More to Love

Dear No One in Particular,

You've probably heard about this absolutely disgusting "fatties r gross LOL" tirade on Marie Claire's website, if not read it and known what it feels like to have FLAMES. FLAMES ON THE SIDES OF YOUR FACE.

There is so much to talk about -- so much hate to cut through I almost need a machete -- I think I'll have to start at the headline. Because yes, darling reader, even the headline manages to be an offensive, judgment-laden fat joke. "Should 'Fatties' Get a Room? (Even on TV)" Honestly, it's like they're TRYING to create controversy!

And let me point out that for one hot minute, I actually thought that this might be a ploy to get pageviews. A horrible, condescending, inhuman, simply revolting act played out by a desperate internet troll masquerading as a journalist to increase traffic to her blog. Surely, I thought in my one hot minute of clutching-at-optimistic-straws, no one can be this thoughtless; could be so lacking in self-awareness; so stupid as to write this in all earnestness.

But, of course, I was wrong. Silly rabbit.

Silly, chubby, revolting, nauseating, obese rabbit monster.

I know I'm wrong because I encounter women like Maura Kelly all day, every day.
It doesn't matter what size I am (as if dress size were a true indicator of health); snap judgments about my weight inevitably directly correlate to my worth as a human being. Simply looking at the actors who play 'Mike' and 'Molly' -- the bizarre, self-loathing sitcom that bore the bizarre, fat-shaming article -- are an assault to Kelly's very delicate sensibilities. Obese people wound her very soul, because they are less than human. They are visual, nutritional monsters; the atrocities committed by Mengele have nothing on "a very, very fat person simply [walking] across a room". And before you charge me with hyperbole, go back and find that quote in the article: she equates a heavy-set individual walking with a heroine junkie riding a high.

This, to me, is the crux of a "healthy" person's misguided approach to shaming a fattie into being a hottie: they see food as the enemy, as the sole cause of the repulsive "rolls and rolls of fat" being shoved in their line of vision. I will tell you right now: food is not the sole reason.

I'm about to get all SCIENCE-Y on you, so if you're still pondering how magnets work, you best move onto another blog -- but sometimes (a lot of times, actually) it's genetics. Some are genetically predisposed to be bigger individuals; it's a biological imperative based on thousands of years of evolution and genetic adaptation in response to environmental stresses, a.k.a. by science-y types: Allen's Rule. (See also [if you're into that sort of thing]: Bergmann's Rule.)
Regardless, my point stands: it's not always as simple as 'stop eating so much and exercise more'. If it were, there would be no fat people. And then who would the Maura Kellys and the MeMe Roths of the world hate on?

And for some, food is a drug. Just like most alcoholics don't drink simply because they like the taste of cheap vodka in the morning, afternoon, and night, those who bury the pain with food don't overeat because they can't say no to another bite. You can't tell a crack addict not to smoke and force them to stop through sheer force of will. You can't just tell an anorexic to have a cheeseburger. And you can't berate a fat person into losing weight.

So no, it's not something that can be easily changed, if only they put their minds to it. I can't think and hope and pray really, really hard that I'll change my DNA and suddenly have the ability to grow 5 inches and have the metabolism of a greyhound.
What can be easily changed, however, is the frustratingly horrible mindset that morons like Kelly cling to. You can not look at a person and know their health, so stop assuming that this is possible. You can, however, look at a person and not be utterly offended by their appearance. It's not an easy road, and I'm happy to give you some suggestions, like stop being pig-headed and an asshole, but you can also visit a therapist! YOU CAN DO IT!

I must admit, I feel a tinge of sadness and -- dare I say it? -- pity for Kelly. Not for the piling on of criticism she's received -- oh no, that she truly deserves -- but for the plaintive admission that she suffered (suffers?) from anorexia. Without a doubt, her history of disordered eating has forever coloured the way she views food and people who happen to have visible body fat. Her righteous attitude is certainly a hold-over from her less-healthy days; it just goes to show that pushing what you think is the proper antidote to a perceived problem is just fuel for the unhealthy fire. Plus, it makes you look like a jerk.

Ultimately, this article served its purpose. It got people to talk about the perils fat-phobia, albeit in a totally unintended way. Moreover, the article -- and the subsequent backlash -- serve to remind us that, just like you can't simply look at a person and judge their health, you can't shame people into being what you want them to be.

A sick body is a symptom of a sick mind. Let's get healthy, people, each of us in our own way.

--amanda

Shine On

Dear No One in Particular,

via: lemonlove

When I saw this image, I became so enraged I needed to look at videos of puppies in order to calm down.

Let me tell you why this pisses me right the fuck off:

First of all, it's total nonsense. Why wouldn't inner beauty shine through make-up? Is there something in my foundation that blocks my winning personality? Does my eye liner act as a barrier for my charm? Because I am pretty fucking charming.

No, if you were truly beautiful on the inside, there would be no impediment to that coming through. Clothing, hairstyle, the dreaded makeup -- these things can not stop you from being the incredible person you are.
Really, if anyone says differently, it's because they're the asshole -- not you. Anyone who takes one look at you and dismisses you based on your looks is a Judgey McDouchebag and you're luckier for not having more of them in your life. Fuck them. You never would have been able to please them, anyway.

Second of all, how passive-aggressive is this mantra? It decides that in order to convince other people that you are, in fact, nice and worth their time you must wear your face bare, but it dispenses these pearls of wisdom in the snottiest, most condescending way possible. Stop smearing the pancake makeup on, Bozo; you're a nice enough person on the inside.

