My friends think I'm crazy. This isn't generally news, except that this particular instance of certifiable cuckoo-ness is rearing its ugly head in about a week, when Americans sit down to the standard American Thanksgiving Gorge-Fest of turkey, mashed potatoes, candied yams, butter butter butter, cream cream cream, bacon'd green beans...and the ultimate icon of the Thanksgiving Feast, the pumpkin pie. And then they pray, and they pray, and they pray, pray, pray, that the Good Lord hears their Words of Thanks.
If the gluttonous feasting weren't enough, there's the overabundance of relatives if your family successfully guilted you into spending a random Thursday with your nearest and most-loathed, people with whom you argue every other day of the year if you talk or ignore if you don't. Or the pity with which you're bombarded by knowing coworkers and friends if you've chosen to go it alone. And then the thanks. The prayer of thanks. One single, solitary day of the year dedicated to saying aloud the things for which you're thankful, as if it were the orgasmic culmination of a year-long sack session, saving it all up for a single moment to out-thank everyone at the dinner table.
Frankly, I hate Thanksgiving. Let's forget the realities behind the Pilgrims and the Indians' supposedly friendly food contract; the reality I'm presenting is, why save it all up for one day? Why are we unfriendly, ungrateful, and selfish the rest of the year, not spending time with our families or taking the time to let the people we love know how much we appreciate them?
I could go on and on about why I hate Thanksgiving, but trying a new tack here, I'd like to set an example and state a few things I'm thankful for today, rather than wait until next Thursday.
Man, I'm awfully grateful for my partnership with Sir, whom I've begun calling Mountain Man ever since he started growing darling beard curls and head curls all over from the shoulders up. Without Mountain Man, I doubt I could have successfully weaned myself off my parents, learned out to stand up for myself against rowdy Californian drivers, worked my ass off at a job I hated to gain the respect of people I liked, moved to a wholly new state and learned how NOT to pump my own gas, or gained the confidence to take my life into my own hands and appreciate the woman I'm becoming.
Even the strangest of bananas has a band of friends to support her, and I'm no different. Without the EvilSlutopia.com women, I wouldn't have met Mountain Man or his amazing mother, and I wouldn't have attempted easing my writing into a more conversational format. Without Dre, I wouldn't know the comfort and ease that I see in JD and Turk's friendship, and feel blessed that I have someone I can call Dr. Dre or Fraiva, interchangably; there is no one else who would appreciate a game of Frisbee in winter rain, wearing matching orange tap shorts, with me.
I am so lucky to have a job. I am so lucky to have a job in the industry I'm in. I am SO, SO, SO lucky to be working for a company willing to do whatever it takes to help me gain the qualifications to do my job, even if that means dumping thousands and thousands of dollars into my training. Because of my employer's confidence in me, I can keep a roof over our head and heat on our bodies and food in our bellies.
I can read. Every day, I am so happy that Mrs. Reesen taught me to read phonetically, a concept that educators of that day thought of as wasteful due to my hearing impairment. Mrs. Reesen had never heard that a deaf girl couldn't learn to read phonetically, and because of this, I am among the 10% of all hearing-impaired youngsters who actually excelled academically, most of us having done so due to that early benefit of having a teacher like mine.
I'm healthy. For years, I didn't have health insurance, but I had the luck to be of sound mind and body.
My relationship with my family is tight. Things were tough, but time truly does heal all wounds. As my backbone is growing stronger, my familial ties are getting healthier, and there seems to be a lot of respect all around. I have my family's love and support.
I got a rad momma-in-law! I really lucked out...I am forever a changed person thanks to her.
You don't need to wait for Thanksgiving to let out your ecstatic cry; tell me what you're thankful for today!
Last night was a very emotional night for everyone, I think. The reasons one voted for their candidate aren't really my business, and I honestly believe that most people voted according to what they knew best and the research they had put into it, as well as how they believed, so the things I've overheard people saying in the last weeks, that you're stupid if you vote for So-and-So, were pretty hurtful to me. It's easy to see why one would prefer McCain to Obama. And vice versa. I voted for Obama for a variety of reasons that made sense to me, but not necessarily to someone else.
