First of all, I've now learned to always, always check the weight limit for luggage when flying somewhere - I'd assumed that my enormous suitcase would be overweight, but I had not accounted for the possibility that it might be so heavy that Air Canada/Lufthansa would refuse to carry it at all. Fortunately, through some frenzied redistribution, a $75 fee, and the disposal of my shampoo and conditioner bottles, I was able to transport both bags to Vienna, albeit with a carry-on backpack stuffed to bursting with all manner of heavy things (my shoulders almost died in the passport control line).
Anyway, once I left Pearson, my trip was uneventful. I took the fabulously quick but very expensive 'CAT' (City Airport Train) into downtown Vienna, where I met Daniel, my host for the first four days, at the train station. I slept for most of Thursday afternoon, before heading out with Daniel to watch the Russia-Spain semifinal at a nearby pub, with the rest of IAESTE Vienna. Unfortunately, Daniel's exam on Friday prevented him from staying past initial introductions, and I ended up sitting silently in the corner for most of the night while everyone around me spoke German. After the game, I struggled to find my way home from the metro through a severe thunderstorm, wearing an embarrassingly large borrowed raincoat (Daniel is tall, but he would have to gain about 100 lbs for the thing to actually fit him). My night vision, sketchy at best, was further obscured by the raindrops on my glasses, and my tiny, ineffectual map was barely useful even when I could find a light by which to read it. Eventually, after taking half an hour on what is no more than a 10 minute walk by daylight and cursing everything that is Austrian under my breath, I arrived at the apartment to find that I could not open the door, and so was forced to awaken Daniel before collapsing, soaking wet, onto my pillow, feeling more homesick and alone than I ever have before, and wondering what on earth I'd gotten myself into.
Fortunately, for my sanity and for all of you who, I'm sure, would prefer not to read about the long, dark nights of my soul for the next few months, yesterday was a vast improvement. I walked around Vienna all day, which is beautiful, though Hofburg and most of the more famous buildings are covered in Euro 2008 propoganda (they're all in the "Fan Zone", where I will hopefully head tomorrow evening for the final).
Later, I met up with some of the other IAESTE trainees for a soccer game. Oh dear. Let me tell you - playing soccer for two hours with a dozen twentysomething European guys in sweltering heat is not a way to build confidence in your footballing skills. They were very nice (and let the record show that I totally dominated the only American dude there), but I haven't played with anyone so out of my league since the Instructors vs. Campers game at soccer camp when I was 11. One of the Austrians on my team took to yelling, "Super!" at me every time I managed not to fall on my face after touching the ball. I sort of see where he was going with it, and I appreciate that he was trying to be nice, but really, dude, after a certain point you're just embarrassing both of us. All things considered though, I had a fantastic time and I'm totally going back next week.
I'll be moving into my new place (apartment? dorm? room? I'm not sure what to call it yet) on Monday, and hopefully internet access won't be too difficult to obtain there. In the meantime, I've got to get this laptop back to the Lithuanian exchange student I borrowed it from, so I'm promising more (including, hopefully, pictures) in a few days.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Getting my Carmen Sandiego on (an explanation)
Okay, so. I'm back in Toronto for two more days, after which time I will set off to Austria to live the exciting life of an intercontinental aerospace engineer. For those of you who weren't aware, what follows is a brief summary of my May and June. For those of you whom I've lived with, traveled with, or forced to listen to endless series of plans and recaps, consider it a pleasant, none too taxing, pictoral recap. Or don't read it at all and go check out this guy, who has actually traveled the world and has stolen no major historical monuments (that I'm aware of).
School ended as April did - messily and not as soon as I'd hoped (also, at the same time). Shortly afterward, I headed to Quebec, to meet my sister. The city looked like this:
Cannons and history abounded, and I practiced my abysmally rusty French with my sister, who looked like this:
From there, it was on directly to Nova Scotia, by way of train, bus and automobile. After road encounters with Senior Teenyboppers, Angry Frenchmen, Annoying Schoolchildren, an Acadian Lothario/Wannabe, and the Friendliest Haligonian Ever, I discovered that Antigonish county looks like this:
while Halifax looks like this:
and this:
Back to Toronto, then, for about a week, during which I caught and recovered from a cold, received final confirmation of my job in Austria (way to be on the ball, IAESTE!), moved out of my house, and packed for Cuba, which looked like this:
this:
this:
and, most importantly, like this:
Then back to Toronto for graduation:
and, the next day, back to Victoria, which looks much the same as it always does, only with more condos.