Third of all, it labours under the misapprehension that most women wear makeup because they feel ugly. Or because they have something to prove. Or because they care about what other people -- read men -- think about their personal appearance.
Let me clear this up right now: I do not wear makeup for you. I do not wear makeup to look pretty for my boyfriend, nor do I wear it in order to please anyone else. I wear makeup to please myself. And let me assure you, person who thinks this idiotic phrase is the wisest thing since Ghandi, most women do the same.

I take pride in my makeup, mostly because putting on a good face requires skill. It's an art, painting on the face. Don't believe me? Hit up a good drag bar and try to tell me different. Hairy dudes that can cover up a 5 0'clock shadow that looks like a 3 day growth and still look more fabulous than me? Artists. This chick? Artist (and a modern-day makeup Cinderella, I might add).
Naturally, I love when people compliment my purple eyeliner or the shade of lipstick I'm rocking. It feels nice to be complimented; it does not mean I'm slathering eyeshadow on in hopes of pleasing some random nobody.

I feel like I must point how how totally patronising this sentiment is. This is a graphic done by a man, obviously in hopes of making women feel bad about themselves so they might conform to his standards of beauty.

Fuck. That. Shit.

I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of being told that I'm not beautiful because I'm wearing makeup. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm not wearing makeup. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm not a size 2. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my hips are large. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my hair is curly. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I've straightened my hair. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm wearing a red shirt. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm wearing a blue shirt. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my eyes are large. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm short. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my skin is tan. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my skin is not tan enough.

I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I can not please you.

I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm a woman and you're a man and your opinion counts for more than mine.

I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful.

I'm tired of being tired, and I'm tired of reading crap like this.

Inner beauty can shine through anything: through makeup, through outdated clothing that doesn't fit right, through an unflattering hairstyle. Through crooked teeth, through wide hips and narrow hips, through muscle, through fat, through bones. Through fair skin, through dark skin, through purple skin. Through scars, physical and invisible. Inner beauty can shine even through the neverending darkness of death.

Put on makeup. Wear a baggy sweater. Don't comb your hair. Show off your tattoos. Wear a bikini -- your body is ready for it.

You are beautiful no matter what you put on the outside.
Your smile outshines the sun. Your laughter is the sweetest music. You glow with an inner light, and only you can dampen it. Share your beauty with the world.

You're beautiful.

--amanda

Voices Soft as Thunder

Dear No One in Particular,

A week ago Susan Boyle was not a household name. Now the 47 year-old Glaswegian is all anyone can talk about.* Since I'm an only child, and therefore the centre of the universe, I feel the need to weigh in.

What troubles me about Boyle's newfound fame is this ridiculous obsession with her appearance and its apparent relationship to her ability to carry a tune. Shows like "Britain's Got Talent" and "American Idol" rub me the wrong way because, as much as it is a search for a genuinely gifted individual, it's also freak show: attention seekers and clueless individuals alike are humiliated on national (and now international) television, creating a sort of weeks-long Roman holiday for the tuned-in masses. Naturally, this always works out well.
People are lauding Boyle as this season's Paul Potts: a working class schlub who most unexpectedly turned out to be a hit. Articles on Potts and Boyle often have an oddly reverential tone, as though they triumphed over great adversity -- but, really, they didn't. They overcame grinding mediocrity to become national sweethearts. That's the rub -- they're almost aggressive in their total normality.

Contrary to what people are saying, Boyle is not ugly. Sure, her brows could use a quick pluck and she could benefit from a slightly more flattering frock, but she's not exactly the monstrosity the media is making her out to be. Granted, she won't have a She's All That transformation should she make a threading appointment and slip into a new dress, but she's not climbing down from the bell towers in her current state, either.
So why are her looks as important as her singing voice? When token lady-judge Amanda Holden bestows Boyle with the backhanded compliment "I am so thrilled because I know everybody was against you", you can be sure the audience wasn't rolling their eyes because Boyle lives with a cat named Pebbles**. Why was the state of her hair enough to set an entire nation against this sweet, unassuming Scottish spinster? What shift occurred in our thinking that makes us equate external beauty with talent? Katy Perry is conventionally attractive, yet she doesn't exactly have the voice of an angel. Why, then, are we so ready to dismiss Boyle based on her looks? What prompts Ant or Deck to point at her gleefully and squeal "didn't expect that did you? Did you?! NO!" as she sings?

When I first watched Boyle's audition, I was actually a bit scared that she would be the British version of William Hung. You remember William Hung, right? God, I felt terrible for that man. The optimist in me would like to think that he was in on the joke, yet the realist in me knows this not to be true. Watching so many people laughing at him made me feel like the entire world was back in high school, bullying the poor "weird kid". I hated what happened to Hung, and I really wish that on no one.

There is no doubt in my mind that if Boyle was not in possession of a good singing voice, she would have been laughed off that stage. Hell, she was laughed at the second she walked on.
And here's where I express my most unpopular opinion: I don't think she's that good of a singer. Don't get me wrong, she has a beautiful voice, but she's not exactly blowing my mindgrapes with her rendition of "I Dreamed A Dream". She hits the notes perfectly (though she struggles a bit with the low notes), but there's no oomph. The whole performance, frankly, is a bit reminiscent of karaoke; I don't get a sense of strong emotion driving the song and "I Dreamed A Dream" is all about emotion, you know? It should sound like her heart is breaking with every syllable. I'm sure the standing ovation from the people who, just seconds before, were laughing at her affected her performance, but ... ok, I'm really cynical, but I think that if she had just a so-so voice she would have had audience support, and I think this is because the audience had lowered their expectations of her due to, you guessed it, her appearance.

