a different Halloween perspective

One of my Afghan coworkers today was asking me about Halloween. Well, mostly he just wanted to know why I didn't have treats for him today since it was "Halloween weekend" (yes, that man can EAT). Here's about how our conversation went:

Me: Are you planning to dress up or go to any parties?
Him: No, probably not. I'll go like this [wearing jeans and a fleece jacket)
Me: What? Why? Have you ever celebrated Halloween? Gone to any haunted houses or anything?
Him: No...well, I almost went one time last year, but then I didn't.
Me: Why not? Haunted houses are fun!
Him: Well, I've seen real dead bodies and watched people die, so fake ones don't scare me. In the village where I grew up, there were a bunch of houses down the street that exploded with the people still in them. I used to walk past those houses late at night by myself when I was a kid. And I played hide-and-seek in the basement with the windows nailed shut. I even followed a ghost once, but it got away from me.  Once you've seen the real thing, the fake ones just aren't scary.
Me: [blank stare]

What do you say to that?

mansplaining

My new favorite word (T-rav, don't you wish you had never sent me that link?)
to mansplain: 

1- to delight in condescending, inaccurate explanations delivered with rock solid confidence of rightness and that slimy certainty that of course he is right, because he is the man in this conversation 

2- To explain in a patronizing manner, assuming total ignorance on the part of those listening. The mansplainer is often shocked and hurt when their mansplanation is not taken as absolute fact, criticized or even rejected altogether

(from urbandictionary.com)

Now just to be clear, mainsplaining isn't just explaining something while being male (though for some it seems to be). It's when a male tells a female how to do something she already knows how to do, or how she is wrong about something she is actually right about, or miscellaneous and inaccurate "facts" about something she knows quite a lot more about than he does. 

I also recognize that many men, and women, for that matter, are know-it-alls by nature. They'll condescendingly explain things to men, women, children, dogs, cats, whoever will listen. And some people go in to teacher mode when talking about something they know about (I'm sure I occasionally do this when discussing English. But at least I actually know something about it). It happens.  

Off the top of my head, I can think of about five or six of my friends/acquaintances/co-workers who can't talk about a topic without mansplaining. I've experienced plenty of linguistically related mansplaining (some of them seem to think that speaking a second language or living in a foreign country somehow makes them an expert on grammar, semantics, phonology, or language history)--a science or math or engineering major telling me all about something I've spent 6 years formally studying (and many more informally). And of course, the mansplainer was always wrong. But much more often I have to endure mansplaining related to women and their roles, their feelings, and, worst of all, what they can/can't or should/shouldn't do. 

Naturally, it infuriates me and my reaction is instantly prickly. I really hate being told what to do, but I especially hate it from a mansplainer. What gives him the right to tell me what I can do, how I really feel about something or how he's sure I'll feel when I get there, where I can go, etc. 

When I take a step back and think about this logically, I realize that many of these guys may not realize that they're coming off in such a condescending or overbearing way. They may not even be particularly chauvinistic at heart. But that doesn't really make it any less irritating. 

So my questions for you are: do you know a mansplainer? If you do, what does he mansplain about? And how do you respond? 

My Weekend

This was the first weekend in, well, weeks, that we haven't had people visiting, been visiting people, or had good weather. So the natural thing to do was hop in the car and drive west, west into the mountains of the east: the Blue Ridge mountains. We spent the afternoon hiking through unspeakably beautiful hillsides.

We went through a town called Waterlick. If this grocery store hadn't been closed, I would have shopped there. 

Hurrah for the self-timer on my camera. Its one redeeming quality.

  I think we're going to go back next weekend.

How's your autumn coming along?

What does English sound like?

Want to know what English sounds like? I think this (rather strange) video does an excellent job with their fake English...all the right sounds, plenty of real words, nonsensical word order. What do you think?

version 3.0

In my mind I can categorize myself into 2 versions.

Version 1: shy. introverted. somewhat timid.
Version 2: friendly. opinionated. bossy. adventurous.

