Happy, happy Thursday my little chickens!
I am fully aware that I have talked a fair amount of shit about the venerable institution of marriage over the last few years. I really thought that marriage was pretty much a contest in which psychological damage was inflicted on one partner by the other (and vice versa) through passive aggression, sarcasm, and barely concealed resentment, until one of them died. The last one to die was the winner. What did they win? Not being dead. Fan-frigging-tastic!
Anyway, once I discovered that game wasn't nearly as much fun as it seemed at first blush and I cashed in my meager pile of chips and bolted.
I lose, right?
Wrong.
Because, once again the universe reminds me that, sure, I might look smart, but don't know fuck all about the grand movements of the celestial spheres that govern all of our destinies.
Because, little chickens, I am getting married. Again. In 79 days.
The Gipester and I have tried to think of reasons not to do this. Trust me. He was militantly anti-marriage when we met. No way was he getting married again. Nuh uh. Never gonna happen.
See, he didn't know anything about the movement of the celestial spheres either. Ha!
But, fact of the matter is, we're in love. Normal, healthy, supportive love. And we just can't let that go to waste, so marriage it is.
I really am considering this post an introduction to the Bridezilla series. Just 'cause I'm engaged doesn't mean I'm any less neurotic. Really, I'm starting to think about things like:
"Is it okay to ask G to delete all of the emails tagged 'dating' in his inbox?"
"Is it unreasonable to tell him that I want the ring from his previous marriage the hell out of the house before the wedding?"
"Is putting my hands over my ears and screaming LALALALALALALAAAA! the best way to respond to his reminiscing about his first wedding?"
"When I joke about having kids and he makes some vague comment about us getting too serious, should I worry?"
See kids, this is gonna be FUN!
Plus, there's going to be cake. You've gotta love cake.
Peace, chickens.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
Like a cat.
So, it's Friday. Which in my teeny-tiny world means it's time to clean the house. I don't do a fantastic job, but since neither the Gipester or I has ever actually had typhoid, I'm going to declare my housekeeping skills adequate.
I actually had a meeting this afternoon, so I wasn't actually planning on cleaning at all, but once I was dressed and ready for my meeting, I realized that I still had an hour or so before I even had to leave. So. I ran the dishwasher. Still had time. Wiped down counters in the kitchen. That took about 25 seconds, so I moved on to the bathroom. Wiped down counters and tub. I think, "The mirror needs Windexing." Is that a word? Hmmm? Doesn't matter. Still had time. "Fine," I think, "I'll clean the toilet." So, scrub, scrub. Clean. "Wow. The mirror is still really streaky... That's gonna drive me crazy."
So, I go get the Windex again. I had my reading glasses perched on the top of my head (headed to a meeting, remember?), a bottle of Windex in one hand and a paper towel in the other.
Now, in order to get to the top of the mirror over the sink, I have to get way up on my toes, which means my head tips back a little, just enough for my reading glasses to start slipping. We have ceramic tile in the bathroom, I really didn't want my glasses to fall off and break, so my knee-jerk reaction was to reach up to catch them. Guess which hand I used? Not the one with the soft paper towel. Nope. The one with the bottle of nasty chemical juice of death.
In my attempt to keep my glasses from breaking, I hit myself in the temple with the (surprisingly pointy) nozzle of the bottle. Then, because my brain was having a hard time processing what had happened, I turned my head sharply to the left to see what had hit me in the head and I sprayed myself in the eyes with Windex. And then my glasses fell off my head anyway.
I am effing AMAZING!!!
Happy Friday, chickens.
I actually had a meeting this afternoon, so I wasn't actually planning on cleaning at all, but once I was dressed and ready for my meeting, I realized that I still had an hour or so before I even had to leave. So. I ran the dishwasher. Still had time. Wiped down counters in the kitchen. That took about 25 seconds, so I moved on to the bathroom. Wiped down counters and tub. I think, "The mirror needs Windexing." Is that a word? Hmmm? Doesn't matter. Still had time. "Fine," I think, "I'll clean the toilet." So, scrub, scrub. Clean. "Wow. The mirror is still really streaky... That's gonna drive me crazy."
So, I go get the Windex again. I had my reading glasses perched on the top of my head (headed to a meeting, remember?), a bottle of Windex in one hand and a paper towel in the other.