As it is, Boyle really does have an immense talent and deserves to be praised. But what really floors me is how delighted people are to be proven wrong. If the media is to be believed, Potts and Boyle save us from our shallowness. Just as that teenaged snot in the audience rolled her eyes at Boyle, I can't help but roll my eyes at society: if we are simply giddy over our false judgements, why don't we actually take the necessary steps to remove such misconceptions? Why don't we stop the painful, mortifying auditions for American Idol and its ill-gotten ilk?
Why don't we do as Boyle recommends and learn the big lesson to stop judging a book by its cover. Since that book has no interest in being made over, let's focus on her lovely voice for once.***

--amanda


[ETA:]

Apparently, whether or not Susan Boyle needs a makeover is the talk of the nation -- I just listened to an interview on NPR's Talk of the Nation discussing this very topic. The contributor, Robin Givhan, a fashion editor for the Washington Post (natch), was insisting that Boyle be "polished": pluck her brows, get her hair did, etc. What galls me about this nonsense was Givhan's insistence that this is simply the way the music industry works. Boyle is talented, and will no doubt get a recording contract and then go on tour; she is expected to pretty herself up for her performances and be "the whole package". End of story. Now get in that salon chair, woman, and shut up until you're asked to sing again.

I call bullshit on this. No one is going to buy a ticket to a Susan Boyle concert expecting something on the level of Celine Dion. She isn't going to put a show on the for the masses, she's going to open her mouth and sing -- which is what she should be doing. I still don't see how the thickness of her eyebrows relates to the quality of her singing voice.

Givhan kept pointing out that singers -- really, performers -- are expected to look a certain way, and Susan Boyle does not fit that mold. While Gihvan points out that Boyle is something of a Cinderella story (I don't believe she is, but no matter) for the normal person (a fairytale in which someone who dares to be average reaches above average heights), she seeks to penalise Boyle for that very normality. Boyle has a gift, and we have to pretty up that package in order for her to be anything of interest.
Disgusting, and I can't believe my beloved NPR allowed such ignorant drivel to be spouted on the airwaves. Instead of insisting that this is the way the music industry works and condescendingly patting Boyle on the head, saying oh, it's lovely that you're you, but now you have to change, we should be engaging with why we believe that Boyle needs to slip into some Spanx and have her hair frosted in order to be a worthwhile musician. Again: bullshit. She's a worthwhile musician because she can sing, not because her highlights look nice under the stage lights.

All I'm trying to say is: the question should not be "does Susan Boyle need a makeover?" but rather "why do we insist that she does?"



_________________________
*The weirdest part about Boyle-mania? My father, who watches only 24 and CNN, knows who she is. Listening to him talk about her is like like listening to Paris Hilton wax intellectual about Keynesian economics.
**For whatever reason, I think 'Pebbles' is the most hilarious cat name ever.
***I love her for refusing a makeover. LOVE her. Her sensibility is refreshing and hopefully contagious.

Epic Fail

Dear No One in Particular,

I arrived rather late to the "AmazonFail" party. I spent most of Easter Sunday either completely unconscious or feverishly delirious. When I became lucid enough to actually read up on the scandal, there were still few facts and a whole lot of theories floating about on the Twitterverse.

For those still unaware, news broke this weekend that online bookstore behemoth Amazon.com was systematically pulling the sales rank numbers from gay and lesbian books, labelling them "adult", thus excluding them from searches and best seller lists. The ramifications of such an action are massive. First of all, labelling such material as "adult" is patently ridiculous, especially since vibrators are available with sales ranks intact. How is a butt plug less "adult" than Ellen Degeneres's biography? Second, due to the massive stripping of sales ranks, when you enter "homosexuality" into Amazon's search engine, the first title that pops up is "A Parent's Guide to Preventing Homosexuality"*. I'm not linking to that mess, but as of 7:53 pm Hawaii Time on Monday, 13 April, it was still the #1 spot.

I can't begin to express my rage and bitter sadness. I can do what Amazon claimed they were doing and think of the children. The tortured, scared queer youth who desperately want help coming out to their friends and family that click onto Amazon to find some literature and instead of finding something empowering, like the The Advocate College Guide for LGBT Students, they're bombarded with homophobic tripe. That won't just send people back into the closet, it sets them up for a lifetime of depression and intense self-loathing.

This goes beyond Amazon trying to make a statement about homosexuality -- some books, such as Full Frontal Feminism and Chelsea Handler's memoirs don't quite fit the anti-gay purge -- which fits the original excuse offered by Amazon: that this is nothing more than a "glitch". But this fails to address the fact that author Craig Seymour's books were stripped of their sales ranks in FEBRUARY. This is not a weekend "oopsies", like Amazon would have us believe. There's something systematic about this, and it feels slightly sinister.

Amazon controls a LOT of data. They sell more than just books; they're becoming more and more of a lifestyle company: selling you stuff from conception to coffin, and everything in between. I don't believe that this is part of a grand scheme to bring an end to homosexuality (*snort*), but rather, a powerful, persistent push to further the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) and devastating homophobia that pervades societies world wide. And that is incredibly damaging.

