we hold up half the sky

This post is a little past due, but what can I say, school starts tomorrow.

I feel like over the summer I sort of fell out of my zealous pursuit of women's issues. I tended to gravitate towards articles on education or basic current events. And then the New York Times snapped me back to my proper place.

(Tangent: I've realized that a lot of this blog is a reaction to things in the Times. Interesting).

Their Sunday magazine last week was titled "Saving the World's Women." The multimedia package includes stories, videos and photos about the struggles of women in several countries, including Pakistan, Burundi, and Afghanistan. I've blogged in the past about several of these issues, but I give the Times major props for devoting such a large project to the topic.

Also of recent interest to me was Sec. of State Hillary Clinton's recent trip through Africa. A Washington Post article published before her stop in the Congo detailed the horrors of rape spreading through the war-torn country. The article even goes as far as to suggest that U.S. intervention in the country is making the problem worse: we back the increased miliary efforts, which in turn means more soliders "not so much hunting rebels as hunting women."

Many people still fail to see the connections between the Congo and Uganda to the post-Rwandan genocide. And even though some justice is being sought in that country, it's still to be seen what sort of long-term social and political effects will come about. Hopefully we'll see more productive solutions applied to the supposed end of the genocide in Darfur.

nugget

For the past week or so, I've been experiencing an odd phenomenon. Between about 3:10 and 3:45 every morning, I wake up for no reason at all. It usually lasts about 5 minutes, during which I check the time on my phone, look out the skylight in my room to try and guess the next day's weather, and ponder a nugget of information that's usually stuck in my head.

I try to tell myself that this is my brain's way of decompressing from the day before. Maybe one of these nights I'll come up with a magical invention or solve some world issue. But so far, the only tangible thing I've been able to remember was the night I had Rihanna's "Take a Bow" stuck in my head. Clearly helping the world's issues.

move part II: the economy

It was really interesting for me to be taking a macroeconomics course during the economic crash last fall. I would walk into class and hear "the DOW just lost 800 bazillion points" and I had a bit more hope that I would understood what that meant before I left class (this hope usually wasn't converted into reality, but I tried to stay optimistic.) And I knew that a lot of the problems were cause by people buying things they didn't actually have money for, and banks giving money to people to buy things they didn't have money for.

But this also meant that when I went to purchase my first-ever vehicle, it was damn hard to get someone to finance it.

I ended up having to have my dad co-sign the loan, but the risk rate is still based on my non-existant credit score, so my intrest rate is a little outrageous. Even though I'm a college graduate with a more than decent-paying job, with not a penny of debt to my name. I was told I would be better off buying a brand new car. But I DON"T WANT a brand new car, because that would fall into the "buying things I don't have the money for" category. Someone needs to explain to me how making an informed decision and getting reasonable car screws you over.

But yes, I bought a car (pictures coming soon). 2002 Honda Civic EX. Dark blue. Sun roof. Compared to Paco, this is like heaven. Sarah and I drove out to the mall in Towson (the ritzy Baltimore suburb to the north), and part of me wanted to just drive forever. Me, the open road, my best friend, and Jason Mraz live. The perfect Sunday afternoon.

the move: part 1

In the past 72 hours or so, I've gone from living out of two large suitcases to being almost settled in a new city 3,000 miles away from "home." In the process of reaching this settling point, I've been making some observations about the twists and turns of what can at times be an incredibly tiresome and expensive endeavor.

Today's discussion: the shit box.

Most of you are probably familiar with the shit box. We all have them, whether it's from a move, from a hectic lifestyle, or just from having lazy organizational skills. It's that box (sometimes drawer) that holds all the miscellaneous stuff you always say you will need but end up not really missing if you don't know it's there.

My shit box contained all the stuff I couldn't fit in my suitcases that I'd accumulated over my summer in Philadelphia. Some of it my mom sent, some I got the week between Induction and Institute, some just appeared I think from the shit fairy. The shit box even had to be brought to Baltimore by a friend with a station wagon, because the combined shit boxes of me and my roommate were too much for one vehicle (I mean that in the most endearing way possible).

