Females are not interchangeable. Any man who has encountered more than one woman in his lifetime should probably be able to figure this out. I didn’t think I’d have to say this in the year 2008 but, newsflash, female candidates are not interchangeable either. What, because Hillary Clinton had a very good shot at being elected the first female president of the United States, and female voters supported her campaign, those same female voters will lemmingly follow the next female candidate that is nudged into the spotlight, despite the fact that she is not qualified for the job she is up for? How presumptuous. What a blatant display of shameless pandering. Tsk tsk tsk.
I don't know about you but, I was more than a little offended when Senator John McCain unleashed a female running mate upon us, all the while thinking this would be all it would take to sway the onetime Hillary Clinton supporters in his direction. The political strategists, consultants, pundits, vice presidential search committee members all seem to think that we, women, are all the damn same and, therefore, will all vote the way we are guided (shepherded, really) to vote. They think that, just because a woman is on the ballot, other women will mindlessly vote for her even if she is, clearly, out of her bird. No, I say. This woman here is not that easily swayed. Don’t bother trying to “target” me with your research, polls, and statistics because, guess what? I move.
It seems that, over these past couple of days, this whole Republican vice presidential nomination of Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska has gotten me thinking about the woman I am. This, of course, sent my mind wandering back to my girlhood. You see, as a kid, I used to be forced to go to my parents' restaurant to help out by answering the phones, working the register, making cappuccinos, and filling soda glasses with that soda gun that is, like most things, fun to toy with until you realize it isn't a toy, but actually, a tool for working. That said, there I was, essentially hidden behind the bar (no liquor license in those days) to do my various jobs that earned me, I swear to God, $9 total a night, for what worked out to be seven hours of labor. Still, I didn't mind being stationed back there, despite the insulting pay. I didn’t feel comfortable working the floor because that always required a surplus of BS-ing with customers, so, being behind that fort of a bar suited me just fine. I really couldn’t stand the BS. I mean, who were these people? And why did I have to tell them how I was doing in school?
Anyway, during my time served in the restaurant, my mother had this awful tendency of pawning young customers off on me, not caring if I actually wanted to chat with them, which, of course, I didn’t. I'd hear her as she talked to some random family, addressing the daughter with something like, "Oh, you're 12? My daughter is 12." Then I'd see her point in my direction with the smile she only wore when she looked at me in the presence of paying customers. "That's Sandra. You're both 12. Why don't you go talk to her?" My mother did this a lot. I’d cringe, yes, but ultimately, I would talk to them and make them laugh. I was absolutely polite. Some might even say dutiful; this was a business, after all.
So, often I'd be left to entertain a bunch of young, stranger girls who, because they were of, or about my age, were supposed to be just like me, at least, according to the adults in the vicinity. My mother thought that's all it took, our being 12-year-old girls, to make us instant friends. What she didn't seem to understand was that, unlike me, most 12-year-old girls were already little hoochie mamas with older boyfriends they let touch them "down there". Needless to say, I did not relate to, nor respect these sweet-looking girls who snuck cigarettes and convinced their parents they had a stomach flu when they were really hung over. At 12 years of age I didn't even drink root beer, never mind, beer beer (still don’t), and frankly, undressing my anatomically incorrect Ken doll embarrassed me so much, I just kept him in the same outfit for years. To me, it didn't matter if he and Barbie were at the beach, he was going to stay dressed as an astronaut.
That said, if you must know, while I am perfectly capable of exchanging pleasantries and being hospitable and charming for the sake of making those around me feel more comfortable, I've never fully understood the charade of it all. The phoniness, the Hi, how are you? It's so good to see you! lines of fiction always made me want vomit in my mouth a little when I didn’t care about the people I was forced to talk to. At the very least, I should have tacked my own list of Martin Lutheresque grievances on the door. The truth is, I do not genuinely want to speak to most people. The good thing is this: somewhere between the ages of 22 and 28, I completely stopped caring about whether or not it showed that I didn't like certain people. In other words, as an adult woman, if I don't like you, it will show. And if I do not want to engage in conversation with you, I won't, regardless of whether or not you expect me to. Regardless of whether or not it is good for business.
You see, while my family may still very much be in the restaurant business, I am not. I am my own person, after all. Therefore, you won't get my friendship just by ordering a pizza. Nor will you be entitled to my time and conversation just by being around my age. You have to earn all aspects of the woman I’ve grown up to be. Hence, if you think you’ll get my vote just by virtue of having been born a woman, think again. My vote has to be earned. Governor Palin and I are not the same, after all. She happily deals in BS, while I, happily, escaped it because I, unlike Governor Palin, am not a politician.
Oh, and, unlike Governor Palin, I won’t potentially be a heartbeat away from the presidency of the United States of America any time soon. Thus, because of this, taking the time to learn about what this candidate stands for and what her policies are, as opposed to what kind of a woman she is and how she wears a ponytail, is crucial. It seems to me that when you dismiss individual female voters and clump them together as “the woman vote”, you’ll find, instead, an army, not a sorority, of informed voters who will likely be waving the Obama/Biden winning ticket. In other words, don't count your chicks before they hatch. Not that they were ever yours to begin with.