Normally, I would give Amazon the benefit of the doubt. Like I said, they control a ton and a half of data: cataloging errors, as they later labelled the issue, are expected, and are expected to wreak utter havoc with the system. But again: this is not the work of a single, slightly inept man in France who mislabelled something during a long weekend. This has been going on for months. And I have no patience for Amazon's shady side-stepping and complete inability to apologize. Their PR department totally mucked this up, making it seem like the company really was up to something nasty, and the hesitation on Amazon's part was more than enough to send the rumour mills a-turning.
Really, I would have given them the benefit of the doubt if it weren't for the fact that Seymour's books were stripped months ago. That, coupled with the non-responses issued by various representatives and total lack of a formal apology, was enough for me to boycott Amazon.

This is a little painful on my end, since I've been a loyal Amazon customer for years. I've purchased many a textbook from them, and I buy at least one Kindlebook every two weeks. Hell, I've even bought lip balm and music through Amazon. I know it's folly to think that my tiny contribution to their bottom line will hurt them, but I can't give my money to a company I can't trust. I'm heading to my local library and independent used bookstores.

Now. If anyone knows how to get e-books for the Kindle without going through Amazon: I'll send you cupcakes and/or brownies. Seriously. The Kindle changed the way I read books, and I almost flipped when I realised that I'd have to tote around a 600 page hardback.

--amanda



____________________________
*Let me answer this oh so pressing issue of how parents can prevent homosexuality: don't breed, you homophobic hate-mongers. You're welcome. You may now send me the money you would have spent on the book. Spoiler alert: I'll donate that money to a local LGBT advocacy group!

There Must Be Something in Books

This is, perhaps, old news, but I was recently introduced to the heartrending photographs taken at the Detroit Public Schools Book Depository, aka the Roosevelt Warehouse. I spent the last 15 minutes clicking through the set with my heart in my throat.
Granted, Jim is an incredible photographer, but it's the sheer destruction of the book depository that causes me to tear up. I still can't get over it.

My first reaction was "what the hell happened?" Apparently, it was everyone's first reaction. Jim wrote up an incredibly detailed history of the depository and the series of events that eventually led to the ruins that we see today. Short answer (in case you don't want to read the whole story, which you really should): a major fire ravaged the warehouse in 1987, seemingly destroying everything, causing officials to abandon the wreckage; it later became apparent that not all supplies had been destroyed, leaving perfectly good textbooks and much-needed school supplies abandoned. The building was eventually purchased by a local magnate, but the building and its contents were left to the elements, vandals, drug addicts, and Detroit's increasing homeless population. While the warehouse was once ridiculously easy to break into, security measures were tightened (albeit superficially) only after a frozen corpse was recovered at the bottom of an elevator shaft.

In another post detailing his photographing the book depository, Jim muses that he is "struck by the way people respond in the comments with a sense of 'sadness'". He goes on to ask his readers:

why is it "sad" for a building to be left to decay if there is no one willing to use it? Can decay be something more than sentimental? Can it ever be beautiful? Can it just be respected for what it is, and not further corrupted by our emotions? And what is it that draws us to ruination? Why do some of us find it so compelling?

My sadness, if you can call it that, stems not from the fact that this old building is crumbling. It comes more from the history of it, the stories of the people whose very lives revolved around the building and its contents. Detroit is the quintessential blue-collar city, and it is impossible for me to remove the workers from the warehouse when I click through the photographs. I can't help but imagine the warehouse floors free of decay and bustling with workers. Distribution records, charred along the edges, but still legible, litter the floors. Someone spent their day filling out forms; someone spent their day moving boxes. 1986 feels so far gone, yet it's only recently passed. I wonder what happened to the people who woke up one morning and started their day like it was any other, only to watch their livelihood go up in flame -- literally. Did they simply move to another depository, or were they forced into the unemployment line, trying to find another marketable skill?

Yet what really slays me are the abandoned supplies. Granted, the fire destroyed quite a bit of the warehouse's contents -- what wasn't burnt was severely water damaged, but so much was simply written off as unsalvageable. Mountains of unwrapped textbooks still on pallets are now covered in mold; it's pretty easy to see that these books were perfectly fine at the time of the fire -- why weren't they redistributed? Some workbooks appear to have sustained minimal damage, 20+ years later.
Detroit is one of nation's poorest school districts. Administrators are sensationalist newspapers' darlings, never failing to provide scandal purchased with money from the district budget. My heart aches not for the ruined building, but for the children whose futures went up in smoke and/or were simply abandoned. Student achievement scores are sickeningly low and it is impossible to pretend that this is a recent occurrence -- 47% of adults in the Motor City are functionally illiterate. How many of these men and women would have benefited from the piles upon piles of unused material found in the book depository?
I must admit, this is a subject that is close to my heart. I once taught in an outreach program for at-risk youth. The kids were incredibly smart, but because of poor living situations and because they weren't receiving the necessary attention in school, they were falling through the cracks. 14 year-olds couldn't tell time on an analog clock, could barely write a simple sentence. And while I was far from working in the nation's most financially-needy school district, I didn't always have enough books or worksheets for the kids. Paints and markers were purchased with our own money -- and we didn't make that much. The sight of all those unused school supplies makes me bitterly angry and sad.

The photos stand as a testament to the failures of the system, of, as Jim puts it, "abandoned hope". I look at the pictures and see so much waste: wasted chalk, wasted paper, wasted opportunities.

But of course, there's always some silver lining. Some of my favourite photos from the set are of a tree called the "ghetto palm" growing from a soil made of burned textbooks. While the destruction is heartbreaking, there is something poetic and beautiful about some life bursting from the ruin.