Now, in order to get to the top of the mirror over the sink, I have to get way up on my toes, which means my head tips back a little, just enough for my reading glasses to start slipping. We have ceramic tile in the bathroom, I really didn't want my glasses to fall off and break, so my knee-jerk reaction was to reach up to catch them. Guess which hand I used? Not the one with the soft paper towel. Nope. The one with the bottle of nasty chemical juice of death.
In my attempt to keep my glasses from breaking, I hit myself in the temple with the (surprisingly pointy) nozzle of the bottle. Then, because my brain was having a hard time processing what had happened, I turned my head sharply to the left to see what had hit me in the head and I sprayed myself in the eyes with Windex. And then my glasses fell off my head anyway.
I am effing AMAZING!!!
Happy Friday, chickens.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Wheee!
Today, my chickens, is May 1st. For any ancient Celts or NeoPagans in the crowd, it's also known as Beltane. Once upon a time, on Beltane, the ancient Celtic people would go out and start a big fire. And get wasted. And then have sex. This sounds like a holiday I can get behind. You throw in some marshmallow Peeps and I am totally down. Oh, and pie. I love pie.
Anyway, when Christianity wandered its way into the British Isles, much the way homeless people wander into the public library to use the bathroom, Beltane was discouraged and we ended up with May Day. You guys remember May Baskets, right? We made them in elementary school? Oh well, traditionally, May baskets are filled with candy and flowers and left on a neighbor's doorstep. If the neighbor catches you, kisses are exchanged. Oh yeah. Lots more fun than fire and hooking up...
So, in the spirit of the season, I am presenting you with a May basket full of the random crap that's taking up space in my brain pan. And since technically, you're catching me giving it to you, you can have a kiss. No tongue, though.
1. Wow. That was a huge lead-in. Sorry about that.
2. I listened to a couple argue for 45 minutes at the park yesterday. Guess what they were fighting about? Another woman? A missed birthday? Nope. She was giving him a huge ration of shit about how he never fights with her. Yup. A fight about how they never fight. These people need cable. I think her point was that she felt he was emotionally unengaged. But still. Yeesh.
3. It occurs to me from time to time that I don't know anyone's phone number anymore. You're all in my phone, but if I were to lose my phone and need to call someone, the only people I could reach would be my parents. And that's only because they've had the same phone number since I was 18 months old. If they move, I'm screwed.
4. Do any of you know a straight man who is over 35, has never been married, and isn't a complete sociopath? If so, send me his name. I have a bet running.
5. Why do boys constantly talk about boobs, I mean girls, no, never mind, I mean boobs, they've known before? I swear to Buddha, I've seen men get misty like they were talking about old Army buddies. I remember my college boyfriend named mine. I'm pretty sure he liked them better than he liked me. Weird.
6. Since were on the subject, I understand that boys like boobs. I'm a pretty big fan of them myself. I guess when I had them, I felt like I was part of the club, now that I'm an A-cup, I feel like I've had my girl card revoked. For the first time in my life I'm considering breast implants, just so I can fill out a halter top better than say...Orlando Bloom. How's that for an image? *shiver*
So, how was that for super awesome? I'd say more, but I spent most of the day painting a friend's basement and I think the fumes have disabled the section of my brain that allows me to focus, so I'll just say....oooh shiny!
Anyway, when Christianity wandered its way into the British Isles, much the way homeless people wander into the public library to use the bathroom, Beltane was discouraged and we ended up with May Day. You guys remember May Baskets, right? We made them in elementary school? Oh well, traditionally, May baskets are filled with candy and flowers and left on a neighbor's doorstep. If the neighbor catches you, kisses are exchanged. Oh yeah. Lots more fun than fire and hooking up...
So, in the spirit of the season, I am presenting you with a May basket full of the random crap that's taking up space in my brain pan. And since technically, you're catching me giving it to you, you can have a kiss. No tongue, though.
1. Wow. That was a huge lead-in. Sorry about that.
2. I listened to a couple argue for 45 minutes at the park yesterday. Guess what they were fighting about? Another woman? A missed birthday? Nope. She was giving him a huge ration of shit about how he never fights with her. Yup. A fight about how they never fight. These people need cable. I think her point was that she felt he was emotionally unengaged. But still. Yeesh.