This summer, hands down, wins: most kilometres traveled, most dolphins swum with, most rum punch drunk, most lobster eaten, most non-school related sleep lost, most diplomas earned, most German learned, and is in serious contention for most good times. More from Vienna, if and when I arrive. I promise I'll actually write something next time.
School ended as April did - messily and not as soon as I'd hoped (also, at the same time). Shortly afterward, I headed to Quebec, to meet my sister. The city looked like this:
Cannons and history abounded, and I practiced my abysmally rusty French with my sister, who looked like this:
From there, it was on directly to Nova Scotia, by way of train, bus and automobile. After road encounters with Senior Teenyboppers, Angry Frenchmen, Annoying Schoolchildren, an Acadian Lothario/Wannabe, and the Friendliest Haligonian Ever, I discovered that Antigonish county looks like this:
while Halifax looks like this:
and this:
Back to Toronto, then, for about a week, during which I caught and recovered from a cold, received final confirmation of my job in Austria (way to be on the ball, IAESTE!), moved out of my house, and packed for Cuba, which looked like this:
this:
this:
and, most importantly, like this:
Then back to Toronto for graduation:
and, the next day, back to Victoria, which looks much the same as it always does, only with more condos.This summer, hands down, wins: most kilometres traveled, most dolphins swum with, most rum punch drunk, most lobster eaten, most non-school related sleep lost, most diplomas earned, most German learned, and is in serious contention for most good times. More from Vienna, if and when I arrive. I promise I'll actually write something next time.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Still hooked
It is with a heavy heart that I (belatedly) report that Steve Novick, candidate for the U.S. Senate in Oregon, has narrowly lost the Democratic primary there. Novick first came to my attention a month or so ago, and only because Wonkette mentioned him in a post. The only reason they mentioned him at all, I think, was the same reason the story caught my interest - dude is 4'9'' and has a hook for a hand.
Seriously. He's like a pint-sized, New Jersey-born, Oregonian pirate.
Then I found out that he also has a firm grasp of the issues, a decade-long board membership on the Oregon Environmental Council, a degree from Harvard Law which he earned after dropping out of junior high to start college at 14, and easily the best political commercial I've ever seen.
It would be hard not to love this guy even if he was a moron (he opened a beer with his hook), but instead he's erudite, self-deprecating, and funny. In other words, I have a big old crush on a tiny, hobbit-like politico, and I'm sad he won't get a chance to run in the general.
But I haven't given up hope entirely. Leaders of failed senate campaigns from Oregon get nominated for Vice-President all the time, right? Obama/Novick '08!
Seriously. He's like a pint-sized, New Jersey-born, Oregonian pirate.
Then I found out that he also has a firm grasp of the issues, a decade-long board membership on the Oregon Environmental Council, a degree from Harvard Law which he earned after dropping out of junior high to start college at 14, and easily the best political commercial I've ever seen.
It would be hard not to love this guy even if he was a moron (he opened a beer with his hook), but instead he's erudite, self-deprecating, and funny. In other words, I have a big old crush on a tiny, hobbit-like politico, and I'm sad he won't get a chance to run in the general.
But I haven't given up hope entirely. Leaders of failed senate campaigns from Oregon get nominated for Vice-President all the time, right? Obama/Novick '08!
Maybe if they were in Sanskrit...
On the bus, somewhere between New Glasgow and Antigonish:
Acadian Kid: Hey man, you want a newspaper?
Bored Twentysomething: Sure, what have you got?
AK: Man, I've got the Chronicle and the Metro.
BT: Thanks.
Several minutes pass
BT: Hey, you want this back?
AK: No, man, I'm too busy reading letters from girls.
BT: quizzical look
AK: You know how to get girls, man?