--amanda

"Gym" comes from the Latin for "nest of neuroses"

Dear 24 Hour Fitness Employees and 'Roidy Bodybuilders:

This concerns both of you so I'm saving time by writing a single letter. So come, sit, and listen to some damn sense.

Dropping weights is against the rules of the gym. I know this because it is posted all over the place, along with all the other rules. I know the employees know this because no doubt they were the ones who had to paste the little plaques on the walls, and it's probably knowledge imparted to them during their training sessions. And I know that the bodybuilders know this because they have eyes. I'm certain they can read, otherwise how did they manage to get a gym membership?

So what gives with the dropping the weights?

I have four words for the bodybuilders: cut that shit out. Now.
Ok, that was five, but my point still stands. It's really dangerous; if you let an enormous amount of weight drop from a great height, you could shatter the weights. Some poor granny or teenager with an eating disorder could be seriously injured because you had to prove that you were the manliest man that ever manlied. Not to mention that you could totally wreck the floors, forcing the gym to shut down while they repair all the costly damage. I like my gym. I hate the one downtown; the whole building is too narrow and the cardio room is constantly flooding. If my gym is shut down because you just had to lift all 200+ lbs in the chest press machine, I will hire a donkey ride, track you down, and end it all.
I know you're oh so proud of your bulging muscles and the fact that your bicep is larger than both my thighs put together, but honestly. There is no reason for you to grunt like a warthog in heat while squatting a tour bus and then dropping the weight on the floor while roaring at the top of your lungs. Stop it. You are not Simba, and this is not Pride Rock. Common courtesty will go a lot farther than your overdeveloped trapezius.

And gym employees, don't think you're off the hook. I haven't even begun to show my rage.
I'm so sorry if doing your job is such an inconvenience, but please. I know you can hear them dropping weights. I know you can feel them dropping weights. The entire gym rattles like an elephant just jumped up and down. The first time it happened, I almost fell off the elliptical, partly out of shock and partly due to the shockwave reverberating through the floorboards.
We all know you know this is against the rules. So please enforce them. I get it -- you're afraid to incite the roid rage and damn, those men are SCARY. They could easily break you like a toothpick using their pinky finger. But for the sake of the rest of the gym patrons, do your job and tell off the obnoxious ones. It's what you're paid for.

If we follow the rules (which are there for safety, not to inconvenience you) going to the gym could be -- dare I say it? Enjoyable.

Thanks,
amanda

P.S. To the men with the overdeveloped forearms: stop. I like well-defined arms on a man as well as the next girl, but you're overdoing it. It's starting to look like your only hobby is masturbation, which is not a chick magnet, no matter what you read on the internet. xoxo

Oh, Canada.

[Warning: the following post contains some graphic videos. Click play at your own risk.]

Dear Canada,

First of all, know I love you. I have loved you since I was 8 years old and my parents drove from Seattle to Vancouver and we stayed in a hotel that shared our familial name and the concierge gave us free stuff. I really fell hard when I was 16 and visiting family in Toronto. In fact, I love you so much I considered going to school at U of T, but in a characteristic-Amanda move, decided I didn't want to go through the paperwork of getting a student visa and honestly, do you know how cold it gets up there? So cold, students have to walk through underground tunnels to get to class in the winter. That's darn cold, Canada.
I love you so much that if we were at a party together, I'd dig down deep and pull out the charm instead of standing off to the side, silently judging. That's how much I love you, Canada: I'd put away the bitchface just for you.

I also feel like I should apologise for the one time I went to Quebec City with my family and my mom stole that sign for Les Fetes de la Nouvelle France. I tried to keep her from defacing public property, but she wouldn't listen. I agree that the banner it was a part of did look a little funky after she ripped it apart, so thanks for turning a blind eye and not throwing us in jail. Neither of us look good in horizontal stripes.

Now that we've got the lovin' out of the way (that's what she said), I must confess, I have a bone to pick with you. Generally, whenever anyone says anything bad about you, Canada, it makes me want to take my earrings out and sharpen my nails. But I've come across something that I simply can not defend. Your Public Service Announcements.

This is the first one I saw and I kid you not when it gave me nightmares:


This one, I must admit, made me laugh a tiny bit:


Because when I fall off a ladder into a glass case, the first thing I do is stand up and lecture my horrified co-worker about job safety. No, no ambulance. We need to discuss the semantics of the word "accident". Script writing/acting FAIL.

There are more where these came from:


The two I've posted as stand-alones also appear in the video above. They're all equally awful.

Now I know that PSAs serve to scare sense into people; I saw one when I was about 4 years old about how babies can drown in two inches of water that scared me so badly I made my mom watch me in the bath even though I had been showering by myself for a while.
What bothers me, Canada, is that you show these incredibly graphic, violent 30 second crimes against sanity during primetime. Apparently, the first time the chef-PSA aired was in the afternoon during a hockey game. I don't normally sing soprano in the "OMG WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDRENS" chorus, but really Canada -- what about the children? How could your censors not realise the effect that such grotesque imagery could have on young viewers? Forget young viewers -- people in general! I'm 22 years old and a huge fan of gallows humour, yet I will never get the sound of that young woman's screams out of my head.

I'm sure there are ways to get the same point across with significantly less mind-scarring terror. Back to the drawing board, Canada. You're resourceful and creative. After all, you refer to your currency as "crazy".