3. It occurs to me from time to time that I don't know anyone's phone number anymore. You're all in my phone, but if I were to lose my phone and need to call someone, the only people I could reach would be my parents. And that's only because they've had the same phone number since I was 18 months old. If they move, I'm screwed.
4. Do any of you know a straight man who is over 35, has never been married, and isn't a complete sociopath? If so, send me his name. I have a bet running.
5. Why do boys constantly talk about boobs, I mean girls, no, never mind, I mean boobs, they've known before? I swear to Buddha, I've seen men get misty like they were talking about old Army buddies. I remember my college boyfriend named mine. I'm pretty sure he liked them better than he liked me. Weird.
6. Since were on the subject, I understand that boys like boobs. I'm a pretty big fan of them myself. I guess when I had them, I felt like I was part of the club, now that I'm an A-cup, I feel like I've had my girl card revoked. For the first time in my life I'm considering breast implants, just so I can fill out a halter top better than say...Orlando Bloom. How's that for an image? *shiver*
So, how was that for super awesome? I'd say more, but I spent most of the day painting a friend's basement and I think the fumes have disabled the section of my brain that allows me to focus, so I'll just say....oooh shiny!
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
This Moment Is More Precious Than You Think
Over the last few days, I've been presented with a few reminders from the universe that life is short. That the days never stop coming. We are always moving forward, burying (sometimes literally) the scraps of our past.
The phrase, "live life to the fullest," is trite. I hate to use it. Mostly because I have seen more than one good person "live" themselves into an anxiety attack. There is this constant push to always be doing.
Join another community group, take on another project at work, mow the lawn, join a third book club, sign up for another committee at church, try to remember to have sex this month, mow the lawn, make sure the kids are signed up for that second day camp, paint the guest room, MOW THE EFFING LAWN!
I have never really been a joiner. I tried Young Life in high school. Didn't take. Key Club, FBLA, Student Counsel, none of these things appealed. According to my mother, it's because I just don't like people. Okay, in all fairness, what she said was just that I have never been "warm." Which is her way of saying I don't like people.
This isn't true. I like most people. There are people I don't like, but for the most part they're douchebags, so who gives a damn. There is only one person on the planet I don't like who everyone else I know seems to have zero problem with. And she happens to be a sterling example of the psychosis detailed above.
This woman just flat out gives me hives. She just must, must, MUST be in this or that club, or on a committee, or engaged in some kind of activity that reminds us all that we care less about poverty, or women's issues, or politics than she does.
She is the kind of person who will skip her 10-year-old son's soccer game to sit around discussing the issues facing women in wartime Iraq. Are those issues important? Hell, yes. But there are two things to consider: 1) Re-imagining gender roles in the Middle East amounts to little more than intellectual masturbation, especially when you are member of a women's group in northern Colorado and 2) Your son will never, EVER forget that Mommy's meetings are more important than he is. Really. He'll come leaping out of the closet when he's 18 in the hopes that you'll let him march in the gay pride parade with you and whatever committee you're affiliated with that day.
Hey, a gay son is the best possible accessory for a hip socially liberal mommy. Even better than that $200 Patagonia fleece and $300 Danskos you've got on.
Wait. I'm losing my train of thought. Oh, there it is.
My point is that I feel like, as a people, we are losing the ability to just be. To sit for two hours, drink a bottle of red wine with someone we love, and talk about the hypothetical future without constantly checking our cell phones for messages or looking at the clock. No, that kind of frivolity is not tolerated. If you're going to talk with a significant other, you better be arguing about money, or discussing the division of childcare duties. And put that wine away, slackers! How dare you linger over something as trivial as romance when there are meetings to attend!
All of us have some of this in us somewhere, and please don't think that the point of the post is to deride club membership. Joining groups and clubs is a great way to meet people with similar interests and keep our intellects in shape. We just need to also rediscover the beauty in everyday things. Things that don't require meeting attendance. Sitting on metal bleachers, watching 10-year-old boys playing soccer. The smell of blooming Russian Olive trees. The feel of familiar hands. The taste of our favorite foods. The sound of our favorite songs. Just being.
Because here's the thing. The next time you smell those flowers, taste that food, feel those hands, kiss those lips, could be the last time.
Because we are always moving into the future, and there are always things that can't keep up.
