Heather
LAMPE
Gender Wars
Sexism isn't dead, even in late 20th century
I’m very confused, more than
usual that is.
Somehow I was led to believe that
the world had changed in the last 50
years. I naively thought that society
had finally accepted the June
Cleavers of the world throwing off
their aprons and stepping out from
behind their shiny stove tops. But a
recent discussion with my younger
brother has proven to me that
people’s ideas aren’t much different
than they were when the Beav was
little.
Last week, I spent the weekend at
my dad’s house with my 14-year-old
brother, who I will call “Moron” to
protect his identity. While I was
visiting Moron, I decided to prepare
a meal for Dad, Moron and me.
The meal apparently impressed
Moron because after finishing, he
said to me, “That was really good
Heather. Dad should get a woman
around here to code for us.”
Not believing that Moron and I
could have come from the same gene
pool, I tried to gently explain to him
that if he wanted to, he too could
crack open a box of Hamburger
Helper and go wild.
Unbeknownst to many a sexist pig
out there (Moron included), there is
no gene for cooking. Contrary to
popular belief, there is no link in a
female’s DNA that makes her prone
to bake. When girls hit puberty we
don’t suddenly get flooded with
hormones that want to make us cook
and clean.
Imagine a mother saying to her
12-year-old daughter, “Honey, you’re
blossoming and becoming a woman,
so along with a training bra, I’ve
purchased you a sponge mop and a
deluxe set of Teflon frying pans.”
Men and women might differ in
sexual plumbing and our faucet
fixtures may turn on differently, but
we don’t differ much more than that.
Men can color coordinate just as well
as women, and women can change
the oil in a car. My husband is proof
positive that there isn’t a gene that
makes men handy with tools or
automotive parts. He can’t spell
pflrhlirptnr 1 alnnp inctall nno intn o
car.
There wouldn’t be a war between
the sexes if there weren’t those few
insecure cavemen out there who still
want to drag “their women” around
by the hair. Besides my little brother
Moron, I read a newspaper story a
few weeks ago about one such
caveman.
We’ll call the caveman in the
story “Peon” to protect his identity.
Peon was featured in an article about
how the era of the nude calendar girl
posters in the automotive establish
ments was on its way out. The story
featured interviews with women who
take their cars to be fixed and the
owners of these garages. Peon was
one of the employees of a garage. He
was upset because he didn’t feel he
should be denied his enjoyment for
the sake of his female customers.
“If I want to see some boobies, no
damn woman is going to stop me.”
(This is my interpretation of the
interview.)
For those of you who haven’t had
the distinct pleasure of viewing one
of these fine works of art while
waiting for your car to be tuned up,
let me describe one for you. These
calendars usually have a scantily clad
or nude woman lying seductively on
the hood of a car. Sometimes she is
straddling the fender and sometimes
she is licking the hood ornament.
There are many varied positions.
These pictures are purely for the
pleasure of men like Peon. Because
iranmy i nave never wosen up one
morning and said, “Gee, I feel like
throwing off my top and humping the
roof of a car.” Nor have I ever cared
to wait for my car at a Quicky Lube
and have to stare at “a set of head
lights” on their yearly calendar.
I don’t suppose Peon or most men
would enjoy walking into an insur
ance agency, grocery store or any
business and having to see a big
penis celebrating the month of
February. So they should understand
why women don’t care to go to
Peon’s garage and see a giant photo
of the birth canal celebrating the
month of May.
Every time I open a magazine, the
Virginia Slims lady keeps trying to
tell me that “You’ve come along way
baby.” I think Miss Slims has never
met Moron and Peon, or maybe
they’ve been filling her cigarettes
with more than tobacco.
Lampe is a senior news-editorial
and English major and a Daily
Nebraskan columnist.
,, , Steve
WILLEY
All tongues
Speaking Spanish can be eloquent, embarrassing
Don’t you folks just hate those
columns that start out, “I’m a
journalist; I make my living with
words.”