Personally, I cried when I watched Obama's speech, because at the core of it was that something shattered in the American system--when I was told in first grade that I could grow up to be President, and then I saw the procession of president after president, none of whom really LOOKED or acted different, I threw that out the window. Obama's victory, whether one voted for or against him, seemed to me to exemplify that old story that you really COULD grow up to be president.
Whether your candidate won or not, last night was one of the most patriotic things I've ever seen, and for the first time in my life, I can say that the American people spoke out and declared their choice.
On a sunny fall Sunday in college, my roomie and I used to get in the old red pickup and drive over to Moscow, Idaho to indulge in one of our favorite treats, Mexican mochas splashed with a liberal dose of cinnamon in a quaint bookstore/coffeeshop, Bucer's. Unfortunately, I can't handle cinnamon anymore except for those few devil-may-care, freewheeling, happy moments where I throw all caution to the wind and ask for just a sprinkle of cinnamon. WHOO!
Back in those days, though, I had no idea the day would ever arrive when I came into my full inheritance of my dad's cinnamon allergy, and I indulged, oh, I did, like a wallowing pig. Bucer's, an old, renovated shop of elderly brick masonry, had gorgeous wooden planked floors and a massive table that seated 64 people that dominated the center of the room. The lighting was dark except by the front store window, and if you sauntered into the back, you could study in a real, live cigar lounge that still had lingering wafts of their signature cherry pipe tobacco you could buy at the front counter, along with a handmade clay pipe featuring a mermaid stolen off some old-time ship. Once in a while they were lucky enough to carry Janus, the powerful two-faced god of the ancient Romans.
On days like today, well into the fall and deep into the school season, brisk, sunny, chilly, with all the leaves falling off the trees in my backyard, I start thinking wistfully about grabbing my old roomie and stuffing ourselves into my old pickup truck, and driving over to Bucer's. There are many coffeeshops, and all are dear to their beloved patrons, but for me there will always, ever, only, be Bucer's.
Shut up. I wasn't done for the night. It so happens that when it rains, it pours, and when I want to write, I want to write.
Around-abouts, oh, say, 3am, I was coming out of decent REM mode, groggily in that stage where you're finally getting your body back under control, when I caught a whiff of some awful stench. Poo, it smelled like. I came fully awake, sat straight up, and looked around in the dark, sniffing madly, trying to SUCK the sulfurous smell into my nasal cavities. I was thinking that perhaps the dog had made a mess of her cage, but before I moved to investigate, I looked toward where Sir sleeps, and could not for the life of me make him out under the fifty blankets I'd piled on the bed when the temp dropped below 50.
Maybe I'm, I don't know, mad, but I convinced myself he was cleaning up dog shit. However, I still wanted to be sure, so what did I do? I GROPED his side of the bed, grabbing a big chunk of Sir in the meantime, who was, after all, asleep under the blankets.
At that time, the smell dissipated; I got up to see if I'd made UP the smell, and indeed, the dog was quietly sleeping in the bat cave. And in the meantime, Sir, being fed up with my shenanigans and looney-tunes-ness, stalked to the couch to sleep off the rest of his hangover.
Everyone has an Achille's heel when it comes to finances, whether that be wanton spending or an iron grip on your penny bank, and everyone has something to work on. Recently, I started working for a bank; I don't need anyone to tell me how fortunate I am to have a job in this economy, let alone one in an industry threatened by the excesses of Wall Street, and every day I see people from all walks of life. Nothing stands as a more truthful testimony to the very real differences in American citizens and our friendly non-Americans who live in this country as the state of their finances. It's difficult to stare into the eyes of a man who looks for all the world like he should have a healthy savings account at his age, and tell him he's overdrawn and doesn't have enough funds in his other accounts to cover the overdraft. And it shakes you to have to reassure an elderly couple that their life's savings will weather this storm, after they've just watched their CDs shrink a couple hundred-thousand.
I started off to talk about my personal weakness; it's difficult to be light-hearted, but I strive, anyway. I am so, so, so fortunate to have a job, not only in this country, but in this particular, local area. I am so fucking fortunate that I can afford to keep a roof over our heads and provide food for my dog and Sir and myself, pay our bills, and keep Sir steadily connected to the internet so he can do his homework. Every day, I see someone who can't, and more often than not, I see a lot of people who can't.