The phrase, "live life to the fullest," is trite. I hate to use it. Mostly because I have seen more than one good person "live" themselves into an anxiety attack. There is this constant push to always be doing.
Join another community group, take on another project at work, mow the lawn, join a third book club, sign up for another committee at church, try to remember to have sex this month, mow the lawn, make sure the kids are signed up for that second day camp, paint the guest room, MOW THE EFFING LAWN!
I have never really been a joiner. I tried Young Life in high school. Didn't take. Key Club, FBLA, Student Counsel, none of these things appealed. According to my mother, it's because I just don't like people. Okay, in all fairness, what she said was just that I have never been "warm." Which is her way of saying I don't like people.
This isn't true. I like most people. There are people I don't like, but for the most part they're douchebags, so who gives a damn. There is only one person on the planet I don't like who everyone else I know seems to have zero problem with. And she happens to be a sterling example of the psychosis detailed above.
This woman just flat out gives me hives. She just must, must, MUST be in this or that club, or on a committee, or engaged in some kind of activity that reminds us all that we care less about poverty, or women's issues, or politics than she does.
She is the kind of person who will skip her 10-year-old son's soccer game to sit around discussing the issues facing women in wartime Iraq. Are those issues important? Hell, yes. But there are two things to consider: 1) Re-imagining gender roles in the Middle East amounts to little more than intellectual masturbation, especially when you are member of a women's group in northern Colorado and 2) Your son will never, EVER forget that Mommy's meetings are more important than he is. Really. He'll come leaping out of the closet when he's 18 in the hopes that you'll let him march in the gay pride parade with you and whatever committee you're affiliated with that day.
Hey, a gay son is the best possible accessory for a hip socially liberal mommy. Even better than that $200 Patagonia fleece and $300 Danskos you've got on.
Wait. I'm losing my train of thought. Oh, there it is.
My point is that I feel like, as a people, we are losing the ability to just be. To sit for two hours, drink a bottle of red wine with someone we love, and talk about the hypothetical future without constantly checking our cell phones for messages or looking at the clock. No, that kind of frivolity is not tolerated. If you're going to talk with a significant other, you better be arguing about money, or discussing the division of childcare duties. And put that wine away, slackers! How dare you linger over something as trivial as romance when there are meetings to attend!
All of us have some of this in us somewhere, and please don't think that the point of the post is to deride club membership. Joining groups and clubs is a great way to meet people with similar interests and keep our intellects in shape. We just need to also rediscover the beauty in everyday things. Things that don't require meeting attendance. Sitting on metal bleachers, watching 10-year-old boys playing soccer. The smell of blooming Russian Olive trees. The feel of familiar hands. The taste of our favorite foods. The sound of our favorite songs. Just being.
Because here's the thing. The next time you smell those flowers, taste that food, feel those hands, kiss those lips, could be the last time.
Because we are always moving into the future, and there are always things that can't keep up.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Honesty? Honestly.
Hey Chickens!
Are you ready to play a round of "Tell or Don't Tell?" The game where contestants try to decide what's important enough to tell their significant others and what's just irritating.
You can play along at home! The first ones are easy!
1. You backed over the cat with the car. (Tell)
2. You were unable to find the brand of frozen pizza that you had a coupon for, so you bought another brand, that while 25 cents more expensive, is one you've heard good things about. (Don't tell)
3. The ring you got her for Valentine's Day is a cubic zirconia. (Don't tell)
4. Your parents are coming to visit for a week and they think it would be easier for everyone if they just parked their RV on your front lawn. (Tell)
5. Crabs. (Tell)
6. The chicken you cooked for dinner expired in 2006. But it's been frozen the whole time. (Don't tell)
7. Your period was two weeks late, so you took a home preganacy test. It was negative. (Don't tell)
8. The blond chick that works in the cubicle next to you came over and sat on your desk this afternoon and her skirt rode waaaaaay up her thigh. It was hot. (Don't tell)
9. You left the take-home bag from dinner in the trunk of their car. Two days ago. (Tell)
10. An old friend calls and tells you that they are having a hard time supporting your relationship because they're crazy about you and super jealous of your SO. (?????)
So, chickens. What's the answer to 10? Do you tell, because the whole situation makes you uncomfortable (and a little angry) because someone you thought was your friend seems to get off on drama of their own creation and you really need to talk about it?