BT: uh...no.
AK: You write them notes. Chicks love notes. Can't get enough of them.
BT: Huh.
AK: You know what else girls love? You know the other way to get chicks?
BT: ...no?
AK: Baby pictures, man. Show 'em baby pictures.
BT: Do you just carry them around with you, then?
AK: If I'm going away for a while. Like, I was just away for 5 months, so I brought a stack of baby pictures with me.
BT: (stifling laughter) So, did they work?
AK: Man, are you kidding? Look at all these notes I got!
Acadian Kid: Hey man, you want a newspaper?
Bored Twentysomething: Sure, what have you got?
AK: Man, I've got the Chronicle and the Metro.
BT: Thanks.
Several minutes pass
BT: Hey, you want this back?
AK: No, man, I'm too busy reading letters from girls.
BT: quizzical look
AK: You know how to get girls, man?
BT: uh...no.
AK: You write them notes. Chicks love notes. Can't get enough of them.
BT: Huh.
AK: You know what else girls love? You know the other way to get chicks?
BT: ...no?
AK: Baby pictures, man. Show 'em baby pictures.
BT: Do you just carry them around with you, then?
AK: If I'm going away for a while. Like, I was just away for 5 months, so I brought a stack of baby pictures with me.
BT: (stifling laughter) So, did they work?
AK: Man, are you kidding? Look at all these notes I got!
Monday, April 21, 2008
A manifesto I can get behind
I spent about half an hour this morning (right before I set off to study for tomorrow's Aeroelasticity exam) perusing video of old Heritage Minutes. Their awesomeness is well and deservedly known, but I thank/blame this gut-bustingly hilarious lady for reintroducing me to them.
Anyway, the amusing (and educational!) Minute on Nellie McClung includes, in the mini-bio below the video clip, a frighteningly apt description of the kind of person I one day hope to become:
"I believe you forgot to mention my razor-sharp wit. Now excuse me while I single-handedly bring about women's suffrage in Canada. Suck it, Rodmond Roblin!"
Sweet. Also, Rodmond is a fantastic name.
Anyway, the amusing (and educational!) Minute on Nellie McClung includes, in the mini-bio below the video clip, a frighteningly apt description of the kind of person I one day hope to become:
McClung calmed these fears with reasonable discussion, personal charm, irrepressible humour, and her fanciful hats."Ms. McClung, you are an irresistable combination of reason and charm! How is it that someone so steady-minded could have such exquisite taste in haberdashery?"
"I believe you forgot to mention my razor-sharp wit. Now excuse me while I single-handedly bring about women's suffrage in Canada. Suck it, Rodmond Roblin!"
Sweet. Also, Rodmond is a fantastic name.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
What kind of day has it been?
7:15am, Thursday April 10th: Awaken, after roughly three hours of sleep, to the dulcet tones of the CBC radio newswoman and a persistent, gnawing fear.
8:20am: Arrive at Downsview station to await my ride to UTIAS.
8:31-8:45am: Exchange awkward glances with fellow commuters. Attempt to communicate that my ride is late, and that I am annoyed but cool about the whole situation despite the fact that I have Important Things to do. This is not easily communicated via glances. Most likely they find me strange and fidgety.
8:55am: Arrive at UTIAS. Notice that the paint job on our plane has faded and peeled overnight, and christen the aircraft, appropriately, "Ugly Duckling". Add team logo decals which unexpectedly clash with the paint.
9:45am: Crisis! We have purchased the wrong kind of mixer for our control surfaces, and aileron control is backwards/weird.
9:47am: Crisis resolved! We borrow a new mixer from the TA and attach it semi-precariously with velcro and tape.
10:30am: Moment of truth. After watching other planes crash into power lines, break apart in mid air, and fail to get off the ground, my knees are shaking a bit as we walk our spotty, cracked, beleaguered flying wing across the field.
10:32am: She flies! There is profound relief and much high-fiving. More rejoicing follows as Ugly Duckling manages a couple of dramatic loops and a perfect landing. My pants are covered with burrs as we run through a field to recover the plane. Pictures are taken. "Now she's a swan" jokes are made with abandon. If they made sports movies about design projects, this is how they would end.
