March MADNESS is right

Ah, March Madness. This is always an interesting time of year for a basketball fanatic such as myself.

Note that I used the phrase "basketball fanatic" -- a phrase sans the [usually elided] modifier of "men's". Most guys who describe themselves as basketball fanatics leave out the very important fact that they are not, as they say, fans of basketball in general, but fans of male-played basketball -- which is very, very specific.

Men's basketball fanatics are in heaven right now; you can't turn on the tv or glance at a paper without getting basketball -- men's basketball. Don't get me wrong; I freaking love basketball -- men's and women's. I love March Madness because there's always a basketball game on, and I love watching basketball. But it's different for me, and in a variety of ways.

1) One of the reasons I love March Madness is because it's the one time of year when it's relatively easy to find a women's game on ESPN[2/U].

What men's fans don't realize is that as far as television coverage is concerned, every single day of the regular season is the equivalent of women's March Madness -- it's not too difficult to see the games you want to see. I haven't seen my [women] Boilers at all this year, and since they're not in the NCAAt, March Madness won't change that a bit. I have seen my [men] Boilers several times, despite not getting the Big Ten Network (there are times when I think I'd punch myself in the face repeatedly over a period of 72 hours for the Big Ten Network).

2) One of the reasons I hate March Madness is because the statistical probability of my getting into an argument over the inherent value of women's sports increases exponentially.

Inevitably, when discussing MM, the women's tournament comes up, because it is, shockingly enough, also on my mind in March. This invariably leads to at least one male voicing disbelief that anyone in this country actually watches women's sports, or bursting into hysterical laughter at the suggestion that a game was enjoyable to watch.

About that last; the conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: Why don't you like women's sports?
Him: Women's sports are fucking boring.
Me: Have you ever watched a women's game, in any sport?
Him: ...

Alternatively, it might go something like this:

Me: Why don't you like women's sports?
Him: Women's sports are fucking boring.
Me: Have you ever watched a women's game, in any sport?
Him: Yeah, I saw like 4 minutes of one once; it was really boring.

I actually get this quite a lot. Like, a lot. And I've just thought of a killer retort, that I, unfortunately, have never thought to use before.

What if I told you I'd watched Super Bowl XLI and that was enough to conclude that all men's sports are boring?

This would test

1. his knowledge of football (what happened in Super Bowl XLI?), and
2. his logic.

I'm not really holding my breath over #2, considering that the guys who give me this sort of bullshit are all pretty much the same.

Anyway, it's stressful. It's stressful to be faced with the choice of either

1. getting into a heated debate and winding up with the ANGRY FEMINIST label (I thought you were one of the guys because we were just hanging out and talking basketball but now you're all up in my grill why can't you just be the laidback cool chick I thought you were before you got all crazy on me), or
2. stop talking about women's sports, which includes both not bringing up conversation topics I want to talk about and pretending it doesn't bother me when people slam the women's tournament (so I wanted to watch the Butler game and CBS was stuck on St. Mary's-Villanova so I tried ESPN but they had some goddamn women's game on. it was bullshit.).

I love March Madness. But for me, it's inherently stressful.

Don't even get me started on the bullshit I get when I try to explain why I don't fill out a bracket. I can't even figure out if that crap is sexist or just dumb.

NCAA Men's Tournament kicks off with Boilermaker griping from yours truly

ESPN.com just described Siena as a "trendy pick", but one ultimately overtaken by Purdue's strong second half (Purdue beat Siena 72-64).

This is a common phenomenon lately, I've noticed: it's trendy to pick anyone over Purdue, even this year, when Purdue was playing with a[nother] [currently-running] record first-round win streak on the line (going into this game, they were at 11, the longest current streak, and now they're at 12, the new longest current streak). It doesn't seem to matter that we've played better in the first round than anyone else in the nation; Purdue never, ever gets the benefit of the doubt that's so easy to come by when we're talking about high-seeded teams before they get knocked out in the first round -- and I'm referring to #3 Georgetown, #4 Vanderbilt, #5 Temple, even fucking #6 Notre Dame, for crying out loud.