Or do you not tell, because you don't want your SO to feel threatened or feel like you're trying to make them jealous. Plus, on the off chance your friend can put their shit back together and actually wants to hang out with you again, you don't want things to be uncomfortable.
So, what do we tell the people we love from day to day? Do you share your every thought and every experience? Is that even possible? Is that something we truly want from a partner? At what point does "not telling" become "witholding," "shutting out," and even "lying?"
If the roles were reversed and the Gipester told me an old friend was in love with him, I'd lose my shit. I know I would. I've got what you could call a jealous streak. It's not the Wendy Testaberger "stay away from my man, bitch" jealous streak I had going on in college, but it's still there. I really wouldn't want him to see this person anymore. If G told me he didn't want me to talk to this friend again, I would comply. But that wouldn't happen. I'm in love with a man who was born without the jealousy portion of the brain. Or maybe he feels jealousy and just doesn't tell me. Which takes me back to the issue in the previous paragraph.
So, lots of questions. No answers. What do we tell? What do we hold back? And when does it make a difference?
Anyone?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Bueller?
Are you ready to play a round of "Tell or Don't Tell?" The game where contestants try to decide what's important enough to tell their significant others and what's just irritating.
You can play along at home! The first ones are easy!
1. You backed over the cat with the car. (Tell)
2. You were unable to find the brand of frozen pizza that you had a coupon for, so you bought another brand, that while 25 cents more expensive, is one you've heard good things about. (Don't tell)
3. The ring you got her for Valentine's Day is a cubic zirconia. (Don't tell)
4. Your parents are coming to visit for a week and they think it would be easier for everyone if they just parked their RV on your front lawn. (Tell)
5. Crabs. (Tell)
6. The chicken you cooked for dinner expired in 2006. But it's been frozen the whole time. (Don't tell)
7. Your period was two weeks late, so you took a home preganacy test. It was negative. (Don't tell)
8. The blond chick that works in the cubicle next to you came over and sat on your desk this afternoon and her skirt rode waaaaaay up her thigh. It was hot. (Don't tell)
9. You left the take-home bag from dinner in the trunk of their car. Two days ago. (Tell)
10. An old friend calls and tells you that they are having a hard time supporting your relationship because they're crazy about you and super jealous of your SO. (?????)
So, chickens. What's the answer to 10? Do you tell, because the whole situation makes you uncomfortable (and a little angry) because someone you thought was your friend seems to get off on drama of their own creation and you really need to talk about it?
Or do you not tell, because you don't want your SO to feel threatened or feel like you're trying to make them jealous. Plus, on the off chance your friend can put their shit back together and actually wants to hang out with you again, you don't want things to be uncomfortable.
So, what do we tell the people we love from day to day? Do you share your every thought and every experience? Is that even possible? Is that something we truly want from a partner? At what point does "not telling" become "witholding," "shutting out," and even "lying?"
If the roles were reversed and the Gipester told me an old friend was in love with him, I'd lose my shit. I know I would. I've got what you could call a jealous streak. It's not the Wendy Testaberger "stay away from my man, bitch" jealous streak I had going on in college, but it's still there. I really wouldn't want him to see this person anymore. If G told me he didn't want me to talk to this friend again, I would comply. But that wouldn't happen. I'm in love with a man who was born without the jealousy portion of the brain. Or maybe he feels jealousy and just doesn't tell me. Which takes me back to the issue in the previous paragraph.
So, lots of questions. No answers. What do we tell? What do we hold back? And when does it make a difference?
Anyone?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Bueller?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
No Girlz Allowed
Don't get political. Don't get political. Don't get political.
Ah, damn.
I have to.
This morning, a video was posted on Digg from YouTube. It was a mash-up that compiled news footage from 1992-2008 of Hillary Clinton, basically pandering (and occasionally lying) her ass off. The point being, of course, that Hillary is a bad person and should in no way be allowed to become president. Obama 08. Whoooo. You get the picture.
I must make it clear that I have very little problem with politicians getting called on their shit. As a people, it's important that we hold our leaders accountable. We have slacked on that responsibility as of late and now we have power-mad sadists running the show. Not cool. Anyway, my bitch is not with the video itself, it is with the comments from Diggers about the video. The bile spewed in these comments is symptomatic of a much larger issue.