I don't know about you but, I was more than a little offended when Senator John McCain unleashed a female running mate upon us, all the while thinking this would be all it would take to sway the onetime Hillary Clinton supporters in his direction. The political strategists, consultants, pundits, vice presidential search committee members all seem to think that we, women, are all the damn same and, therefore, will all vote the way we are guided (shepherded, really) to vote. They think that, just because a woman is on the ballot, other women will mindlessly vote for her even if she is, clearly, out of her bird. No, I say. This woman here is not that easily swayed. Don’t bother trying to “target” me with your research, polls, and statistics because, guess what? I move.
It seems that, over these past couple of days, this whole Republican vice presidential nomination of Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska has gotten me thinking about the woman I am. This, of course, sent my mind wandering back to my girlhood. You see, as a kid, I used to be forced to go to my parents' restaurant to help out by answering the phones, working the register, making cappuccinos, and filling soda glasses with that soda gun that is, like most things, fun to toy with until you realize it isn't a toy, but actually, a tool for working. That said, there I was, essentially hidden behind the bar (no liquor license in those days) to do my various jobs that earned me, I swear to God, $9 total a night, for what worked out to be seven hours of labor. Still, I didn't mind being stationed back there, despite the insulting pay. I didn’t feel comfortable working the floor because that always required a surplus of BS-ing with customers, so, being behind that fort of a bar suited me just fine. I really couldn’t stand the BS. I mean, who were these people? And why did I have to tell them how I was doing in school?
Anyway, during my time served in the restaurant, my mother had this awful tendency of pawning young customers off on me, not caring if I actually wanted to chat with them, which, of course, I didn’t. I'd hear her as she talked to some random family, addressing the daughter with something like, "Oh, you're 12? My daughter is 12." Then I'd see her point in my direction with the smile she only wore when she looked at me in the presence of paying customers. "That's Sandra. You're both 12. Why don't you go talk to her?" My mother did this a lot. I’d cringe, yes, but ultimately, I would talk to them and make them laugh. I was absolutely polite. Some might even say dutiful; this was a business, after all.
So, often I'd be left to entertain a bunch of young, stranger girls who, because they were of, or about my age, were supposed to be just like me, at least, according to the adults in the vicinity. My mother thought that's all it took, our being 12-year-old girls, to make us instant friends. What she didn't seem to understand was that, unlike me, most 12-year-old girls were already little hoochie mamas with older boyfriends they let touch them "down there". Needless to say, I did not relate to, nor respect these sweet-looking girls who snuck cigarettes and convinced their parents they had a stomach flu when they were really hung over. At 12 years of age I didn't even drink root beer, never mind, beer beer (still don’t), and frankly, undressing my anatomically incorrect Ken doll embarrassed me so much, I just kept him in the same outfit for years. To me, it didn't matter if he and Barbie were at the beach, he was going to stay dressed as an astronaut.
That said, if you must know, while I am perfectly capable of exchanging pleasantries and being hospitable and charming for the sake of making those around me feel more comfortable, I've never fully understood the charade of it all. The phoniness, the Hi, how are you? It's so good to see you! lines of fiction always made me want vomit in my mouth a little when I didn’t care about the people I was forced to talk to. At the very least, I should have tacked my own list of Martin Lutheresque grievances on the door. The truth is, I do not genuinely want to speak to most people. The good thing is this: somewhere between the ages of 22 and 28, I completely stopped caring about whether or not it showed that I didn't like certain people. In other words, as an adult woman, if I don't like you, it will show. And if I do not want to engage in conversation with you, I won't, regardless of whether or not you expect me to. Regardless of whether or not it is good for business.
You see, while my family may still very much be in the restaurant business, I am not. I am my own person, after all. Therefore, you won't get my friendship just by ordering a pizza. Nor will you be entitled to my time and conversation just by being around my age. You have to earn all aspects of the woman I’ve grown up to be. Hence, if you think you’ll get my vote just by virtue of having been born a woman, think again. My vote has to be earned. Governor Palin and I are not the same, after all. She happily deals in BS, while I, happily, escaped it because I, unlike Governor Palin, am not a politician.
Oh, and, unlike Governor Palin, I won’t potentially be a heartbeat away from the presidency of the United States of America any time soon. Thus, because of this, taking the time to learn about what this candidate stands for and what her policies are, as opposed to what kind of a woman she is and how she wears a ponytail, is crucial. It seems to me that when you dismiss individual female voters and clump them together as “the woman vote”, you’ll find, instead, an army, not a sorority, of informed voters who will likely be waving the Obama/Biden winning ticket. In other words, don't count your chicks before they hatch. Not that they were ever yours to begin with.
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