Those upsets were surprising -- and yet, somehow, Purdue's lack of an upset was a surprise.

Why is it so difficult to believe that a 4-seed can hold off a 13-seed -- especially when you consider that Georgetown couldn't hold off a 14-seed, and Purdue would have been seeded higher had we not blown the Big Ten Tourney?

Sure, Siena's at the top of the MAAC, but who's even heard of them (MAAC stands for Metro Atlantic Athletic Conference, in case you, like me, didn't intuit that)? Were they ever in the top 25 this season? At our best, we hit #3 -- in the fucking nation.

Call me crazy, but upsets are supposed to be surprising, kind of by definition. The fact that upsets have become par for the course in the men's tournament is a mark of how much basketball talent there is in this country*, but that doesn't for a second mean that it's logical to suppose they're going to happen all the time.

And, of course, no one expects them all the time.

They just expect them when Purdue is the top dog.




*The reasons behind the relative lack of upsets in the women's tournament should probably be obvious, if you have any sense of logic, but I'll spell it out for you: Tons and tons and tons of young men want to play NCAA basketball; the gross number of good players rises with sample size, and they all have to go somewhere, hence, lots of good players at lots of schools. Talent is spread out, and gaps between seeds are closer. There are not as many young women who play basketball; hence, a lower gross number of good players, which means fewer strong teams, and larger talent gaps between seeds. It's basic math, really.

I'm not fat.

I'm also not disabled, or a person of color, or trans/queer/other, but the point of this particular post is that I'm not a fat person. (And yes, I'm using the word "fat" -- not as a derogation, but as an adjective.) I've been thinking about discrimination a lot lately, probably because I've been reading the shit out of Shakesville lately, but the point is that I have some things to say.

I'm not fat, but I've been made to feel "less than" (as they say over at Shakesville) because of my relative level of fatness, in a very specific area: breast size.

I'm 5'4" and 125-130 lbs and I wear a 32-34D bra. This does not make me, in any way, extraordinary. I know plenty of women with various combinations of the numbers I just threw out; most of my sisters come to mind immediately. And yet, it's so goddamn hard for me to find a bra, because apparently I AM extraordinary with my D-cup breasts.

My best friend, who I love dearly, wears an A cup. She, like many of the women I know, shop at Walmart/Target for bras, because they consider 3 things when buying a bra:

1. It must fit me.
2. It must be cute and/or sexy.
3. It must be affordable.

She, like myself and many of the women I know, considers those three characteristics to be essential when purchasing a bra. You might say she considers it her right to obtain a cute, well-fitting bra without shelling out a lot of money for it. I also consider it my right, but here's the thing: she can accomplish this -- easily. Swimmingly, you might say. She wears A cups. She can breeze in and out of Walmart/Target in 10 minutes and come away with several bras that she likes and didn't really pay that much for.

I, as you may have already guessed, can't do that. I can't shop at Walmart/Target for bras unless I want to sacrifice characteristics #1 and #2 (anything that fits me properly at Walmart/Target is, frankly, the ugliest thing ever, and also, "properly" is a relative word). I can't shop at Victoria's Secret unless I want to sacrifice #3, and potentially #1 (they say they can measure you so that FINALLY you will wear your correct bra size, but I've found that their measurements surprisingly coincide with whichever size they currently have the most of). For that matter, I can't shop at Victoria's Secret, or Nordstrom, or any of those fancy bra places, because I live in a fucking ski town and we just don't have them here.

And so, my "bra rights" are severely limited because I have big boobies. My big boobies are not my fault; I have not had breast implants; I just have big-breasted genes. Does my best friend deserve more bra rights because she has smaller-breasted genes? Looks like it from the outside.