Less of traumatizing PSAs, more of these:


Kind of unrelated (I'm sure it's a spoof), but this one is pretty great. It looks like something that would happen to me:


I'm still burning a candle for you, Canada.
--amanda

Paint a Vulgar Picture

Dear No One in Particular,

This article about a woman who sold an original painting by Adolf Hitler yesterday reminds me of a story a classmate once told me. Her family was Austrian (she was a first-gen American) and her grandfather was a young man when the Nazis invaded. He eventually acquired a copy of Mein Kampf, and placed it in a prominent place on his bookshelf. Whenever a snoopy guest mentioned it, he would respond "Oh yes. It's signed by the author."*

--amanda

------------------------------------
*I have no idea if this is true. It's a nice conversation-stopper, though!

No. Way.

Completely drawn on Facebook's Graffiti application. Photo-realistic, no?

I'll admit: I really didn't believe that this could be done in Facebook with a mouse. If you're like me, you need to click on replay to see the proof that it was, indeed, hand-drawn.

One question: how does one learn to do this? Is there a class I can take? Because seriously, sign me up.

--amanda

[via: 24 Free Dinners]

"I am French! Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?"

Today's lesson is brought to you by the letter "v". "V" for "vet", as in: vet your vice presidential candidates, and vet your phone calls.

No doubt that most have already seen/heard about this, but Sarah Palin being "pranked" by a Quebecois comedy duo pretending to be French President Nicolas Sarkozy is pretty, well, ridiculous. It's insanely cringe-inducing, especially given that Palin sounds like a crazed Sarkozy fan girl. The interview quickly devolves into obnoxious-territory, becoming increasingly awkward.

A transcript, courtesy of the Daily KOS, complete with French translation.

Honestly, I had hard time believing that Sarah Palin could be so damn gullible. Faux-Sarkozy's "French" accent devolves into Quebecois after about 10 seconds; he calls Johnny Hallyday a "close American advisor"; discloses that his wife is "so hot in bed"; and refers to "Nailin Palin" as a biopic -- all signs that someone's fucking with your head.
But what really gets my goat is how unbelievably ignorant Palin comes across. She falls all over herself when presented with the opportunity to talk with "President Sarkozy"; her greeting is far from professional, and she can barely handle the conversation. Just like in the debates, she has a hard time moving past simple talking points -- she actually injects them into her small talk!
Additionally, her "foreign policy" pitfalls are disgustingly apparent here. She doesn't catch the fact that the Candian PM is Stephen Harper, not, as Faux-Sarkozy mentions, Stef Carse. This woman is running for higher office, and not only does she not know what Nicolas Sarkozy sounds like, she doesn't even know who the Candian Prime Minister is! Moreover, she should know that Sarkozy recently entertained Obama as a visiting dignitary, and therefore would be unlikely to call her up out of the blue to commiserate about her faltering campaign and chit-chat about hunting baby seals. Let me reiterate: she's running for higher office, and she's this willfully ignorant.

Schadenfreude, the Masked Avengers haz it.

--amanda

La Cocinetta

Dear No One in Particular,

It's pretty well-acknowledged that I don't work well with most standard kitchens. I'm wee, see, and most counters are about 3-4 inches too tall for me. If I were to have a dream kitchen, most normal people would have to squat to wash their hands.

Which is why I think Pottery Barn might have a solution to my problem: a gourmet kitchen for children.*

Ok, ok: it's actually too small for me.** I feel like Goldilocks. Perhaps I should just buy some fabulous supplies from retail heaven, aka Anthropologie. Ooh, sale section!


--amanda

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*First of all: where the hell was this when I was a kid? Not at Toys R Us, I assure you. Second of all: who the hell has $899 to spend on toys for their children? Please, come forward. With that kind of money, you can single-handedly bailout the economy. No new taxes!

**Yes, I busted out the measuring tape to check. Don't judge.

Call Me Baby

Dear No One in Particular,

I'm one of those people who names just about everything: my computer (Betty), my iPod (BrickLove*), my car (Lokelani). I'm also the special kind of crazy that names things that don't exist quite yet, like my future dogs (2, named Benito and Gunther) and, well, my possible future children. Yep. I'm one of THOSE girls.

I seriously believe that our names affect who we grow up to be. A shitty name -- or nickname, for that matter -- can scar a psyche for life. Personally, I HATED being called Mandy. It really doesn't suit me, and I resent the fact that the name is linked forever with that Barry Manilow song. However, Amanda was -- is? -- a very popular name, and just about every class I've been in has at least one other "Amanda".
As a result, I want to name my kids something more unique, so they'll never be saddled with being "Ava 1" or "Jacob 4".

But on the other hand, there are parents who look at naming their children like a personal challenge. The couple that creates the most bizarre name, wins. What the prize is, other than years of therapy is beyond me. Here is a repository of those horrible baby names, with biting commentary to boot. Just about every entry made me giggle out loud, so unless you are made of stone, don't read the website unless you're prepared to laugh.

--amanda

ETA: This is a great article about the seemingly ridiculous-sounding African American baby names. Wonderfully written food for thought.

-----------
*It pairs nicely with my iTune library, "Feck Off, Cup!" Points if you can name that reference.

Turn it On (Again)

A conversation between me and the Boy, held last night.

Me: Wanna hear about something freaky I found on the internets?

Boy: Uh. Sure. I think.

Me: Michael Phelps SWITCHPLATES.

Boy: (looks excited) Really?!

Me: What. Why are you so happy about this? You're scaring me.

Boy: Dude, that's bitchin! (makes a stabbing motion) Bam! You just got stabbed -- by Michael Phelps, bitch!

Me: (laughing) Oh my God, no, I said switchplates, not switchblades!