12:10pm: Lunch. Hobnobbing. Small talk with professors. As the adrenaline fades and I realize I still have the better part of a thesis to write, I begin to ponder how soon I can politely leave the institute.
12:20pm: Pretty soon.
4:30pm: After the trip home and a nap, the fear is back. It's switched from gnawing to whacking my head with a mallet. Short debate with myself on whether it is more like a Mallet of Failure or a Mallet of Broken Dreams. Resolved when I declare myself to be a moron.
7:30pm: Kim and I pause for Indian food. Actually, Kim pauses. I just eat Indian food, having nothing to pause from, as I have accomplished nothing since returning from UTIAS.
8:30pm: Get down to business for serious. Mallet of Motivation is in the house!
9:30pm: This is totally doable! What is so bad about theses anyway?
9:45pm: Ah. That.
10:30pm: And that.
11:00pm: Everyone is online. Everyone is slightly loopy. Expletive-laced discussions are conducted and relayed between various members of our class. The transitions between optimistic cheerleader and despondent, mopey loser are swift and frightening.
12:00am, Friday, April 11th: Decide that orbital dynamics are stupid. Wonder when I stopped wanting to be a paleontologist. Realize that I've given myself exactly 12 more hours in which to get this thing finished, printed, and bound.
12:47am: Decide that orbital dynamics are a vital and valuable field of study, and that I am stupid. The paleontologists wouldn't have had me anyway. I am scum!
2:00am: Resort to cheering myself up by watching a baby panda sneezing. I collapse into the kind of giggle fit that can only happen at 2am.
3:17am: Roommates (also awake, also writing) pass like zombie ships in the night. We are mostly too tired to do more than nod knowingly and exchange "I feel your pain" facial expressions.
4:00am: Decide I don't have time for our previously agreed-upon 4am brownie break. Shamelessly guilt Kim into making brownies for me.
4:33am: Mmmm, brownies. But what is that other smell?
4:36am: Realize uneaten dinner is still on the counter. The house has become a time-bending, channa masala-scented twilight zone. Before I know it, I am struck by the annoying cousin of 2am giggle fits: 4am existentialism. Why am I doing this? What do these graphs really mean, like, really? If Matlab had a face, what would it look like?
5:04am: The following conversation occurs:
Pete: WOOOOOOOOOO!
Kari: I hate you.
Pete: It's bound and everything!
Kari: Did I mention how much I hate you?
5:58am: Sweet Jesus, the sun is coming up.
7:00am: Decide to allow myself 3 more hours of working time.
7:30am: Decide that there is no earthly force that could compel me to work on this for 2.5 more hours.
9:13am: I have done enough. My conclusion is terrible, my results are wonky, and typos (probably) abound. All the same, I am off to Kinko's.
10:09am: I hand in two severely flawed, beautiful, plastic-bound pieces of my soul, and walk home through a torrential hailstorm. The iPod shuffle function declares "Little Red Corvette" to be my victory chorus.
8:20am: Arrive at Downsview station to await my ride to UTIAS.
8:31-8:45am: Exchange awkward glances with fellow commuters. Attempt to communicate that my ride is late, and that I am annoyed but cool about the whole situation despite the fact that I have Important Things to do. This is not easily communicated via glances. Most likely they find me strange and fidgety.
8:55am: Arrive at UTIAS. Notice that the paint job on our plane has faded and peeled overnight, and christen the aircraft, appropriately, "Ugly Duckling". Add team logo decals which unexpectedly clash with the paint.
9:45am: Crisis! We have purchased the wrong kind of mixer for our control surfaces, and aileron control is backwards/weird.
9:47am: Crisis resolved! We borrow a new mixer from the TA and attach it semi-precariously with velcro and tape.
10:30am: Moment of truth. After watching other planes crash into power lines, break apart in mid air, and fail to get off the ground, my knees are shaking a bit as we walk our spotty, cracked, beleaguered flying wing across the field.