These days, I don't feel "less than" because of my breasts; it's just an annoyance that I do my best to get around. But in high school, when I was the dorky, shy girl with D cups, surrounded by my friends, who were beautiful girls with B cups, max, all incredibly popular, I did feel "less than". I felt that the reason I never dated was because I was Fat (by Fat, I mean the derogation and shame that generally seems to come with the adjective in our culture).

In gym class, we had this scale one day that told you your body fat percentage. Our teacher told us healthy women had around 25% body fat. Mine was 26.something%, and this made me feel Fat.

Seriously. I was like 1% above average, and it made me feel Fat. Luckily, I was a rather wise 17-year-old, which allowed me to quickly quash that omg i'm such a Faaaaatty impulse and remind myself that my teacher had said "around" 25%, and 1% was not that much higher than average, and I was pretty healthy and active and beautiful and fuck their stupid body fat percentage.

But really, those wise thoughts are beside the point. I should not have had to think ANY of those thoughts, and the society that put them there is to blame.

And the final annoyance: I'm told a lot, implicitly and overtly, that I should be delighted at my large breasts, because some people would do anything to have them. This is bad, in my mind, for several reasons:

1. It's my body, and how I choose to feel about it is none of your goddamn business.
2. You don't know what you're fucking talking about, because you've never had a hard time finding a bra that just goddamn fit you.
3. Society tells me I'm supposed to have big breasts, in order to be a Sexually Desirable Woman, then turns around and makes it difficult to have big breasts on a daily basis, not just for 90 minutes of a feature film. Your succulent breasts exist only to feed my fantasies; dealing with them in the real world is entirely your problem.

I guess this last is more sexism and less focused on the topic of this post, but there it is.

*** *** ***

I went back and forth for a while over whether I actually had a right to discuss this. Like I said, I'm not fat, and I keep saying that I'm not fat not because I'm trying to establish right off that I'm not fat, lest anyone thinks falsely that I am, because I am not fat goddammit no fucking way -- but because I'm just not. Nobody who saw me on the street would give me the fat adjective, and neither would my BMI, if you believe that crock of shit. And yet, I have been discriminated against on the basis of my relative size.

Which is exactly what made me realize that I do have a right to discuss this, and not only do I have a right, I have a responsibility. I was feeling that perhaps complaining on t3h internets about my experiences would be something along the lines of bragging (oh hey I'm not fat, check me out everyone), or rubbing my neatly average body in your [fat] face (woe is me, I'm a size 4 but look at how hard my life is), but the truth is, if I allowed those thoughts to prevent me from sharing my experiences, I am no better than the fat-shamers, because why the shit should I feel like I'm bragging by talking about my average body unless that average body is inherently preferable to a fat one? Which would mean that fat people deserve shame -- which I do not believe.

If we want acceptance at every size, we need to talk about every size; I can't hide in my hole feeling guilty because I'm not *shudder* fat -- thank god i'm not fat! because it does nobody any good.

If I felt Fat (read: undesirable, unloveable, "less than") because of 1 goddamn percentage point, how much worse is it for the fat 17-year-olds?

A long-overdue response to the Washington Post's "Pearls Before Breakfast"

So I stumbled across this the other day. Yes, I know, I am behind the times. I could have just read the thing, allotted a few moments of head-shaking over the plight of humanity today, and moved on.

But, of course, I did NOT.

This is because the article annoyed me. Not in terms of subject matter; neither am I saying that it was badly written (let's face it, I often hate things solely because they are badly written). The tone and subtext of the article annoyed me. I read the damn thing two weeks ago and it's still preying on my mind, so that tells you how annoyed I am.

The basic premise: a professional, highly and critically-acclaimed violinist plays in the subway with his case out for tips. They expect a mob to gather, because he's this famous violinist, and even though there's no indication of this in the subway, people will recognize greatness when the see it. The idea is, let's take this great violinist out of context to demonstrate that true greatness needs no context.