So I got the box back today, and eagerly opened it to start sifting through what I knew to be invaluable items in my Harry Potter-sized apartment; I should've known better. Though I appreciate having my printer and some books back in my possession, I'm not sure if the reflective ruler, empty manila envelopes, or single piece of striped ribbon belonged on the must-keep list. It's been less than two months and already the very large box is overflowing.

Guess this means I need to pick which drawer of the kitchen is going to become the shit drawer so I can put the ribbon in it.

UPDATED: Harry Potter and the half-blood ratings system

For another interesting story about the use of alcohol and teen drinking in the film, check out this NY Times article.

Last night, I got in touch with my teenage self and indulged in an outing to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I've always enjoyed the movies, even if they're geared to a crowd who's more into the Jonas Brothers than worrying about their next due date for rent.

And needless to say, there were moments that this PG-rated movie scared the piss out of me.

No one argues that the books get progressively darker, so I was expecting this 6th installment to definitely be an explicit "good vs. evil" showdown. However, no one warned me of that showdown including an scene of a boy (Ron Weasley) seizing and foaming at the mouth. Or that a girl who is "cursed" is thrashed around in the air, suspended in an unmistakeably crucifixion-like pose, and then thrown to the ground where she continues to twitch. Or a spell that causes a character's blood to seep out of his body onto the ground around him.

That's on top of the standard "evil wizards swarming around and burning down houses and killing innocent people" material that comes with the Harry Potter territory. Oh, and the sexual tension that runs so thick throughout the movie I wanted to gag at times.

The 4th and 5th movies received PG-13 ratings, and didn't suffer in the box office for it. And although there were some grumblings about the harsher rating, most viewers found them to be justified. So why the drop now, in what I considered the most violent of the series to date? Some of the people I went to the film with were like "what's the big deal? If people are going to see it anyway why does the rating matter?"

It matters because that "13" on a rating is the difference between what can and can't be shown in some schools. It's the difference between a little kid being sent to the movies without a second thought, and maybe just one parent taking a closer look at just what the film contains. Or at the very least, being prepared when those more graphic scenes do come up, so they can be ready for them.

I was just disappointed in the system. But I must say, the toolbag that tries to woo Hermoine is worth a second glance.

creature comforts

So in moving to the East Coast, I knew life would be different in some aspects. Drinking soda instead of pop, considering Michigan to be a western state, and seeing Dunkin Donuts on every freaking corner.

But the first weekend here in Philly, I came across a cultural difference I couldn't quite deal with: not only does the Starbucks near Temple University's campus close at 8 p.m. on the weekedays, it is closed ALL WEEKEND. As in not open Saturdays and Sundays. And even though I'm from the east side where we have at least half a mile between each Starbucks, I still consider myself from the unofficial coffee capital of the country. I considered these sorts of limited hours a type of blasphemy almost, if not at least a terrible business model for a coffee shop next to the 12th largest university in the country.

So after whining for a decent amount of time, my friend Patrice and I decided to make the trek down the block for a beverage, even though we'd just eaten dinner.

And as lame as it sounds, I was almost emotional drinking my venti 4-pump classic syrup black iced tea. It was a taste of home, a taste of the safe, the familiar. Sometimes we just need to stick to what we know to get through the 21 hour days.

The 4th in Philly

Last night, I saw what it means to earn the title of best fireworks show in the country. After sitting through an hour and a half of Sheryl Crow re-living her glory of the '90s (if that's what you can call it), we finally got to the whole reason we walked 2.5 miles through Philadelphia: to watch people blow stuff up.

The show was synchronized to music intertwined with famous speeches from history, including Obama, Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr. And the music was surprisingly not cheesy "God Bless America" renditions. In fact, one of the songs, a recording of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," was probably one of the best arrangements of that song I've heard.

It was a weird 4th for me for some reason. This is a holiday that doesn't have any real continuity for me as far as traditions. My sister is terrified of fireworks, so our family has never done the whole do-it-yourself shows or anything. Sometimes we went camping, sometimes I was with extended family, other times I was sitting on top of our mini van with Alyssa in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Now I can add Independence Hall to the list.