Boy: (disappointed) Aw, damn. That would've been awesome. (makes stabbing motion again) I just stabbed you AND I won eight gold medals! (thinks quietly for a moment) So ... switchplates?

Me: Yeah, like for light switches. I looked through them and was thinking that they totally missed out on some hilarious places to put the switches.

Boy: Like putting the dual switches on his arms, so when he's swimming, his arms flip up and down.

Transcribing this is convincing me that someone really needs to do this. I might consider buying one just for the novelty value of being able to flip Michael's "arms".

Turn it On

Dear No One in Particular,

Someone likes this photo a hell of a lot more than I do.

The truly creepy part? There are so many more to choose from. And that's just one store!

Etsy: taking the Michael Phelps love to a whole new level.

--amanda

Pillow Fight

Dear No One in Particular,

The Boy and I have been together so long that we're essentially an old married couple. We rarely converse, we bicker. We argue constantly, yet we can't live without each other. It's sweet sometimes, but mostly it's infuriating, since we don't argue about anything of importance. No, we fight about minor, everyday things, like what kind of milk we should buy. I admit, I have a short temper, but it's mostly his fault, since he provokes me.

This morning, we fought about pillows.
Yes, pillows.

He was doing the laundry (which is nice, I admit), and I noticed that the pillows were stained. Really stained. Like, I can't remember what colour these were originally, they're covered in orange-y blobs stained. Naturally, I was grossed out and told the Boy that we needed to buy new ones stat. He looked at them and decided, no. No, we didn't. The orange pillows were just fine, and besides, we're moving soon anyway so what's the point in buying pillows that are only going to be tossed out?

I stared agog. Seriously? Could he not see the vast amounts of gross? The gross that we sleep on every night? Our faces, our beautiful faces lay on these filth-laden pillows for upwards of 8 hours. They were being thrown out tonight, and we were buying new pillows.

He threw a conniption fit, saying that buying new pillows is a total waste of money. I pointed out that we're not moving for another year, and I refuse to sleep on a Petri dish for that long. He argued that we have extra pillows hiding in a closet, which he pulled out for me to examine. These "perfectly good" replacements have been stored in a dusty, unused linen closet for the past 2 years and are covered in stains of their own. Additionally, they're curiously both flat and lumpy. I tossed them back at him and told him that they're rejected science experiments, and I now have hepatitis from handling them.

He looked more closely at them, and began to laugh, asking why we still have them then. I blew a gasket. I started shouting about how he is a miniature version of his father, and can't throw anything away because -- God forbid -- he might have to spend money to replace something that is absolutely horrifying (can you tell this is a recurring argument?). He laughed some more, while STEAM CAME OUT OF MY EARS. He then attempted to compromise, saying that I can buy a new pillow, while he continued to sleep on the stained ones. I told him if and when his face falls off, he can't borrow my pillow.

The Boy then began to examine our current pillows, saying that maybe we should get new pillows. I picked one up off the bed, shoved it towards his face, pointed at a particularly nasty looking stain and shouted "DIS-GUS-TING."

His reaction? "Ew. Yeah."

And then I fell over dead.

I nearly took pictures of the pillows just to show you what I have to live with, but I have some semblance of self-preservation left. Suffice it to say, any sane person would have looked at them and immediately headed to Macy's. Instead, I had a 30 minute screaming match about why stained pillows are unacceptable DO YOU SEE WHY I WILL DIE YOUNG.

The upside? The Boy conceded, somehow squeezed 4 pillows into a plastic bag making an uber-pillow, and tossed them in the dumpster. That's one small victory for reason, and 4 years off of my life.

--amanda

Part Asian, 2x More Crazy

Dear No One in Particular,

Researchers from UC-Davis found that hapas* are twice as likely to suffer from mental disorders.
*For future reference, I refer to biracial Asian-Causcasian individuals as "hapa".

As a hapa woman myself, I can't help but be intrigued by the findings of this study. My knee-jerk reaction was somewhat defensive, but on future reflection, I don't really know how to feel about this. To be 100% honest, I'm hapa and I suffer/have suffered from psychological disorders. Do I think that my ethnicity was the reason for my problems? Not really, and if I'm reading it right, I don't think that the Davis researchers are saying that either.

I think that the research is stating a simple fact: hapas suffer from psychological disorders at a higher rate than their monoracial counterparts. The end. There doesn't seem to be any judgment passed on the individuals; they simply are. I am hapa, and I suffer from mental disorders; I simply am.

This is not to say that the study should be taken at face value -- quite the opposite. Such racially-charged studies tread along very dangerous territory. Studies such as the one conducted at Davis can be used to support eugenics arguments, and have been enacted in the past. Which leads me to one of my major problems with the study -- it goes nowhere positive.

I suppose that statement could be revised to say that "it goes nowhere" period. Like I said before, it makes the statement that, compared to monoracial Asians, hapas suffer higher rates of mental disorders. But that's it! Definitely, definitely there needs to be further study. Why do hapas suffer more mental distress? Is it an environmental factor? A rearing factor? Or are they simply being over-diagnosed? What is going on here -- and most importantly, can it be remedied?

There is a danger in these findings, but there is also hope. Speaking from personal experience, a lot of my mental distress can be traced back to growing up hapa -- which could be chalked up to growing up as an island. I'm not very old at all, yet I knew only one other girl who was hapa, and I'm the only person in my family who is mixed. Really, there was practically no one who I could relate to, which I guess could have led to my issues with depression.

Perhaps, perhaps if the researchers didn't stop -- don't stop -- working with mentally disordered hapas, they can reduce the statistics and raise the awareness.