Needless to say, the whole thing goes completely not as planned. Only one person recognizes him, only one person who doesn't recognize him stays to listen for longer than a few minutes, he ends up making like $30-$40.

Whoever wrote the article decides this is a commentary on the plight of humanity:

• We're too caught up in our own lives to stop and look around once in a while.
• Kids recognize greatness better than adults because they're still pure of heart.
• iPods are bad.

I say, greatness DOES exist in context. There is no such thing as greatness without context.

If you disagree with me, try taking any piece of modern art and telling someone an elephant drew it. Or for that matter, that my 5-year-old nephew painted this Picasso. You will see right then how much context matters.

Because we're human. For us, context is everything. Great music is not universal. Music, by itself, is universal, but great music? If everyone has the same opinion on what is great, why are there so many goddamn bands, labels, and genres today? Maybe I don't enjoy violin music; of course I'm not going to stop and subject myself to what amounts to nails on a chalkboard -- for me.

The organizers of this event -- and indeed, the violinist himself -- fell prey to the logical fallacy of assuming that since they are violin people, the things that violin people know and understand and do are universal to all people, everywhere. The fact that someone is famous among violin people does not mean that all people, everywhere, will recognize the things that made him famous.

Let's say I'm in a zoo, and Frans de Waal is undercover as an ordinary zookeeper giving a talk about chimpanzees. You can bet your ass that I'm going to stop and listen, because I love chimpanzees. Since he's Frans de Waal, the talk will be awesome, and I will recognize that awesomeness because I'm into that sort of thing. I don't actually know what Frans de Waal looks like, so I wouldn't know that I was listening to him in particular, but because I am a person who knows things about chimpanzees and would like to know more, I will recognize the greatness--because I have the proper context already in place in my brain.

Let's say you're in that zoo with me. You, most likely, do not enjoy hearing about chimpanzees as much as I do (few people do), and will, most likely, get bored in short order. This is not because you are a Bad Person or because you are too busy thinking about French fries to care about chimpanzees -- rather, this is because you don't care about chimpanzees. You don't have the proper context. You probably don't even know who Frans de Waal is. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Let's take that one guy who didn't recognize the violinist but still stopped to listen for around 20-25 minutes. Is he more aware of his environment than the other people? Does he recognize greatness better? Is he a Better Person? No; he used to be a violinist.

Yes, that's correct: he was once a violinist, and cherished hopes of being so professionally. He did not end up doing that, but he still remembers it, obviously. Hence, he has the proper context in place to care about a violinist playing in the subway.

Frans de Waal is highly respected in the primatology world; he's conducted a lot of studies, written a lot of books, knows a lot of and about bonobos, and is pretty much my hero. If I suggested that his esteem in primatological circles is triggered by characteristics that would be immediately apparent to anyone who saw him just talking in a zoo, you would not believe me -- and you would be right. The thing is, it's easy for people to assume that a characteristic that brings you millions of dollars is more obvious to the common person than one that does not bring you millions of dollars.

And so, my point is this: the judgement the author of that article held on the plight of humanity is not only false, but something said author is easily guilty of -- in the right context.

I bet he doesn't know who Frans de Waal is, either.

Do the words "I'm in the desert" mean nothing to you?

So, I don't sleep well. After 25 years of this shit, I went to my doctor and said, "I haven't been able to sleep for 25 years. In college, they told me I was depressed. I was depressed, but now I'm not, and I still can't fucking sleep. Fix me."

Well, that was the gist of it.

The delightful doctor he is, he gave me two different kinds of pharmaceutical sleep aids (to try out each one and keep track of how they worked and/or made me feel), prescribed me a phototherapy lamp (for SAD, so my insurance would pay for it), scheduled me for a sleep apnea test (that would require little to no effort on my part), and told me to come back in two weeks.

[side note: my roommate and two of his friends just walked out the door, and they may or may not have said "see ya", which was probably directed at me rather than Rylee (a labrador retriever), but since i am out of it, i did not respond. they probably think i'm an ass. which is ok. i am an ass.]

