he also stopped his class to tell me that i shouldn’t put a trough on the wheel and i should just let the clay shavings spray everywhere.
i made this face...
...and then went about my business.
while i trimmed my pieces i listened to his instructions to his class. and -shocker- he was a total dick. he talked for an hour, made them take notes and refused to give any one-on-one help because he wanted them to work from their notes.
as soon as i finished trimming, i cleaned up my wheel and moved to a table where i could finish add some pieces. the class dispersed and everyone miraculously found a wheel. in fact, there were two wheels to spare.
the teacher came up and asked me what i working on. i thanked him for letting me trim my pieces and explained my project while self-deprecatingly adding, “i’m probably over-reaching.”
i feel like a good teacher would’ve helped by, oh i don’t know, teaching me, but what i got was, “um… ya. you’re gonna need a lot of slip. like a lot of slip.”
so i looked at him and said, “ok then.” and turned back to what i was doing. i finished up my trimming, went into the glazing room, googled “slip” on my phone, put some on my pot, and placed my finished piece on the firing shelf right as the teacher walked in.
“i wouldn’t do that if i were you”, said he.
sigh… “ok. what would you do if you were me?”
“i’d spray it the crap down and i’d leave it in a bag for a week before i set it out.”
“oh! because the pieces i added have a different consistency than the pot?”
“no. because the pieces you added have more water content than the pot.”
“... super. i’ll wrap this up until next saturday. thanks for the tip. do you have any more advice?”
and he just rolled his eyes and walked away.
horrible man.

so why am i blogging this instead of posting it on yelp?
because i walked out of the art center that night angrier at myself than the teacher. i was so mad that i let someone be such a jerk to me. what i thought would be a relaxing evening, wound up being stressful and demoralizing.
and i realized that it was in large part because i had revertigo-ed. i’d reverted into passive, college art student kat, the poor dummy who made it into an art program out of sheer luck and was really hard on herself for not innately knowing the things she was supposed to be taught in her classes.

i’d forgotten how hard it was for me. or, maybe it’s not that i’d forgotten, but i’d grown emotionally distant from it. i remember stuff about being an art student, but i didn’t remember the the feelings part of it. truthfully? i hated byu’s art program. because the teachers were mean (i got publicly shamed a lot) and they didn’t want to teach (when i went to them with a question, they were almost always more likely to roll their eyes at me then help me).
it was brutal.
it also created a weird dynamic among classmates. not the friendliest, most supportive of atmospheres. also, i’d totally forgotten what it was like to have an entire classroom of my peers stare at me while a teacher got after me.

so i’m letting myself off the hook for momentarily reverting into art school kat. and i’m letting the pottery dick off the hook for being bad at his job.
this time.
but so help him, if i ever have to deal with him again.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

700 a.k.a. the force

on sunday, i taught my niece/”rey” about the force. and how to properly use it when you’re losing your lightsaber battle with your aunt/”dark vader”.
and how to pretend to get your hand cut off at the climax of the light saber battle.


...this is the first time in my life that my biological clock has ever ticked.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

reunion

walking out, after going to see an opera...

familiar voice: hey, kat.
i turn around and see a guy i went to high school with.
me: oh, hey there! how've you been for the last twenty years?
him: pretty good. you?
me: same... well. see ya.
him: bye.

and we both went our separate ways.

i feel like this is the ideal high school reunion scenario.

Thursday, January 07, 2016

on or before the third sentence of my second interaction with every person ever, i will inevitably get asked, “how tall are you?” or “how tall are you?” or the super casual, “so how tall are you anyways?”

it’s a thing.

i’m so not offended when people ask, it's just that i get asked it a lot. like, a lot. (i do get a little bit offended when people make me stand back-to-back with them. and i get super annoyed when someone asks how tall i am and then doesn’t believe my answer. come on, guy. i don’t somehow think that taking an inch off my height will suddenly make you think i’m a beautiful, delicate flower.)

i guess i just don’t understand why people need a quantifiable height. they need my espn stats. they need a concrete number. i’ve never been on the other side of it that i can think of. i don’t think that i ask people their exact height or weight or age or ethnic heritage, but maybe i do and i just don’t realize it.


i guess- if i’m being honest about why i’m blogging about this- i just want to be a tease. because admit it, every single one of you are now thinking, “okay, so how tall are you?”