It becomes ever so much more important to pay attention to the things that are happening in this country, because these things have a way of affecting all of us, no matter how much we try to ignore what may seem like an overwhelming tide of bad news. Innumerable blogs covered the recent faux pas (or what I'd call doggy doo-doo) of McCain in the last debate, in which he slighted women, putting their health between air quotes. I have listened to men who feel their rights are threatened by the focus on women's issues, and I've heard people bemoan the emphasis on women's health, asking why can't the focus be on the economy/foreign policy/you-name-it.
People, women's issues affect us all. Women, who make 77 cents to every dollar a man makes, spent $3.7 trillion in 2007 alone. No other group, not men, not people with disabilities, not Hispanic/Latino groups, not African Americans, not people with alternative lifestyles - NOT ONE GROUP spent more money than women. If women had equal pay, what would our economy look like, knowing that women are the ones handling bills, purchasing groceries, taking care of gifts, and yes, buying shoes? What if they had that extra 23 cents an hour and they could take on an equal share of their families' breadwinning duties, maybe even give daddy a break so he doesn't have to panic about how to support his family in this economic crisis? What if we were so successful in empowering women that we set a positive example for other nations to emulate our success? Imagine our foreign policies if we had more quality examples of women in ambassadorial positions. Imagine what our families would look like if everyone let women decide for themselves how they wanted to plan their lives - what if we had women raising generations of children that were confident, smart, proactive and compassionate?
Women's issues affect us all, all the way down to our everyday decisions of how to apply what little money we have coming in so we don't have overdrafts. You can come up with myriad reasons why women's issues might ruin the country, but you'd have to admit that just as many reasons exist why solving women's issues just might ease a great deal of problems. Something to think about.
Oregon. Ah, Oregon. You of the "Westward - HO!" trail fame, with your open tracts of land once up for the grabbing provided one had the pluck and fortitude to keep it. You, about whom particular conservatives sent emails to warn me about speed bumps signs that now read, "gentle speed adjusters." You, in whom one can meet over the course of a single day, more than five Christopher McCandless followers, all panting after a life amid foliage and animals. You, whose ultra-liberal policies gave me a job within two weeks of moving.
Sarah Palin has the exact degree that I have. I majored in Communications...and so did she! I should totally vote for her! Or, wait. It was University of Idaho where she got her degree, and mine came from less than 5 miles across the border...at Washington State University, where the Edward R. Murrow School of Communications, an internationally-recognized school of communications and journalism, is located.
University of Idaho probably had a decent program. Mine was better. 'Cause, like, my school could afford to hire better teachers and maintain actual research facilities.
Remember the story about the man who, when out on a social call with his aging mother, was telling a story when Ma dropped her lit cigarette into her purse and Son, without batting an eye, dumped his cup of tea in, shut the purse and continued his narration?
Wonder where the High Five came from?
Or why the provocative Calvin Klein ads (ok, so maybe that one was easy)?
How about this: who was the man responsible for prodding President Reagan into pushing AIDS/HIV prevention and education programs?
Check out Gay For Today, a blog I stumbled across today.
*Sir: for being alseep on the day I'm wearing my first-ever matching bra and panties. Boo.
*Dr. Dre: for being in grad school doing an internship in a place that rhymes with tuna. Boo.
*Brandy-You're-A-Fine-Girl: for being paid to drink scads of wine. Boo.
*Sushi: for being delicious. Boo.
*Honda: for making Pilots, which made me cry on the road today thinking of my momma-in-law. Boo.
*Work: for being work. Die.
*Smashbox: for making a mascara that TOTALLY doesn't live up to its promise. Boo.
*Jezlil: for being across the country this weekend when we should be plotting foul deeds with Corona (and Carlos Rossi, my new boyfriend). Boo.
*My brother: for making a baby that I'm going to fall in love with against my will.
Horrible, ungrateful, slutty hookers, all of 'em. Especially my brother. Who does he think he is? Doesn't he know that every kid he has is going to squench itself into my yukky, black heart and spit out chunks of tissue to lodge themselves firmly in my chest? What's worse is that his daughter grows every single day and all that growing hurts. What am I going to do with TWO of those growing in my heart? Fuck. I have to make lists of things to teach the new one that my brother didn't think to teach the older one. Things like how to successfully blackmail Big Sis without sounding stupid.