That was, like, January 7th, I think. I surprised myself by going to Yuma, AZ, for fieldwork, which meant I had to reschedule my two-weeks-out appointment, but it also resulted in the totally assery that is the sleep apnea test.

They told me all I had to do was tell them my address and they'd deliver a machine to my house, then I'd take the test, then they'd pick it up the next day, then it would be done, BAM. They said it would be at my home on a specific Thursday. It was not, but I didn't give a shit because I was going to fucking Yuma and pretty much everything else kind of fell by the wayside.

The next Thursday, I got a call while I was in the fucking desert asking me to let them know when they could pick up the machine because they needed it.

I called them back to explain that I'd never gotten the fucking machine, so I hoped they weren't expecting me to return it any time soon, because, obviously, I didn't fucking have it. She explained that they'd sent it by UPS on Monday, so I should have gotten it on Tuesday. I explained that I'd left for the desert on Sunday, so I didn't get it at all, but I would check with my roommate to see if it had been delivered. She explained that they really did need it, so I should take the test sometime this weekend and have them pick it back up. I explained that, in case she'd missed it when I'd mentioned it 30 seconds prior, I was in the MOTHERFUCKING DESERT and unfortunately couldn't take the test this motherfucking weekend, so they should just come get it and I'd let them know when I got back.

The next day, I got two voicemails from some dumbass delivery guy asking how to get to my house. I later explained to my mom that I'd assumed they already knew how to get to my house since they'd dropped it off previously, and since it was a motherfucking weekday they'd perhaps assume I HAVE A JOB and unfortunately cannot just answer the phone when I'm walking miles and miles in the motherfucking desert.

I mean, I know the economy is bad, but when I said "I'm in Arizona for work" I assumed they'd know I meant actual work, and it wasn't just a euphemism for "I'm whoring myself out in Mexican border towns because I can't find anything better to do with my time".

As it stands now, they got their stupid unit back, but now I'm waiting for it to come around to me again, because apparently sleep apnea tests are in such high demand that you better fucking snap it up when you get the chance; it might not come around again.

My self-love is entirely my doing--which makes it all the more precious.

I'm thinking about self-love lately.

No, not that kind. Get your mind out of the gutter.

I used to be really into Gala Darling; I spent a LOT of time reading random stuff on her site, just clicking around, perusing. I liked it, but what's more, it was oddly compelling--I couldn't look away. I don't mean that in a "train wreck" kind of way; I just mean that it was fascinating, I guess.

I'm kind of over it. Again, I want to stress that there's nothing inherently bad about the site. Gala does indeed inspire a lot of girls/women, and if you can help even one person realize a bit of happiness increase, more power to you. I'm not sure I've ever inspired anyone I know--much less anyone I don't know.

I'm just not sure what qualifies her to offer so much advice, especially in the form of $12 podcasts.

Sounds like I'm jealous, right? Maybe I am. I am indeed a bit jealous that she's somehow managed to make a living out of telling other people how to be happy, out of offering self-love advice in the form of "take a bubble bath while wearing a tiara!" No, really, I'm envious that she's making a living out of a blog and various freelance writing gigs. Seriously. I'd love to get paid to write.

I guess I'm just already full to the brim of self-love, and none of it involves pink, sequins, or bunnies. I don't need anyone to tell me how to get over my insecurities; I've been working on it for literally decades, and doing a fine job of it, thank you very much.

Is that a character flaw--truly believing that I have everything I need inside of me? That I can make it on my own without outside help? Or is it just that I bristle at the suggestion that a girl who claims wearing sequined underwear improves your outlook on life could possibly have anything to offer me?