My family is much more familiar with version 2. And as the oldest child in the family, I feel confident declaring that it is not my fault that I'm bossy. Can I help it if I had a lot of responsibility and decisions put upon me as first-born? Nope. Not my fault. Sorry, siblings.

When I wasn't at home, I was almost always version 1. I hated talking at school and loathed being called on to answer questions because then everyone would stare at me (they really wouldn't--what 9-year-old listens to much of anything in the classroom. But I thought they would stare at me. Especially if I said the wrong thing. Oh the horror!). I had some friends, but was far from "miss popularity." I hated being labeled as "quiet" like it was a bad thing. What's so bad about being quiet? I knew in my heart that I was NOT quiet, not really, but on the outside, that's what people saw.

Version 2 emerged as people got to know me. I didn't hesitate to shout down any of the rotten little boys on the playground, and I think most of my friends thought of me as much more adventurous and extroverted than they were. Sassy, even. But it took time and effort to get to that point.

Which brings us to the present day. When I meet new people, potential friends possibly, I am often still version 1. I might feel uncomfortable conversing, maybe even have a hint of a blush whenever the conversation turns toward me. Sometimes I'm just fine, extroverted even, but I have to be in the right mood, drunk with some kind of energy and excitement. I wish I could merge my two selves into one better version that doesn't feel shy, but doesn't mind still being introverted. But it's easier said than done, I guess.

I wonder if any of you feel this way. Which is the better self? I know, I know. The answer is probably neither. I should embrace my selves and be comfortable with who I am! Also easier said than done. ;)

On saucing

Applesauce is among the five or so foods I could live on continuously if they didn't kill me first (bread, cheese, gelato, nutella, apple-related anything). But not just any applesauce. My grandma's applesauce. Because, you see, it's better than any I've ever had before. Yes, ever ever. Because my Grandma is The. Best. Cook. And even though she has Alzheimer's and needs to be occasionally reminded of what to do next, she's still the best. 

First you take Cortland apples and core and slice them, a step which we were able to skip because we're friends with an apple-product-factory owner. Then you throw them in a pot with a teensy bit of water and bring them to a nice sturdy simmer, cooking until they turn to mush. You must stir and watch very carefully not to burn them. It helps to have a very lovely grandma watching over things to inspect the progress.

Only stop for a picture when you're ready to take the apples off the heat. Otherwise Grandma will scold you. Nicely, of course. Next pour the mushed apples into a press that spits out the peels and other unsavory bits on one side and sploosoms out the sauce on the other. 

Dump the sauce in a bowl with a bit of sugar and stir. Then divide it into jars, wipe down the mouth of the jar, and boil the heck out of them until sealed. And I almost forgot the most important part: reserve a jar to eat right away, slightly warm is best.

Just attended my first G-town EFL potluck. Which included a wild dance party. Boys only. Girls watched from the sidelines. One brave American girl was dragged into the fray.

I was a little jealous.

headscarf fashion

If I close the door in my classroom at Georgetown, I can imagine that I'm teaching somewhere in the Middle East. There are a few Spanish speakers, a token Brazilian, and one lone Korean (how I miss my Koreans!), but half of the faces that stare up at me are partially covered in a lovely array of headscarves. It's a fashion show every day.

There's the beautiful B, with her brown and bright pink flowered scarf that often slips out and requires tucking several times per class. Make-up perfect, lips a bright shade of pink. There's A, wearing an abaya (the robe or cloak-like cover than some women in the Saudi area wear), always demure and feminine in light blue. My smartest student, S, alternates between a bright pink and white flowered scarf and one of multi-colors. Like A, O also sports an abaya and wears a reserved color scarf, but her sparkly purple tennis shoes give her bright personality away. And R, who wasn't blessed with great beauty, still looks stunning with a bright blue scarf.

I wish I could show you pictures.

I love seeing how personalities are revealed in the way these girls wear their scarves. And I love the little peek of fashion hidden underneath the abayas (jeans, dress pants, sweatpants! bright purple tights). And sometimes I see a shadow of a hairstyle in a ponytail bump or thick piece of bang that drops out from under the scarf. But I long to see what they look like beneath their scarves. I certainly look different with my hair hidden...are they prettier? The same? Do they have curly hair? Wavy? Wild hair cuts? Would removing the headscarf change the way they behave? Would it bring out a different part of their personality?