California has redeemed itself. How could I have doubted loveliness existed in this horrible state? Shame on me; Sir and I have only just found our way home from a trip to Joshua Tree National Park, where we spent the night sleeping in our Forrester and today hiking, me in a bikini or naked, at varying times. Although I grew up in the arid desert of Washington state, I'd never experienced a true high desert and I was anxious to see the Joshua trees.
Before I left work yesterday, my boss told me that one sees God in such a place. I can't speak for others, but while I certainly did not see God, the beauty of the giant boulders juxtaposed against a blue-blue sky with strange little man-trees, arms raised upward, placed here and there and then more and more frequently until you're surrounded by a forest of what's really a very tall lily...how can you experience anything but awe? A mountain of nothing more than rubble from millions of years ago had me trying to imagine the process that took place to set each boulder, one on top of the other. I climbed over enormous rocks and inspected them to find that they were composed of compacted crystals and sand, heated together by the sun and prehistoric upwellings of lava that also shaped them into forms that you just don't see in nature--go, see for yourself--find the Skull Rock.
I couldn't help but think of Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire, in which he wrote about the Utah desert: (paraphrased) "get out of your car, start walking--nay, crawling--and touch each plant, experience that hot sun, get lost for hours." It frustrated me to see tourists taking pictures from the safety of their air-conditioned vehicles without ever opening the door to get out and start scrambling over rocks and daring to leave the trails. It angered me to see the blatant disrespect for native wildlife as Sir and I picked up trash left by those who HAD gotten out, only to view the solitary wilderness as an opportunity for unhindered partying.
It was beautiful. Go. Be brave enough to explore, even in the heat of the sun...don't be afraid to venture off the paved roads and hike the back-country trails. But please...respect it--take everything out that you brought in, and pick up what others have left behind.
Since becoming one half of a monogamous, hopefully-happily-married pair, I've been bummed that I couldn't call myself a slut anymore. An evil slut, that is. However, since observing this shirt and wishing I could wear the sexually-innuendoed version and remembering that I am, after all, married, I realized a few things.
A) I stopped for lots of "snacks" and potty breaks on the way off Abstinence Avenue. B) I missed the Missionary exit and got off on Kamasutra Lane. C) I didn't follow the Bush-approved marriage path--I'm getting my plumbing fixed before having kids.
I suppose you could say, "once a slut, always a slut." Your slutty, tarty ways just can't be quelled; you just overwhelm one person rather than many.
And now back to our regular bitching: what the fuck is with these California drivers?
I spend my mornings driving to work pondering and analyzing driving patterns, and I've come up with a list of habits that seem common to the average Cali driver, regardless of where he or she originally comes from--why that is, I don't know. I have my suspicions...
Dear California Drivers,
First, we have the blinkers. You know, "turn signals"? Those things that are probably not familiar to you that jab out from the left side of your steering wheel? Yeah, those. Can we discuss your non-use of the blinkers? What's that all about? You expect everyone around you to rely on intuition and/or psychic powers to know when you're about to change lanes quite suddenly, and usually the only warning is a strange weaving pattern you do in your lane, back and forth, before you finally move over--without the courtesy to let the driver who's already there know what you're doing. Hi, yeah, that was me you almost ran into--which brings me to the next bad habit on my list...
You don't bother to look around you. Really; didn't you learn in driver's ed what that strange, shiny apparatus hanging from your front windshield was? Or maybe the things that stick out from either side of your front doors? Or, if somehow they're not there, maybe just looking over your shoulder--hell, even looking slightly to the left before you moved into MY lane, the lane that I occupied, would have helped. A short man in a neck brace could have done it. But I guess your cell conversation was more important than my safety...
Look, I admit that I have occasionally indulged in a cell conversation here and there, but here's where you and I differ: if I HAVE to talk on the phone, I put my driving first--the other person has to suffer through a conversation of nothing more difficult than talking about rainbows. Philosophical discussions? Dinner plans? Wait 'til I get home. I wish it helped that California recently passed a law making talking on your cells illegal, but you don't seem capable of following current events, and you've decided that participating in one of the most dangerous of our daily activities isn't worth the effort to concentrate.
