Political Speeches--Ain't She a Woman?

For much of the race for the presidential nomination, the media have been pointing out that we could potentially have our first African-American (although that doesn't cover half of Barack Obama's nationalities and doesn't do a good job of establishing his multicultural identity, either) president or our first female president.

It's been a big deal. Mitt Romney's religion, while he was in the running for the Republican nomination, was also a big deal. I'd like to presume it's because the American public wants to know about who politicians are as to knowing what politicians say about themselves. But I have a feeling that's probably not the case.

Anyway, Mitt Romney gave a speech addressing the perceived problems posed by his religion. (Although apparently it doesn't faze America to have a Mormon as Senate Majority Leader.)

After some of the comments Reverend Wright, Barack Obama's pastor, made against whites--Obama gave a speech addressing racial issues.

What I would love to see now that I haven't seen at all is for Hillary Clinton to give a speech addressing gender issues. While I recognize being a woman doesn't draw the same amount of attention and criticism garnered to racism (or reverse-racism) or Mormonism, I think the gender divide should be addressed.

Being a woman in politics does not appear to be an easy thing; it appears to be a precarious balancing act, regardless of whether you're a woman in politics because your husband is important politically or because you are campaigning. Someone too feminine gets railroaded into oblivion. Someone too aggressive gets labeled as too power-hungry and ambitious.

One of many reasons I couldn't see myself voting for Hillary is because she's done nothing to convince me she has struck an appropriate balance. As far as I can tell, she ignores the balance issue as much as she can.

Who wants to watch a tightrope walker who makes no effort to balance?

A Post for Petra; or, Hey! I Finally Read Cryptonomicon!!

Once upon a time, I attended BYU. (Or, in the language of the city where I now live, "that school down south." When you live a mere four blocks or so from the main campus of the U of U, BYU's name actually becomes an epithet.) For a year, anyway. Then I washed out, which you can surmise if you troll back through the archives of my blog. Or you already know that particular trivia if you know me personally.

Anyhow, I met this great girl there--we shall call her Petra, because that's who she is. (See her link? If not, that's just sad. I can see it, and I'm half-blind--so you should be able to see her link.) Together, we schemed to take over the world. Played Speed Scrabble. And wrote a crazy letter to Del Rey publishers, requesting the reunion scene from The Princess Bride. (Okay, so all of that isn't true. We never schemed to take over the world. But if we ever did, I'm thinking we'd be super-cool dictators. Although she'd probably completely oust me eventually and rule on her own, since she's just that much smarter than I am.)

Both of us are big readers. I mean, we read lots. And lots and lots. She reads faster, but the point still stands--we both read voraciously. Anyway, she incessantly mentioned this Neal Stephenson novel called Cryptonomicon. It's one of her favorites. She'd read it forty-billion times by then (okay, maybe three), and recommended it to me almost any time the word "book" cropped up in our conversations. As you can imagine, this title stuck in my brain.

For five years. That's how long it took me to get around to reading Cryptonomicon. (In my defense, the sucker's 900 pages long! And for someone with a not-very-math-oriented brain, it's not the quickest read!!) I had to wait until a phase of life when I had spare time on my hands. (Spare time: "surreptitious reading of snatches while at work, in addition to normal reading time")

So, ahem. Petra, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it took this long. I'm sorry that it took me until page 300 to get truly interested in it. I'm sorry I didn't read it sooner, so I could have actually discussed it with you in person--for your sake and mine, because I have a feeling I would like this book sooooo much better if I could just talk to you about it. For a while. Long enough, anyway, for you to clarify the math stuff.

A question to any and all who have read this novel: did I black out somewhere? Do we as readers ever get clued in about the entire Enoch Root situation? (I mean, Bobby Shaftoe sees him dead on a table, but then he's in jail with Randy? How does that work??)

P.S. Also, I'm sorry, Salt Lake City Public Library. My timing was bad. Lucky for you, I'm the type of girl who pays her overdue fines.

Passive-Aggressiveness is Like Smog, or Conflict Sometimes Creates Cleaner Air

I do not understand why this always comes to be, but it seems inevitable: no matter where I work or what I'm doing, I am always faced with at least one passive-aggressive personality. Sometimes more than one, but always at least one.

Unfortunately for me, the resident super-passive-aggressive employee works in the office next to mine. Even more unfortunately, every two offices in this building share thermostats. So guess whose heating/air conditioning ducts are controlled by the same mechanism?

That's right. Mine. And hers.

Fortunately, the thermostat lives a cozy existence in my office, meaning that I have immediate control over the temperature. (Something that, I admit, probably gives me a little more of a power trip than it should)

Anyway, this passive-aggressive girl also happens to be the girl whose position I filled when I joined this company fourteen months ago. Back then, she delighted in making me do things the long way--her way--which was supposedly "smarter and more thorough." (Interpretation of "smarter and more thorough": a colossal waste of my time once I discovered I could do things just as accurately and more quickly, which one might arguer was smarter anyway) I later learned it was her way of asserting dominance; she had, for a long time, been known as one of the brightest minds in the company. When she found a mind brighter than hers (mine), she had to find a way to assert herself. Thus the training. I'm probably not doing a good job of articulating just how passive aggressive the action was, but it was an action most definitely designed to say, "I'm as smart or smarter than you. Don't mess with me."