--amanda

Thass Ridi-ka-lous

Dear No One In Particular,

How familiar are you with the unholy creations of International Male catalogue? I have to admit, beyond the passing reference, I had no idea how truly awful their designs were/are. However, I found myself getting an education in horrific this evening while perusing Jezebel. Apparently, they've been dissecting International Male's crimes against humanity for a while now. The photos and commentary have had me LOLing all night. Confession: I laughed so hard at the gauze overalls I cried.

Equally good -- and the source (of sorts) of my post title -- is Something Awful's take on IM. While the pictures are pretty amazing, the commentary has me in stitches.

Laughing at International Male: a great way to end a terrible day.

--amanda

Be A Man

Dear No One in Particular,

I stumbled across this intriguing video on feministing.com deconstructing Disney's portrayals of masculinity.



I recently did a somewhat related project for one of my classes last Spring. Comparing and contrasting two films (Kiss of the Spider Woman and Desperado), I studied popular depictions of "machismo", and came to a similar conclusion. While my project was specifically related to Latin America and Latino men, it is quite obvious that this insistence on dominant men -- physically and mentally -- is tormenting children worldwide.

--amanda

P.S. The related section is also worth a gander, especially this video on racist themes in Disney movies. I do feel that it bears pointing out that while the crows in Dumbo is widely known as a nod (of sorts) to minstrelsy and other such vile caricatures of black people, the ape scene in The Jungle Book -- in my opinion -- is not. Louis Prima (aka Cousin Louie) was an Italian-American Big Band singer and trumpeter. I feel that his ethnicity bears explanation because, while the song "I Wanna Be Like You" could be read as an African-American wanting to be more white, I feel, this is not the case. Yet perhaps the similarity between Prima's voice and that of another, more famous singer/trumpeter contemporary, Louis Armstrong, coupled with the depiction of orang-utans and other primates speaks about ongoing latant American racism? I really am not trying to shit-stir with this incredibly long-winded post-script, but it is an idea that bears full thought.

Eyes like Diamonds

Ew.

Really, really ew.

Me So Asian

Dear No One in Particular,

At times, I find myself troubled by the notion that Asians are a "hidden" minority. Wait, maybe "hidden" isn't the right word.

I feel as though every thing that will follow needs to be prefaced with the assertion that this is all my personal opinion (even though this is a silly personal blog that no one -- other than me, that is -- reads). Feel free to prove me wrong; God knows I'm not the most educated on this subject. I'm just speaking from personal experience and observation.

Okay, back on topic.

It feels as though Asians are quietly pushed to the side while other ethnic minorities' issues are given voice. Enter blanket statement: Hispanics (really Mexicans, but to say that Central Americans are being labelled as Mexican instead of Honduran or Guatemalan is just as ignorant) are constantly on the news here in California, because of the illegal immigration issue. African Americans ... well, everyone knows about issues -- historical and present -- that have been aired. But what about Asian Americans? Why is their history pushed aside, not given the same weight as that of others?

Everybody knows about Black History Month, but what about Asian History Month? I have to confess, I didn't know it existed. I remember my high school made the grievous error of attempting to change February into "Diversity Month" or some such celebration. There was a huge outcry from the African American students, one of whom pointed out that February is Black History Month, and it's even the shortest month of the year! Why do they have to share it with other ethnicities? Indeed. God forbid other minorities get the same sort of attention. I pointed out that while Black History is celebrated every year, Asians do not get any sort of fan fare, especially at the school. Naturally, no one really came up with a reply beyond "it's not fair." I know, I'm saying so.

School children learn all about the hundreds of years of African slavery -- with good reason. They should learn, they should know that so much of American history was built on the backs of others. But they should also be taught that Africans weren't the only slaves. They weren't the only subjugated minority. When we learn about the construction of the transcontinental railroad, we should also learn about the Chinese that were forced to build it. When we learn about the California gold rush, we should be taught about the severe anti-Chinese backlash and the anti-Chinese laws that were written because of it.

In slightly more flippant and recent news, there has been an outcry for more black models. Vogue Italia made the bold move (and highly publicized move) to showcase only black models in their July issue. While I think it is wonderful that such an esteemed magazine decided to inject some diversity into their publication, I am left thinking "where are all the Asian models?"

In a sort of response, Allure -- of all magazines, ALLURE -- did a photo shoot with an Asian model! One of my favourite websites, Jezebel, took a look at the spread, asking whether or not it is possible to photograph an Asian model without resorting to stereotypes.

While it is an interesting question, I'm left a little cold with the whole exercise. First of all: it's one model. ONE. Model. Small victory, I guess. But when are we going to get a completely Asian issue a la Vogue Italia?
Second: the whole question of stereotyping is more than a bit troublesome on more than one level. If it was a Hispanic model, would this question be brought up? A Black model? While Allure did a decent job of avoiding the "me so Asian, me so happy" stereotype -- with the notable exception of putting a kimono on a Chinese girl -- would this be an issue with another race? If they did a spread with Latina, would we be on the lookout for pinatas and mariachis? Something tells me no.

So what's with the double standard? Why are Asians kept in the dark, clouded by stereotypes and mystery? I'm tired of Asians being the silent minority. Enough with the fetishism of Asians, enough with life in the corner. I'm calling for Asians to come out of the shadows. We are not perfect, and are far from being a "model minority". We are a diverse group of people, with a myriad of histories and experiences. I'm calling for Asians to step into the light -- warts and all.

--amanda