But what really drives me nuts is how you drive in the farthest right lane, the lane that empties off the freeway, or allows drivers on, and you drive 20 mph below the speed limit. Perhaps you're not aware of how little time most drivers have to go from 20 to 60 in order to merge onto the freeway, with as little space as we're given, but really, unless you're slowing down to get off, why don't you move your slow ass over a lane to the left? Why do you bother riding in that lane for miles and miles?
I'm sure I could think of more things you do that annoy me, but for now, get off your phones, put your foot on the gas, and use your blinkers!
I have to do it. Again. Be sappy, that is; I'm afraid this blog is turning out to be mostly appreciation for the people around me, which is nice, I guess, but where's the spit? The fire? Oh, yeah, I expend my energy on the road and all I've got time for these days is frustration over other drivers.
Carrying on: one of my favorite blog-o-sphere writers recently wrote a blog about what she wanted out of life--namely, love. But it wasn't what she wrote that got to me so much as what one of her commenters said:
I’ve been with my husband for 17 years. We’ve had big ups and downs and many struggles. But he’s still the one I want holding my hand when something goes wrong and he’s still the one I want to hug and kiss me every night before I go to bed. I can’t imagine a life where I’d ever be able to “breathe” if he weren’t in it.
I speak of my friends over at Evilslutopia.com frequently, or JezeLilith, as they're better known in my personal life when referring to both simultaneously (kind of like Sirquita, which sounds like a really exotic tequila, which I won't be having anytime soon, rum being a better friend). A while back, things in my life weren't going so awfully swell, and predictably, I fell into a bit of a depression. Or, if you're going to have some idea of what amazing friends they are, you'll have to understand what they helped me overcome, which means I have to pull my head out of my ass and stop making light of what was going on. I don't deal well with being broke, out of a job, dependent on someone else for everything from tampons to my basic daily needs (like food). In fact, I don't deal at all. My method of handling stress is to turn it all inward and pretend my problems don't exist--I find a hole in my head to crawl into and disappear. I need a job? I read a book, clean the house, take the dog to the park, scour the internet for my next shopping bag...anything but deal with the problem by doing something about it. Sure, I did send out numerous resumes and contact numerous people, but after the sixth job rejection in two weeks, I shut everything down and quit looking for jobs. My relationship with Sir nearly disintegrated at a few points under the stress of our individual job stresses, plus my lack of effort in searching.
At the height of this depression, at my breaking point, Lilith and Jezebel stepped in and intervened in a manner that was crucial to restoring my confidence and giving me the boot I needed to start searching again. They suggested that I do some guest blog entries on their website, featuring women in art throughout history; the idea was dynamite in my arsecrack--they had no sooner suggested it than I was already researching my favorite women and looking for more inspiring women to feature in future blogs.
Yesterday, they put up the hardest blog I've written, about Frida Kahlo. Trying to write about her life was like (sorry to borrow an aged and overused expression) nailing Jell-O to the wall. Green Jell-O. How do you write about someone who left behind a body of artwork as her autobiography? How do you delve into her mind and try to get an accurate picture of what she was trying to say? The outcome, I think, is something to be proud of.
And Jezebel and Lilith? Thanks for the kick in the right direction. First you caused my marriage, then you caused me to be happy again. You troublemakers with strong personalities, you.
There is one word echoing in my skull's empty caverns, and I'm certain beginning and ending, not to mention filling up, a blog with the word AWESOME doesn't cut it as far as content goes, but I'm really tempted to sum up my trip to Seattle thusly nonetheless regardless (<--that, if my favorite college roomie, henceforth known as Dr. Dre, was reading, would be ticklesome because her boyfriend's most oft-used words for most of our three years rooming together were: thusly, nonetheless and regardless). Southwest Airlines doesn't have pretty planes built after 1980, but they let me preboard so I didn't miss the announcement and I got to pick my own seat, so I forgave them the uncomfortable fake leather seats. Seattle's wretched coldness strengthened my resolve to enjoy the sun while I'm in California even if it gets over 100 for 3 months in a row, and mandated the purchase of a new North Face jacket prior to a baseball game between the two worst teams in some professional league or other on the national level (sports be not my realm of interest). My momma-in-law, the Baroness, provided a two-day getaway vacation to her new landholdings in Eastern Washington, which was in the throes of a beautiful early summer. The view from her expansive deck out over the Yakima river lends the viewer incredible peace--river, miles and miles of gentle hills, small mountains in the distance, stars at night...