Now, here is an interesting fact about me: in non-work-related situations, I'm a conflict-avoider. I see a fight coming, and I run. Hightail it to safer ground, conversationally or physically. Or better yet, completely diffuse the situation by saying something completely random and funny--it works like a charm, most of the time, to stop an argument in its tracks. Arguing proves very difficult when laughing. True story.

But at work, I encourage conflict. Mostly because once the conflict is out and over with, the air has cleared. Grievances are understood and addressed. And nobody feels the worse for it when it's handled properly.

Now, the thermostat: it is never--and I mean never--at a temperature this girl is satisfied with. She's straight from Goldilocks and the Three Bears, except that her temperatures are even more extreme than those of Mama Bear and Papa Bear.

And she won't touch the thermostat!! I'll walk past her office and she'll be huddled in her monstrosity of a faux-fur coat. And she'll force her teeth to chatter as I walk by. Or else I'll walk by and she'll wipe her brow or spontaneously remove layers, complaining to her new office mate (who will usually ask me to change the thermostat, or change it herself) about the copious amounts of sweat oozing from her pores. (At which point, said office mate will roll her eyes and just keep working)

This is the point: I don't like passive-aggressive tactics. They are obnoxious, and they are designed to make somebody else change your situation for you. Conflict--taking matters into your own hands and addressing the issues--not only doesn't drive others batty, it gives you control!!

And who doesn't want to have some control over their circumstances?

On Flirting

Flirting is an art. Like all arts, working at it can only get a girl so far. Either you have it, or you don't. ("It" defined as, in this case, "the ability to make members of the opposite gender fall down at your feet with the right body language and a few well-placed words.")

Yet there is hope. Though flirting is primarily accomplished via a face-to-face medium, other mediums can also be used. Take writing, for example. I'm an absolute rubbish flirt in person. I have no qualms about admitting it. Many close friends of mine can testify that any forays into the realms of in-person flirting on my part end with me being very red and most people nearby, including the attempted flirt-ee, being very amused. Such is my lot in life, and I accept it.

When it comes to writing, however, my fingers are a heck of a lot more bold than my mouth is. Besides, I figure there is a strict divide between written conversations and spoken conversations, even with people you know. I normally don't pick up Facebook conversations with friends when we're talking in person, and I usually don't bring up in-person conversations online. (It's rather like that whole church-and-state divide . . . very distinct theoretically, but slightly more muddled in practice)

Anyway, whether I'm sticking my foot in my mouth in person or sassing it up online, flirting does not mean love. It is prelude to an interest that could evolve to a deeper interest that could result in something. Also, it is a test. If someone can still talk to me after I've embarrassed myself by attempting that whole in-person flirtation thing, they pass. They obviously have enough character for me to ponder if I want this to lead somewhere.

Likewise, if they show the good sense not to be too disappointed at some of my in-person interactions after enjoying my sass online--they, too, shall pass.

But again, flirting is not a commitment. Please repeat this. Make it a mantra. Seriously.

And one more important caveat: talking to a member of the opposite gender is not flirting. Especially if the conversation includes obvious small talk generalities that must be done away with: education, work, hobbies. If it started off with, "Hey, how's school going?" and ended with "Talk to you next time I see you," no bells are ringing. No angels are singing. Neither of the respective parties are contemplating what it would be like to be married to the other.

P.S. Sometimes snarky quibbling is just that--snarky quibbling. It's got nothing to do with sexual tension, hidden liking, blah blah blah. Sometimes it's just fun to get someone else's goat.

Graduate School Update #1

Saturday afternoon, I discovered a voicemail from my dad on the phone. "Hi, Katie. Just thought I'd let you know that when I got the mail this morning, you had a letter from the University of Chicago. All of my attempts to read it through the envelope have failed, so I guess I'll just have to wait for you to open it until tomorrow."

Yesterday I opened it. It was a rejection. My mom was astonished I was okay with being rejected. (Let's just say: I discovered a long time ago that it's much easier to be rejected by establishments than it is to be rejected by people.) She wasn't astonished, however, to know that the letter was a rejection.

She'd been at a Family History conference when the letter came, but promptly found a way of reading it through the envelope on her return home.

As she pointed out, when it comes to such types of snooping, Dad is an amateur. And now I sort of want him to hide away the rest of the letters that come into the house so my mom doesn't know whether I'm accepted or rejected before I do.

Motivations from my Mom

Ever since I started talking of applying to out-of-state graduate schools, my mom has decided to furnish at least one reason for staying in Utah every time I see her.  Sometimes she repeats herself.  (I've heard it pointed out many, many times that my niece and nephew and their future little brother will be here)

 

But I've decided her latest reason for me to stick around is by far the funniest and she's getting the most laugh-mileage out of it.  And she knows it.  Her latest reason: the Jazz, specifically Kyle Korver.  She was ecstatic when a young attractive man joined the team, figuring it might have a chance of luring me back into watching the Jazz.