Maybe one day I'll declare a "girls-only" class and then I'll get to see.

sing we now

I used to sing. At BYU, I was in women's chorus for 2 (or 3? M, help, I can't remember!) years, and then I joined the awesome community choir called the Christmas Chorus. It's a women's choir and only meets for Christmas music and Benjamin Britten's Ceremony of Carols. We sing in the chapel by the state mental hospital in Provo (yes, in the picture on the left. If you look really close, you might be able to see me in the back middle). We wear gynormous homemade green bag skirts and white blouses with red holly/ivy vests that are made for women significantly more endowed in the bust than I am. Sometimes we are great and sometimes we are...less than great. But it is always fun.

And now I live far away and have no choir in which to sing. This makes me sad. So this morning I decided to look up some local choirs and see if anything tickled my fancy. And of course I found lots of great choirs--it is DC, after all. But the more I looked, the more I saw the word "audition" lurking about.

Audition.

Audition.

AUDITION!

And it fills my heart with terror.

Not that I expected anything different. Of course I would need to audition to get into a choir. Especially a really great one that sings motets and cantatas all the time. But auditions and I have never really gotten along.

It started back in 6th grade when I realized that the 350-pound, loud talking, poofy-haired, abrasive/terrifying teacher named Ms. Pagano was also the drama teacher. There was no way in hell I was going to try out for anything in front of that woman. She might as well be Mrs. Trunchbull, thought I. And then freshman year I went to a Women's Chorus audition high on lortab and other various painkillers for the chronic migraines I'd been having. What I can remember of that audition (which isn't much) is hazy at best. Let's just say it went less than desired.

But the mere thought of auditioning for something literally makes me shake with dread (no really. My hands will start shaking any minute now). I've never been very confident singing alone in front of others (unless those others are family, close friends, or Kathleen Battle and Frederica von Stade or Renee Flemming, who won't talk back no matter how I sound). I hate solos. I hate auditions. Something weird happens when I'm forced to perform on command. My voice suddenly isn't mine and I realize everyone is listening to me and I think I sound like a dying cat and I panic. And then I lose my notes and my concentration and it's a disaster from then on. Luckily I've been able to avoid this situation most of my life by just avoiding auditions in general...but I'm not sure how to get around it this time.

Maybe I should try hypnosis.

oh to age with grace

Last night I discovered a box of old pictures without a place. They're the kind that aren't good or interesting enough to put into a photo album, but you still don't have the heart to throw them out. They're memories of freshman year days, roommates, early adventures with T-rav. And after a few minutes of happily reminiscing, I decided two things:

1- My awkward years went well beyond the typical "teenage" awkwardness. I wish someone would have mentioned a few things to me at some point...You try looking unkempt and disheveled (in a non-cute kind of way) until the age of 25 and see how you feel about yourself. (With a few anomalous exceptions, of course; every once in a while a glimmer of the self that I know now appeared).

2- I'm getting old. Not that I look old yet--people still regularly accuse me of being barely old enough to be a college freshman--but I do look older than than I did when I got married. And that scares me a little.

Yes, yes, I realize this is normal. There's no escaping age. And I'm rather relieved that I no longer look 14. But the fact that I can identify some stark differences in how I look now and then alarms me, especially as 30 is looming in the not-so-distant future. It's starting to scare me a little. I don't want to get old. I don't want to look old (really, who does?).

I've been chastised plenty of times by old and young people about my dismay of getting older. I've been told I should embrace the progression of life. Who wants to stay 28 forever, they say. But in all honesty, part of me kind of does. I fear looking old and losing the youthfulness that I've had for so long.

Now I realize that feeling this way is: 1) a sign of my vanity (which I try IN VAIN to get rid of, and generally fail miserably). It's true: I'm both vain and self-conscious; and 2) immature and silly. I know I'm silly to feel this way and I'm actually surprised to be confessing this to you (or maybe I'm just infinitely bored). But I'm eager to hear your advice/feelings on the matter. So please advise me.