Friends were seen, family loved on. My sushi appetite was sated, temporarily.
When I pulled my hot pink suitcase home, however, the most wonderful present awaited me: Sir, home, attached to a land-bound posting so he can be home every night, not on a ship sailing out to sea for two months. No amount of fun and revelry away from home can ever make up for the happiness of coming home to Sir.
Amongst my group of girlfriends, when one is panty-peeing excited, there's a word we yell [type] out: SQUEEEEEEE!!! In order for it to work properly and adequately convey the level of excitement, one adds/subtracts "E"s and exclamation points.
Thus:
Girlfriend: SQEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!! Me: You got engaged, right?
Girlfriend: SQUEE! Me: You saw a beluga whale at SeaWorld?
There's also the drunken "squee" that occurs whilst typing online between ourselves, but that usually involves significant typing errors that can only be authentically reproduced by the imbibed-impaired themselves.
That said, there is some measure of "squee-ing" occurring in my life today. At somewhere around 1pm, a shuttle is picking me and my hot pink suitcase up from my home and depositing me at the San Diego Airport, where I'll purchase magazines and...fly home. To Washington, to Seattle, to things I know and people I love. Ordinarily the ensuing squee would look like this: SQUEEE!! but for one drawback, a not insignificant fact that casts a dark shadow on my excitement. Sir, courtesy of the Navy, will not be going with me, and this morning I kissed my last kiss until August.
Sir has been away for a full week on job-related duties that involve boats (--ships!) and oil spills (oops). It's been a miserly week for him, so to cheer myself up I got my hair cut. My idea of taking care of my hair is usually cutting it myself and feeling proud if I get it colored once a year, so it was a daunting decision. Nevertheless, I prepared. I took in my obligatory photos of Keira Knightley and proceeded to spend fifteen minutes telling the stylist what I wanted, only I wasn't sure what I wanted, does she know what I want? But I don't want THAT, I want this, for sure, or maybe not, YOU decide. Do I or don't I want to be able to tuck a bit of hair behind my ear? THESE ARE BIG DECISIONS. Or how about the color? I want THIS, but not really that. Even though they're the SAME thing.
I think after a while she decided I didn't know WHAT I wanted so she'd take care of poor little Chiquita.
This is the result. Sexy, no? I'm pleased. If you're in the San Diego area and thinking, "oh shit, I need to look great for the beach!" try hitting up the Hair and Body Bar out in Point Loma. Dahling, it's fabulous.
However, I didn't inform Sir of the hair excursion and the resulting expense, so when he told me he'd be getting drunk with me tonight (waggly eyebrows are happening on my forehead as I type this), I realized I ought to fess up. It's not like I can hide the shoe bag or the new mascara I bought (hey! My old mascara was from LAST YEAR. You don't want me to go blind, do you?), so I set out to write him an email. Here's how I prepped him:
Babe, I look a little different....
I walked into three doors, had a major car accident on Tuesday that I didn't tell you about that I had to go to the hospital for, I've got stitches holding my right eyebrow to my face from where I hit the steering column, and that mysterious bump I had on my forehead weeks ago is back, inexplicably. Oh, and I had your dog with me in the car when I had the accident. She's limping.
The great thing about emails is that, for dramatic emphasis, you have two options. You can send another email later, or you can hit the Enter button lots and lots of times. After lots of Enter-ing, I finally said:
Actually, I just cut my hair. The dog's fine. I'm fine.
Speaking of hair, I think my husband is going to be one hot silver-haired lad.
Here's where I admit, after a perusal through my blog, that I swear a lot. This might offend a lot of people, but after growing up as an apologist, I've decided not to make restitutions for what I acknowledge as a possible character flaw. Certainly I'd cringe to find out my childhood pastor and his wife read my site.