While there were many, many thoughtful responses to the video from all over the political spectrum, there were a few that stopped me cold.
There were comments on Hillary's looks:
"1992 Hillary was hot"
"16 years does a lot to your looks"
There were comments rife with righteous indignation:
"Got ya, bitch"
"Fuck you, bitch"
And then my personal favorite:
"I'm gong to masturbate to Hillary's concession speech, and if she cries, I'm going to record it for future masturbatory material."
*sigh*
There seems to be a general sexism that Clinton has encountered on the campaign trail that is readily accepted by the American people at large. In addition to the truly in-depth political analysis you can find on sites like Digg and Reddit, Air America's Randi Rhodes called her a "fucking whore" at a media function. Granted, she was also talking about Geraldine Ferraro, but, really. Fucking whore? You get paid for this, Randi? Oh, wait. They fired you. So I guess you don't.
Asshats like Rush Limbaugh ponder REALLY important issues like, "Do Americans want to watch a woman get old?"
When she cried during a speech on the campaign trail (I'm not going to take a stand on whether or not the tears were genuine) CNN's Glen Beck's initial comment was "It cries." Not she. IT! IT for Christ's sake! She has been criticised (by Beck) for lacking "femininity" and "humanity," but when she shows an actual emotion, she is greeted with nothing but snark.
Marc Rudov, author of such classics as The Man's No-Nonsense Guide To Women and Under the Clitoral Hood: How To Crank Her Engine Without Cash, Booze, or Jumper Cables said on a Fox News interview, "Men won't vote for Hillary Clinton because she reminds them of their nagging wives!" and "When Hillary talks [men] hear, 'Take out the garbage.'" Why exactly Marc "girls just love to expose themselves" Rudov is on Fox News talking about the presidential campaign is beyond me, but there he was.
Tucker Carlson and his bowtie pulled a Lorena Bobbitt reference out of nowhere when talking about Clinton. Apparently, the Hillary Clinton nutcracker wasn't enough. You have to find a more graphic way to let men know that having a woman in charge is the equivalent of having their boy parts removed.
Excellent.
Republican strategist Pete Snyder made a reference to taking her "behind the barn!"
Sweet limping Jesus!
Perhaps I should reiterate. These are examples of PAID PROFESSIONALS engaging in sexism that seems to not only be tolerated by my fellow Americans, but perhaps even supported.
So, I return now to the original focus of my feminist ire.
To the Diggers I quoted above: Y'all need to stop. Right effing now.
Be pissed that Clinton lies and panders to the voters. That is legit.
That anger makes you an American. The only reason we have a country is because we got tired of lies and bullshit.
Don't talk about jerking off to her tearful concession speech.
That makes you a dick.
God Bless America.
Ah, damn.
I have to.
This morning, a video was posted on Digg from YouTube. It was a mash-up that compiled news footage from 1992-2008 of Hillary Clinton, basically pandering (and occasionally lying) her ass off. The point being, of course, that Hillary is a bad person and should in no way be allowed to become president. Obama 08. Whoooo. You get the picture.
I must make it clear that I have very little problem with politicians getting called on their shit. As a people, it's important that we hold our leaders accountable. We have slacked on that responsibility as of late and now we have power-mad sadists running the show. Not cool. Anyway, my bitch is not with the video itself, it is with the comments from Diggers about the video. The bile spewed in these comments is symptomatic of a much larger issue.
While there were many, many thoughtful responses to the video from all over the political spectrum, there were a few that stopped me cold.
There were comments on Hillary's looks:
"1992 Hillary was hot"
"16 years does a lot to your looks"
There were comments rife with righteous indignation:
"Got ya, bitch"
"Fuck you, bitch"
And then my personal favorite:
"I'm gong to masturbate to Hillary's concession speech, and if she cries, I'm going to record it for future masturbatory material."
*sigh*
There seems to be a general sexism that Clinton has encountered on the campaign trail that is readily accepted by the American people at large. In addition to the truly in-depth political analysis you can find on sites like Digg and Reddit, Air America's Randi Rhodes called her a "fucking whore" at a media function. Granted, she was also talking about Geraldine Ferraro, but, really. Fucking whore? You get paid for this, Randi? Oh, wait. They fired you. So I guess you don't.