10:32am: She flies! There is profound relief and much high-fiving. More rejoicing follows as Ugly Duckling manages a couple of dramatic loops and a perfect landing. My pants are covered with burrs as we run through a field to recover the plane. Pictures are taken. "Now she's a swan" jokes are made with abandon. If they made sports movies about design projects, this is how they would end.
12:10pm: Lunch. Hobnobbing. Small talk with professors. As the adrenaline fades and I realize I still have the better part of a thesis to write, I begin to ponder how soon I can politely leave the institute.
12:20pm: Pretty soon.
4:30pm: After the trip home and a nap, the fear is back. It's switched from gnawing to whacking my head with a mallet. Short debate with myself on whether it is more like a Mallet of Failure or a Mallet of Broken Dreams. Resolved when I declare myself to be a moron.
7:30pm: Kim and I pause for Indian food. Actually, Kim pauses. I just eat Indian food, having nothing to pause from, as I have accomplished nothing since returning from UTIAS.
8:30pm: Get down to business for serious. Mallet of Motivation is in the house!
9:30pm: This is totally doable! What is so bad about theses anyway?
9:45pm: Ah. That.
10:30pm: And that.
11:00pm: Everyone is online. Everyone is slightly loopy. Expletive-laced discussions are conducted and relayed between various members of our class. The transitions between optimistic cheerleader and despondent, mopey loser are swift and frightening.
12:00am, Friday, April 11th: Decide that orbital dynamics are stupid. Wonder when I stopped wanting to be a paleontologist. Realize that I've given myself exactly 12 more hours in which to get this thing finished, printed, and bound.
12:47am: Decide that orbital dynamics are a vital and valuable field of study, and that I am stupid. The paleontologists wouldn't have had me anyway. I am scum!
2:00am: Resort to cheering myself up by watching a baby panda sneezing. I collapse into the kind of giggle fit that can only happen at 2am.
3:17am: Roommates (also awake, also writing) pass like zombie ships in the night. We are mostly too tired to do more than nod knowingly and exchange "I feel your pain" facial expressions.
4:00am: Decide I don't have time for our previously agreed-upon 4am brownie break. Shamelessly guilt Kim into making brownies for me.
4:33am: Mmmm, brownies. But what is that other smell?
4:36am: Realize uneaten dinner is still on the counter. The house has become a time-bending, channa masala-scented twilight zone. Before I know it, I am struck by the annoying cousin of 2am giggle fits: 4am existentialism. Why am I doing this? What do these graphs really mean, like, really? If Matlab had a face, what would it look like?
5:04am: The following conversation occurs:
Pete: WOOOOOOOOOO!
Kari: I hate you.
Pete: It's bound and everything!
Kari: Did I mention how much I hate you?
5:58am: Sweet Jesus, the sun is coming up.
7:00am: Decide to allow myself 3 more hours of working time.
7:30am: Decide that there is no earthly force that could compel me to work on this for 2.5 more hours.
9:13am: I have done enough. My conclusion is terrible, my results are wonky, and typos (probably) abound. All the same, I am off to Kinko's.
10:09am: I hand in two severely flawed, beautiful, plastic-bound pieces of my soul, and walk home through a torrential hailstorm. The iPod shuffle function declares "Little Red Corvette" to be my victory chorus.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Ranty Ranty Blog Blog
I confess that when I created this thing in February, I intended it to be little more than a place to post pictures, updates, and the occasional hilarious anecdote from my forthcoming adventures in Vienna. Having little hilarity to offer from my current stressed-out, snowed-in, generally uneventful life in Toronto, I've not added anything of substance until now.
Two days ago, I read this. Go ahead and take a look. It's a quick read, though the mind-bogglingly poor taste and considerable liberties taken with the truth may be a little rough to get through.
I'm late to the party on this one, having been pre-empted by hundreds of angry bloggers and a large portion of the readership of the Washington Post. Nevertheless, I wanted to vent my frustration and righteous anger somewhere, and we were fresh out of soapboxes. Enter: the internet.
