Working for the enemy
Okay. Working isn't exactly the right word. But my name has appeared in the Columbia Daily Tribune. At the honors reception in December, I was cornered by a reporter from the Trib while I was on my way between the line for cheese and cookies and the line for beverages. I meant to check and see if I made it into the story, but didn't get around to it until now. I'm the last quote in this story. I would like to point out that in just one paragraph, the reporter managed to squeeze in one error, one technical inaccuracy (or maybe I'm just being picky on this one) and one sentence that makes it sound like I said something I didn't. (See if you can find them all.) Way to go, Trib. Someone remind me why people in Columbia think this is the better paper.
Maybe this is why my parents think I'm a crazy feminist
So I was eating dinner with my parents tonight (hot dogs and beans, ah, the memories of a Midwestern childhood). The news was on in the background on the little black and white TV (circa 1985) my parents keep on the counter so they can watch the news during dinner. Some sort of commercial (for trucks maybe) came on. It was spoofing Ponderosa (the TV show, not the restaurant). My parents began discussing Ponderosa and trying to remember all of the characters. My mother seemed to remember all three sons having different mothers but that these women were never really on the show. My father said something to the effect of, "I wonder what the National Organization of Women would think about that. They would probably say he abused them or something like that." Because I sensed a definite oh-those-silly-women-always-making-a-fuss-over-nothing tone in my Dad's voice (and partly because I knew I could shock him), I said, "Oh, it's just the patriarchy using up, wearing out and throwing away women. No big deal." He didn't know what to say. My mother seemed amused in a ha-take-that-husband kind of way. My father finally responded by asking my mother what she had put in that brownie I was eating. Sorry, Dad. I don't think feminism is in the brownies. If it was, wouldn't women have already baked up a big batch and fed it to the patriarchy so we could have solved all of this long ago?
Okay. Working isn't exactly the right word. But my name has appeared in the Columbia Daily Tribune. At the honors reception in December, I was cornered by a reporter from the Trib while I was on my way between the line for cheese and cookies and the line for beverages. I meant to check and see if I made it into the story, but didn't get around to it until now. I'm the last quote in this story. I would like to point out that in just one paragraph, the reporter managed to squeeze in one error, one technical inaccuracy (or maybe I'm just being picky on this one) and one sentence that makes it sound like I said something I didn't. (See if you can find them all.) Way to go, Trib. Someone remind me why people in Columbia think this is the better paper.
Maybe this is why my parents think I'm a crazy feminist
So I was eating dinner with my parents tonight (hot dogs and beans, ah, the memories of a Midwestern childhood). The news was on in the background on the little black and white TV (circa 1985) my parents keep on the counter so they can watch the news during dinner. Some sort of commercial (for trucks maybe) came on. It was spoofing Ponderosa (the TV show, not the restaurant). My parents began discussing Ponderosa and trying to remember all of the characters. My mother seemed to remember all three sons having different mothers but that these women were never really on the show. My father said something to the effect of, "I wonder what the National Organization of Women would think about that. They would probably say he abused them or something like that." Because I sensed a definite oh-those-silly-women-always-making-a-fuss-over-nothing tone in my Dad's voice (and partly because I knew I could shock him), I said, "Oh, it's just the patriarchy using up, wearing out and throwing away women. No big deal." He didn't know what to say. My mother seemed amused in a ha-take-that-husband kind of way. My father finally responded by asking my mother what she had put in that brownie I was eating. Sorry, Dad. I don't think feminism is in the brownies. If it was, wouldn't women have already baked up a big batch and fed it to the patriarchy so we could have solved all of this long ago?
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home