Asshats like Rush Limbaugh ponder REALLY important issues like, "Do Americans want to watch a woman get old?"
When she cried during a speech on the campaign trail (I'm not going to take a stand on whether or not the tears were genuine) CNN's Glen Beck's initial comment was "It cries." Not she. IT! IT for Christ's sake! She has been criticised (by Beck) for lacking "femininity" and "humanity," but when she shows an actual emotion, she is greeted with nothing but snark.
Marc Rudov, author of such classics as The Man's No-Nonsense Guide To Women and Under the Clitoral Hood: How To Crank Her Engine Without Cash, Booze, or Jumper Cables said on a Fox News interview, "Men won't vote for Hillary Clinton because she reminds them of their nagging wives!" and "When Hillary talks [men] hear, 'Take out the garbage.'" Why exactly Marc "girls just love to expose themselves" Rudov is on Fox News talking about the presidential campaign is beyond me, but there he was.
Tucker Carlson and his bowtie pulled a Lorena Bobbitt reference out of nowhere when talking about Clinton. Apparently, the Hillary Clinton nutcracker wasn't enough. You have to find a more graphic way to let men know that having a woman in charge is the equivalent of having their boy parts removed.
Excellent.
Republican strategist Pete Snyder made a reference to taking her "behind the barn!"
Sweet limping Jesus!
Perhaps I should reiterate. These are examples of PAID PROFESSIONALS engaging in sexism that seems to not only be tolerated by my fellow Americans, but perhaps even supported.
So, I return now to the original focus of my feminist ire.
To the Diggers I quoted above: Y'all need to stop. Right effing now.
Be pissed that Clinton lies and panders to the voters. That is legit.
That anger makes you an American. The only reason we have a country is because we got tired of lies and bullshit.
Don't talk about jerking off to her tearful concession speech.
That makes you a dick.
God Bless America.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Do you have a pamphlet on that?
Oh look, light.
Today I am recovering from a migraine headache. I don't have them often and I don't handle them well. In addition to the face-melting pain, I can't deal with light, or high pitched noises, my eyes can't focus, and I usually am in a really FOUL mood until the whole thing is over. Oh, and I throw up. A lot. The good thing is that, today, I can open my eyes, focus, and speak in full sentences. The pain and the foul mood are still very much intact. Wheee!
The only reason I am back among the living is because the Gipester took me to see a chiropractor yesterday. She was fantastic, more therapist, really, than medical doc. She scolded me soundly for the huge knots of muscle in my neck and shoulders. "I get the feeling you're not loving yourself the way you should," she said as she tried valiantly to get me to relax. Since I was face down on her scary-looking chiropractic table I couldn't really see what she was doing... There was tapping and an industrial strength massager that sounded a little bit like a belt sander.
Anyway, when she gave me the bit about "loving myself," I really wanted to open my mouth and make a joke about how long it had been since I'd owned a decent vibrator, but I didn't really get the chance. I opened my mouth to make my stupid joke, and I started crying. Not three-year-old-choking-on-your-own-snot crying, just crying. I will be forever grateful that she didn't mention it, or even ask me what was wrong. Which is good. If she had asked me, I don't know that I'd even be able to tell her.
I didn't cry for long. I don't anymore. A minute or two at a time is really all I can sustain. In some warped way, I think I'm trying not to inconvenience those around me. I cry enough to make whatever issue I'm dealing with just small enough to shove back in its file drawer. I wonder where the migraines come from...
I would never pretend that the way I deal with stress is healthy. It's actually pretty insane. I keep my minor irritations and tiny hurt feelings locked up because I don't think they are valid. I don't think they are valid, because if they were, the person who is currently hurting or irritating me wouldn't be hurting or irritating me. But they are, so hurting me must be the right course of action, therefore, I have no right to complain or be upset. When I complain about hurt feelings, I am irritating to others and that must be avoided or no one will ever love me and I will die alone. That about covers it.
Whew.
I realize that there are myriad things wrong with this line of thinking. You have to realize that this is me at my most irrational. These are the thoughts that are birthed directly from the id, before the ego and the superego have their chance to talk some sense into them. Assuming people know that they are being irritating or hurtful is ridiculous, especially if you choose not to engage them in conversation about the situation. But our gut reactions, the ones untempered by logic and reason, tend to guide much of what we do, so I thought mine deserved a little stage time.