Full disclosure: I have been known to watch and enjoy "Grey's Anatomy" from time to time, and I have read "Eat, Pray, Love", though I wouldn't do it again. You see, it was given to me by my mother, who is among other things an Ivy League graduate in economics, an advocate of midwifery, a crossword puzzle expert, a soccer player, and a voracious reader of awful romance novels. She was also the sole breadwinner in my family for many years, whilst my father stayed home with me and my younger sister. Lest you think my dad is a sissy, you should know that he has, at various times, worked as an electrician, counseled at-risk youth, constructed numerous elements of our house proficiently and completely, and completed a solo circumnavigation of Vancouver Island by kayak. He could also totally beat up your dad.
Traditional gender roles were never reinforced in my house, indeed, they were largely ignored. Perhaps that has something to do with my utter loathing for the content and tone of Ms. Allen's article, though I'd prefer to think that's due to common sense. Then again, I'm not sure if I can lay claim to any such sensibility, having been labelled by Ms. Allen as "stupid", "hysterical", "superficial", and, my favourite, "permanently occluded by random emotions". (Such big words! Her husband must have helped her with those.)
Women are dumb, she maintains, before quickly amending that to "we women". She herself is unable to "add 2 and 2", and remains in a Bradshaw-esque state of ignorance regarding the size of her shoe collection (at least 4 pairs then?). Women - sorry, "we women" - faint at Obama rallies while our sisters sabotage Hillary's campaign. We're so busy watching Oprah, reading softcore porn and watching attractive TV doctors grope each other (surely no man has ever partaken of such filth!) that our spatial awareness, logical abilities, and driving skills lag behind those of our male counterparts. Yes, she concedes, men do stupid things too. Why, her own husband sometimes eats over the sink when she's not there to stop him!
I remember a boy in my 10th grade science class who hooked up 12 batteries in series with a wire at each end, then completed the circuit with his tongue. Polish farmer Krystof Azninski decapitated himself with a frozen turnip in an effort to prove his manliness. Some men routinely paint themselves bright colours and attend football games, shirtless, in subzero weather. But surely none of these things are as "embarrassing" as listening to Celine Dion. Or maybe they were put up to it by women. Or something. What should I know?
Unless maybe I'm an "outlier". One of those "female fighter pilots, architects, tax accountants, chemical engineers, Supreme Court justices and brain surgeons" who flies in the face of convention. Firstly, I'll bet that any engineer or engineering student smirks a little at that quote, since it's relatively common knowledge that the number of female chemical engineering graduates now equals or outnumbers the number of males in the same field. She could have picked a different engineering discipline, to be sure, one that attracts fewer women. Consider, though, that the Dean of the faculty of Applied Science at UofT is a woman, just as the past two presidents of the undergraduate Engineering Society have been.
As for Supreme Court justices and brain surgeons, these are hardly common professions among men. Lacking current statistics, I am aware that the number of female MDs has increased rapidly over the past decades, and would be surprised to hear that the number of female surgeons has not. Supreme Court justices are political appointees, which makes them difficult to include this discussion; however, the current bench features justices appointed as far back as 1975, and 2/9 justices confirmed since 1981 have been women.
There are five other women in my fourth-year aerospace engineering class of roughly 30. None of us are militantly feminist, nor particularly masculine. None of us are Hildegard of Bingen, Marie Curie, or Elizabeth I. None of us, so far as I know, have encountered particular difficulty in the field on account of our ovaries. Ms. Allen, I am not a genius, a trailblazer, an outlier, or a stereotype. I am a woman who enjoys math and literature, science fiction and romance, playing sports and baking pies.
50 years ago, few women were freelance writers, and fewer were engineering students. Significant gains have been and will continue to be made. Ms. Allen, it is not biology or misogyny that is holding young women back now - it is people like you and the ridiculous, misinformed, distorted, and most certainly not fact-checked pap that you spew. By all means, stay home to nurture and decorate if it makes you happy, but do not tell women - we women - that we are not capable of doing anything else.
Two days ago, I read this. Go ahead and take a look. It's a quick read, though the mind-bogglingly poor taste and considerable liberties taken with the truth may be a little rough to get through.
I'm late to the party on this one, having been pre-empted by hundreds of angry bloggers and a large portion of the readership of the Washington Post. Nevertheless, I wanted to vent my frustration and righteous anger somewhere, and we were fresh out of soapboxes. Enter: the internet.