 

Don't get me wrong, I like basketball just fine.  But it's not something I go out of my way to watch and I haven't really liked a Jazz team since Jeff Hornacek left the team.  That's just how it is.  I was a fan of the team that made it so far in the playoffs because the majority of the players were class acts.  They didn't rough up the referees, sport a bazillion tattoos, or badmouth their teammates on national television.  Karl Malone hadn't gone all sour on Utah yet.  And most of them didn't flaunt their fame, instead preferring to keep a low profile.

 

Anyway, when my mom read about Kyle Korver coming to the Jazz, she had to tell me.  Even though I looked at her blankly with my spoon full of soup halfway to my mouth and said, "Who?"

 

"You know," she said.  "The basketball player who looks like Ashton Kutcher."

 

I choked on my soup.  "Do you even know who Ashton Kutcher is?"

 

"Somebody famous."

 

"Do you know what he looks like?"

 

"Well, no.  But the article told me."

 

"I see."

 

"Doesn't matter.  I call him Cute Boy, anyway."

 

More choking.  I don't think he's attractive.  Ashton, either, for that matter.  But ever since he joined the team, my mom has decided I should have a vested interest in him.  (This may, in part, be my fault for telling her I would stay in Utah if a cute boy were involved.   A cute boy who could commit.)

 

I tried to make it stop by convincing her any intelligent boy would laugh at me for being such an ignoramus about the Jazz.  Any conversation would involve me saying, "Now, let me see who I can remember is on the team.  Kirilenko.  Mehmet Okur.  Darren Williams.  And Cute Boy."  That didn't work.

 

And now, she has taken it upon herself to make sure I am up to date on Cute Boy's achievements.  Every time I stay overnight, I'm sure to find one randomly placed newspaper clipping picturing Cute Boy when I least expect it.  And it always reappears once after I throw it away.  Sometimes he's lurking under my dinner plate.  Last week, he was in between the towel and wash rag I grabbed from the linen closet before I showered.  He reappeared, in each instance, on my pillow before I went to bed.

 

When I visited on Sunday, he somehow managed to sneak into the sleeve of my coat and then, when my mom hugged me goodbye, found his way back into my coat pocket.  At this point, my mom does it for the laughs.  I think she's actually attempting subtle subterfuge (I know that's kind of redundant, but just deal) by making me thing I won't find anyone who can make me laugh this much with such a small thing if I move out of state.

 

Either that, or clippings of Cute Boy will start following me in stamped envelopes . . .

Quite Contrary

I'm going to let all of you in on a secret about how to get outstanding results from me: tell me I can't do something.  And when I say, "tell me I can't do something," I don't mean forbid me from doing something.  Imply that it's impossible.  Tell me it's never been done for.  And I'll do it.  Just to prove you wrong.

 

The other day, someone asked me what I would consider my most defining characteristics.  I usually tell people my most defining characteristic is my quirkiness, but then I stopped and thought about it; quirkiness is not necessarily and identifier or a unique trait.  A particular brand of quirkiness, perhaps.  But as I pointed out to my mom the other day when we were discussing my parents' neighbor who shovels the snow off his lawn: "Everyone has their neuroses."

 

I decided I have two defining characteristics: bluntness and a certain defiant contrariness.  Oh, I do love to be contrary.

 

Why I turned out so contrary is a genetics vs. environment argument: Was it because my brother always argued with everyone, or was it because stubbornness runs deep in my family's gene pool?  (The bluntness comes from my dad, who also has no filter.  If we think it, it comes out of our mouths.  Not so for my mom and the rest of my family members.  Usually)

 

Anyway, here is an example of just how contrary I get: when I transferred to Weber, I found (much to my dismay) that I was required to take a math class.  The school wanted me to start at algebra-level math and work my way up to the requirement.  I would have none of that; I wanted to take one math class and be done, so I resolve to test into the GE requirement level.  I hoped to test out completely, but alas . . .

 

At that time, a girl I'd known in high school was a math tutor and told me she'd never heard of anyone testing to the exact level of the GE requirement or above it.  It had simply never been done, and she told me I had no chance of testing into the proper level of math.  My reaction?  "Watch me."  She bet me $10 I couldn't do it.  And then I did.  And then she had the nerve to tell me she didn't owe me any money because it had been a bet, and as good Mormon girls, we weren't supposed to gamble.

 

I told her it wasn't a gamble, since I'd known I could achieve what she considered impossible.  And while some might argue I had done all of that to prove a point to someone who had--quite frankly--driven me nuts for the entirety of my public education, I really did it because I enjoy being contrary.

 

In fact, I often believe I would be a much more motivated worker if someone told me about all of the impossible and insurmountable tasks here at the office. 

 

May I be accepted to some graduate schools soon.  I need something to be contrary about . . .