Thursday, May 19, 2005

Oh NYT, you're a little daft sometimes.

Wow, I just read the New York Times article on inter-class marriages, one part of their extended coverage of class in America. While I'm somewhat happy that the Grey Lady is actually aware that there are classes in America, I'm not sure this is the best way to spend one day of a short series on class.

First off, it's just one family, poor guy, rich woman. While they make the argument that there are more marriages in this configuration these days than rich man and poor woman, couldn't we have had an example of this type of marriage? Perhaps even a well-educated but poor woman?

Beyond my specific critiques, parts of the article just made me wince. Choice quotes:

"[S]he grew up in a comfortable home." Now, anyone who's talked to me about class knows I hate it when people use the term "comfortable", and especially the line, "I'm not rich, I'm just comfortable." Let's look at this comfort:

"My mother's father had a Rolls-Royce and a butler and a second home in Florida"; "When I was little, what I fixated on with my girlfriends was how I had more pajamas than they did. So when I'd go to birthday sleepovers, I'd always take them a pair of pajamas as a present."; "to New York City, where Ms. Woolner's mother lives in the winter"; (where does she live in the summer, you ask?) "[T]hey were at Ms. Woolner's mother's house on Martha's Vineyard."

"Mr. Croteau comes from the working class, and Ms. Woolner from money." (Apparently "Money" is now its own class.)

"Ms. Woolner began paying him a monthly stipend - he sometimes refers to it as an allowance."

"I said, 'Mom, I want you to know Cate and her family are rich,' " he recalled. "And she said, 'Well, don't hold that against her; she's probably very nice anyway.'"

"Isaac [Ms. Woolner's son from an earlier marriage], who also attended the school, is now back at Lewis & Clark College in Oregon after taking a couple of semesters away to study in India and to attend massage school while working in a deli near home."

"Isaac fantasizes about opening a brewery-cum-performance-space, traveling through South America or operating a sunset massage cruise in the Caribbean."

I think I need a brewery-cum-performance space about now.

Prolix, prolix, nothing a pair of scissors won't fix...

Friday, May 13, 2005

Friday morning, 5 am

So I woke up this morning to the sound of a woman having a very good time, indeed, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Points of particular interest:

-I was in a dream when I first heard her. I’m pretty sure, while still in the dream, I made the declaration “Wow, that woman is really enjoying her omelet.” I have no clue what this means, either.
-When I fully woke up and looked at the clock, it was 5 am in the morning. On a Friday. Who gets their sex on at 5 am in the morning on a Friday? Next-door neighbors, I salute you.
-I was reminded of a sign that had been up in our lobby a few months ago, which basically stated “To the people who were having loud sex all night last night: Please shut the hell up.” I wonder if that was them.
-Speaking of neighborly annoyance, I begin to hear loud staccato knocking on what I presume is their door. I noticed that the knocking is quite a bit louder than the sex-noise. If their apartment is set up the same as mine, it would make sense that their bedroom is the furthest room from my bedroom, so I’m getting this noise through our mutual wall, their kitchen, and their front room. Damn.
-Even so, who would be knocking? Their apartment is the last apartment before the front of the building. There is a foyer between them and their across-the-hall neighbors. Our ceilings seem thick (I don’t really hear much from the people above me). I suppose they are pretty loud, though, if I can clearly hear them.

Prolix, prolix, nothing a pair of scissors won't fix...

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

I’ve recently decided the best way to induce myself to work out as much as I should is to, twice a week, haul my sorry self out of bed around 5:30 in the morning, go to the gym then, and leave my bag at the gym, inducing me to have to return after work to do another workout. It’s been working pretty well this week, but I ran into a bit of a snag today.

Because my frontal lobe simply isn’t functional before 7:00 am, I’ve been packing my gym bag the night before. I was doing laundry yesterday, though, so I packed it as I was running out the door today. And I forgot to pack a regular bra.

By the time I realized this, I really had to go to work without stopping by my apartment. I had two options—born free, free as the wind blows, or nasty blue sports bra I bought on clearance in 2002. Since I have pretty severe issues with not wearing a bra (thank you, Department Store Lady who when fitting me for my first bra made gratuitous comments about National Geographic and told me I should wear a bra to bed), and because the Board’s dress code specifically mentions wearing appropriate undergarments, I opted for my old, ratty sports bra. It’s only a little nasty; at least I did weight training this morning, not cardio.

The brilliant thing about this is that even if one of my coworkers notices, they can’t exactly bring it up. “Hey, I notice your chest is a different shape than it normally is” just isn’t going to fly.

Prolix, prolix, nothing a pair of scissors won't fix...