So, the doc was right, I have a little bit of a self-love issue (who doesn't?) But here's the thing about all of this "loving myself" bullshit. It's one of those things that people will tell you to do, but they never really tell you HOW. They tell you to spend money on self-help books, CD recordings of Wiccans chanting in the rainforest, organic diet granola, mineral spa treatments and other useless shit, but isn't the lesson there that money equals love? I have to buy myself tantric yoga classes so that my self will love me? How dysfunctional is that?
So, my goal for the next month or so is to make a conscious effort to love myself in a healthy way. I will express my hurts, frustrations, joys, and excitements. To not do so is as unfair to the people I love and who love me as it is to myself. I will express opinions that I have thus far held back for fear of expressing something as silly as the wrong movie or restaurant preference. I will stop feeling embarrassment about being divorced and almost 30.
And maybe I'll take a tantric yoga class.
Today I am recovering from a migraine headache. I don't have them often and I don't handle them well. In addition to the face-melting pain, I can't deal with light, or high pitched noises, my eyes can't focus, and I usually am in a really FOUL mood until the whole thing is over. Oh, and I throw up. A lot. The good thing is that, today, I can open my eyes, focus, and speak in full sentences. The pain and the foul mood are still very much intact. Wheee!
The only reason I am back among the living is because the Gipester took me to see a chiropractor yesterday. She was fantastic, more therapist, really, than medical doc. She scolded me soundly for the huge knots of muscle in my neck and shoulders. "I get the feeling you're not loving yourself the way you should," she said as she tried valiantly to get me to relax. Since I was face down on her scary-looking chiropractic table I couldn't really see what she was doing... There was tapping and an industrial strength massager that sounded a little bit like a belt sander.
Anyway, when she gave me the bit about "loving myself," I really wanted to open my mouth and make a joke about how long it had been since I'd owned a decent vibrator, but I didn't really get the chance. I opened my mouth to make my stupid joke, and I started crying. Not three-year-old-choking-on-your-own-snot crying, just crying. I will be forever grateful that she didn't mention it, or even ask me what was wrong. Which is good. If she had asked me, I don't know that I'd even be able to tell her.
I didn't cry for long. I don't anymore. A minute or two at a time is really all I can sustain. In some warped way, I think I'm trying not to inconvenience those around me. I cry enough to make whatever issue I'm dealing with just small enough to shove back in its file drawer. I wonder where the migraines come from...
I would never pretend that the way I deal with stress is healthy. It's actually pretty insane. I keep my minor irritations and tiny hurt feelings locked up because I don't think they are valid. I don't think they are valid, because if they were, the person who is currently hurting or irritating me wouldn't be hurting or irritating me. But they are, so hurting me must be the right course of action, therefore, I have no right to complain or be upset. When I complain about hurt feelings, I am irritating to others and that must be avoided or no one will ever love me and I will die alone. That about covers it.
Whew.
I realize that there are myriad things wrong with this line of thinking. You have to realize that this is me at my most irrational. These are the thoughts that are birthed directly from the id, before the ego and the superego have their chance to talk some sense into them. Assuming people know that they are being irritating or hurtful is ridiculous, especially if you choose not to engage them in conversation about the situation. But our gut reactions, the ones untempered by logic and reason, tend to guide much of what we do, so I thought mine deserved a little stage time.
So, the doc was right, I have a little bit of a self-love issue (who doesn't?) But here's the thing about all of this "loving myself" bullshit. It's one of those things that people will tell you to do, but they never really tell you HOW. They tell you to spend money on self-help books, CD recordings of Wiccans chanting in the rainforest, organic diet granola, mineral spa treatments and other useless shit, but isn't the lesson there that money equals love? I have to buy myself tantric yoga classes so that my self will love me? How dysfunctional is that?
So, my goal for the next month or so is to make a conscious effort to love myself in a healthy way. I will express my hurts, frustrations, joys, and excitements. To not do so is as unfair to the people I love and who love me as it is to myself. I will express opinions that I have thus far held back for fear of expressing something as silly as the wrong movie or restaurant preference. I will stop feeling embarrassment about being divorced and almost 30.
And maybe I'll take a tantric yoga class.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)