Full disclosure: I have been known to watch and enjoy "Grey's Anatomy" from time to time, and I have read "Eat, Pray, Love", though I wouldn't do it again. You see, it was given to me by my mother, who is among other things an Ivy League graduate in economics, an advocate of midwifery, a crossword puzzle expert, a soccer player, and a voracious reader of awful romance novels. She was also the sole breadwinner in my family for many years, whilst my father stayed home with me and my younger sister. Lest you think my dad is a sissy, you should know that he has, at various times, worked as an electrician, counseled at-risk youth, constructed numerous elements of our house proficiently and completely, and completed a solo circumnavigation of Vancouver Island by kayak. He could also totally beat up your dad.
Traditional gender roles were never reinforced in my house, indeed, they were largely ignored. Perhaps that has something to do with my utter loathing for the content and tone of Ms. Allen's article, though I'd prefer to think that's due to common sense. Then again, I'm not sure if I can lay claim to any such sensibility, having been labelled by Ms. Allen as "stupid", "hysterical", "superficial", and, my favourite, "permanently occluded by random emotions". (Such big words! Her husband must have helped her with those.)
Women are dumb, she maintains, before quickly amending that to "we women". She herself is unable to "add 2 and 2", and remains in a Bradshaw-esque state of ignorance regarding the size of her shoe collection (at least 4 pairs then?). Women - sorry, "we women" - faint at Obama rallies while our sisters sabotage Hillary's campaign. We're so busy watching Oprah, reading softcore porn and watching attractive TV doctors grope each other (surely no man has ever partaken of such filth!) that our spatial awareness, logical abilities, and driving skills lag behind those of our male counterparts. Yes, she concedes, men do stupid things too. Why, her own husband sometimes eats over the sink when she's not there to stop him!
I remember a boy in my 10th grade science class who hooked up 12 batteries in series with a wire at each end, then completed the circuit with his tongue. Polish farmer Krystof Azninski decapitated himself with a frozen turnip in an effort to prove his manliness. Some men routinely paint themselves bright colours and attend football games, shirtless, in subzero weather. But surely none of these things are as "embarrassing" as listening to Celine Dion. Or maybe they were put up to it by women. Or something. What should I know?
Unless maybe I'm an "outlier". One of those "female fighter pilots, architects, tax accountants, chemical engineers, Supreme Court justices and brain surgeons" who flies in the face of convention. Firstly, I'll bet that any engineer or engineering student smirks a little at that quote, since it's relatively common knowledge that the number of female chemical engineering graduates now equals or outnumbers the number of males in the same field. She could have picked a different engineering discipline, to be sure, one that attracts fewer women. Consider, though, that the Dean of the faculty of Applied Science at UofT is a woman, just as the past two presidents of the undergraduate Engineering Society have been.
As for Supreme Court justices and brain surgeons, these are hardly common professions among men. Lacking current statistics, I am aware that the number of female MDs has increased rapidly over the past decades, and would be surprised to hear that the number of female surgeons has not. Supreme Court justices are political appointees, which makes them difficult to include this discussion; however, the current bench features justices appointed as far back as 1975, and 2/9 justices confirmed since 1981 have been women.
There are five other women in my fourth-year aerospace engineering class of roughly 30. None of us are militantly feminist, nor particularly masculine. None of us are Hildegard of Bingen, Marie Curie, or Elizabeth I. None of us, so far as I know, have encountered particular difficulty in the field on account of our ovaries. Ms. Allen, I am not a genius, a trailblazer, an outlier, or a stereotype. I am a woman who enjoys math and literature, science fiction and romance, playing sports and baking pies.
50 years ago, few women were freelance writers, and fewer were engineering students. Significant gains have been and will continue to be made. Ms. Allen, it is not biology or misogyny that is holding young women back now - it is people like you and the ridiculous, misinformed, distorted, and most certainly not fact-checked pap that you spew. By all means, stay home to nurture and decorate if it makes you happy, but do not tell women - we women - that we are not capable of doing anything else.
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