Every time I see a sentence like
that, I think, “You know, it’s a good
thing I’m holding this super-absor
bent newspaper because I’m going to
need something to wipe up this pile
of vomit that just ejected from my
mouth at supersonic speeds.”
Why can’t journalists be truthful
and say what they’re really thinking:
“I’m a journalist and I, like everyone
else on this freakin’ planet, use
words all the time. Also, I would like
to have Walter Cronkite’s child.”
(That last part by the way, only
applies to me and my editor.)
Anyway, I promised myself that I
would never write a column that
began that way, but yesterday my
editor gave me an ultimatum. He said
if I refused to write my required “I’m
a journalist” column, he would
personally see to the “extinction” of
both my pinky toes.
Being quite fond of my pinky toes
—I use than to spoon out mayon
naise while I'm eating—I decided
to get it over with. So grab a vomit
bag or anything ever written by Ayn
Rand and get ready to chuck.
Yes, I’m a journalist, and I do
make my living with words. Though,
it is not a very good living. In fact, I
rank slightly below a raccoon in
terms of yearly income.
But it’s true; 1 do use a lot of
words in this business. Sometimes I
even use foreign words, which is
really what this column is about.
You see, as part of the curriculum
of my news-editorial major, I’m
expected to become fluent in a
second language. This semester I will
complete all of my requirements in
Spanish. That’s right, folks. I’m
bilingual. But even despite having
two lings, I can also speak Spanish.
I chose Spanish over Swahili
because, quite frankly, I thought I’d
have more of a use for Spanish in my
life. Boy was I wrong. Seems like
every other day, some Swahili
speaking guy is coming up and
asking me if Tom Osborne really
used to date a bowl of pasta.
But that’s not to say that I
haven’t used Spanish in my life —
it’s the easiest way to order a
mavonnaise enchilada in cnrtv>
restaurants. But despite my years of
excellent counsel from some of
UNL’s finest teachers, I’m still not
very good at precisely conveying my
thoughts.
Inevitably, I end up unintention
ally asking die person why his or her
mother chose a career in professional
roller derby.
But getting beat up by Spanish
speaking people isn’t the only
disadvantage of not mastering the
language. At times, you can also
make yourself sound pretty ignorant.
My Spanish professor told me
something pretty funny the other day
and I think it’s a prime example of
unintentionally looking like an ass.
He said that students, when asked
their age, will usually reply by
saying, “Tfengo veinte y dos afios.”
(The afios is pronounced “an-yoss.”)
This is a correct response; it
translates into, “I have 22 years” or
“I’m 22 years old.” But sometimes
students mispronounce the aflos and
say, “Tengo veinte y dos anos.”
(Anos this time is pronounced “a
noss”)
Now the poor student has just
proclaimed that he or she has 22
anuses.
But this is by no means an
isolated case in the Spanish lan
guage. There is another sentence —
which moral integrity will not allow
me to print in Spanish—that is
equally appalling and just as easy to
mistakenly say.
By leaving off the letter “a” in this
sentence, you can completely change
it from, “Hi, how you doing, dude,”
to, “I am a monkey woman; let us sit
on this toilet and obtain the seven
year itch together.”
Isn’t it amazinff! All that from
merely dropping the letter “a.”
But despite the sometimes too
easy methods of sounding stupid,
Spanish is really a sexy and romantic
language. C’mon, what woman out
there wouldn’t want to be lying on a
“playa” (beach) with an “hombre”
(man) named “Rico” (Jerome). Later,
you would dance the “Lambada” (a
forbidden dance), drink some “vino”
(wine) and have a “competencia
escupir” (spitting contest).
I know I’ve got chills just thinking
about it. But maybe those are just
excited chills thinking about my
career as a journalist. Knowing
Spanish will certainly make me more
marketable to employers.
That is, until they hear me speak
it. Oh well. If nothing else, it at least
made my required ‘I’m a journalist”
column a little easier to swallow.
Willey is a senior news-editorial
major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist
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