It's a damn good thing I've never become part of the Galaverse, or I'd have a swarm of Gala fans calling me out for "hating on" their idol. I don't think I'm a hater; sure, I'm mocking Gala a little, but how is that hating? Mocking is what I do, people. The Galaverse takes her so goddamn seriously--and she takes herself seriously, too. Call me crazy, but I think there's something missing from a life that only considers itself as a serious, important entity.

I just can't accept the image of ANYONE as a serious, important entity. Nobody is so important that they can't possibly find anything to make fun of--and occasional whimsy is not a break from taking yourself seriously. Self-deprecating humor does not always signal a drop in self-esteem; I love myself just as much when I'm mocking her as I do when I'm praising her.

I make fun of myself, I make fun of you, I make fun of everyone--so fuck off if you don't like it.

Which is exactly what I'm doing with Gala Darling. I don't like it, so I'm fucking off. I'm not going to go run around her site pointing out what I consider to be her flaws; I'm just going to fuck off. After I vent about it--in MY blog.

So if you don't like it...you know the rest.

P.S. I kind of want to talk about my version of self-love (which does NOT involve tiaras, sequined skulls, or Mickey Mouse ears), but I'm really enjoying actually loving myself today, and would rather not continue to explain it right now. Perhaps later.

Intelligent Design and why it's lame-o

In May, I went on a road trip with my family. It was fun, and yet somehow I ended up standing in Yosemite National Park, drying dishes after breakfast, arguing with my parents over whether or not Intelligent Design should be taught in universities. My dad strongly believes in ID, and feels it should be given equal time alongside evolution. My mom doesn't really care (she believes evolution isn't necessarily driven by God, but was created by God to function the way it does), but feels it should at least be presented as an alternative theory--if not in the science curriculum, perhaps as philosophy.

These arguments stymied me--at the time. They appear perfectly rational, right? Consideration, that's all we want! Present the ideas and let the college students decide for themselves; we're not talking about intellectually malleable elementary school children here. Perfectly reasonable. Right?

As I say, at the time, I was stumped. I had a visceral reaction to the idea, but couldn't frame it in a way that my parents would accept or even entertain. Indeed, I couldn't even frame it to myself, apart from that ID is wrong.

At the time, all I could think of for the "ID is just plain wrong" position was a lack of evidence for it. But in order to successfully state my position to my parents, I needed positive evidence for its factual incorrectness, not just a lack of evidence to support factual correctness. And I had none.

See, I'm not in the habit of considering Intelligent Design as a viable option; I discarded it long ago and promptly banished it from my head, making room for more worthwhile thoughts.

After some searching in the dusty, secret corners of my brain, I found it--evolution isn't "intelligent" in the slightest. If there really is some entity with their finger in the world, whether they're actively involved or just "created the process", then that entity by no means fits into the definition of any god worth devoting one's entire life to.

No, this god is pretty fucking stupid. This god relies on trial and error to get its "creations" to the point where they function on any level whatsoever. We are subject to horrific, naturally-occurring deformities--kids born without faces, to name just one.

You can say that god doesn't prevent suffering--for whatever reason--but why create it that blatantly? Why design a system that inherently results in suffering for those creatures you pretend to love the most? For that matter, why are animals, who supposedly have no awareness of their creator*, subject to the same set of birth defects and suffering? It's pointless for them; they can't grow spiritually, offer suffering to god in atonement for sins, or any of the other reasons my mom gave me for human suffering. Pointless suffering, knowingly inflicted by someone who should know better, is just cruelty.

"It is contrary to human dignity to cause animals to suffer or die needlessly."**

Contrary to human dignity, to be sure--but not, apparently, to godly dignity.

And so, I am supposed to believe that this system was designed by an all-powerful entity who could have, if he'd wanted to, designed it in such a way that his creations would not have to suffer as a result of his design--but he did not?

If your god exists, and is as kind as you say he is, Intelligent Design would be an example of idiocy and cruelty--not intelligence.

*Catechism of the Catholic Church, Paragraph 356

**Catechism of the Catholic Church, Paragraph 2418