As dearly as I loved my pastor and his family, I realized that most of the dreams I had were unachievable so long as I put great stock in how they viewed me, especially with regards to whether or not they'd allow me to babysit their youngest daughter knowing what a mouth I've got on me. That's all well and good, except that I used to dream of being a writer until I realized that I couldn't ever own up to anything I wrote if there was a chance they'd read it. Fuck what my family thought; I knew obligatory society rules would protect me from permanent outcast status and eventually they'd come around to seeing what I see or at least agreeing to disagree. I couldn't grasp of a world in which the elders that I respected thought of me as a bad person, and I adapted my outlook to fit the sort of person I felt I ought to be.
Entering college was the cliche eye-opening experience in which I began to cautiously engage in various behaviors I'd previously thought of as despicable: I smoked, I swore, I drank (underage!), I lied. Each transgression was worse than the next as time wore on, until I couldn't see myself as a good person any longer. After graduating college, I'd fallen into a depression wherein I felt myself to be a worthless human being, living in my parents house and unable to find a job with my expensive degree. It culminated to a head one night as I cracked open a fresh bottle of Sapphire gin and proceeded to dump the contents down my throat, one martini glass straight at a time; I stripped myself naked and locked myself into the bathroom. My parents, understandably worried, broke down the door and spent the night praying over me, willing me to live through the night. I've wondered why they didn't get my stomach pumped considering the nearly-lethal amount I'd consumed on an empty stomach. My Irish cast-iron stomach failed me, for the first time in nearly 20 years. The following days were black, but I no longer had the courage to care if I died nor the energy to blot out my life. Ironically, I lost the last shreds of my faith somewhere along the lines when I realized there was nothing waiting for me at the end of my life, only the memories of what I've done with the life I have.
It wasn't long after that I met the man I fell in love with (with help from my friends at Evilslutopia.com) and eventually married; in many ways, he's been my reason for living and the force that propels me through my days. Because of his support and unwavering love, I found it in myself to face the dreams that I'd long ago schucked to the wayside in favor of modeling my life after a person I couldn't be and began looking for the me I wanted to be. I've embraced my vulgar and intellectual sides equally, realizing that the intense pleasure I get from a well-executed swear word is as valid a reason to continue as is the intense pleasure of a great roll in the hay or my love of collecting outdated idiomatic phrases.
So if in my vulgarity I offend, I hope you find diamonds in the rough elsewhere. Or else, there's the door. It's a small "x" on your screen that allows you to vacate the premises.
After looking around The Pill Kills website created by the American Life League, I wanted to put out a PSA to remind the Internet that when you're getting your information from the great World Wide Web, you gotta consider the source. Me, included. You might wonder why you should listen to me telling you what questionable content I found on their website, but here's the thing: consider what I have to say, but do your own research. Don't take anyone's word at face value, and that means my word, too.
That said, let's take a look at some of the cringe-worthy gems.
I suppose they're overlooking the possibility that that was the purpose after all--to keep from getting pregnant. Hmmm.
The point they're trying to make is that pregnancy begins at conception--that is, the joining of an egg and a sperm to create a zygote. However, pregnancy technically begins at implantation, which can occur as soon as 6-8 days after conception, at which point it can be detected by pregnancy tests. Here's a pretty fuckin' funny animated video to illustrate what happens from conception to implantation. So basically, until implantation happens, you're not technically pregnant. Many things can happen to prevent implantation (pregnancy): an inhospitable uterus, ectopic pregnancy (pregnancy outside the uterus), etc. Also, it hasn't been proven that the Pill actually prevents implantation; the Pill is made up of estrogen and progestin (if you're on the combo-pack)--estrogen prevents the ovaries from releasing eggs in the first place, and progestin thickens the mucus on the uterine wall, which blocks sperm from joining the egg (if one's been released). It hasn't been proven that the Pill prevents a fertilized egg from attaching itself to the uterine wall (answered under How Do Birth Control Pills Work?).
Can I make it any clearer? You're not aborting a pregnancy by taking the Pill.
The List of Side Effects: *Acne: Did you know? It's a common benefit that the Pill actually helps clear skin. They listed a ton of side effects that are incredibly rare--you have to have a distinct sensitivity to various components of the Pill, like estrogen.
*Many of the listed side effects are symptoms of not having the right dosage. For instance, I had a lot of spotting (which is listed as a serious side effect) when I was on a different Pill (Desogen, to be exact) with a really low estrogen level, and I was also feeling depressed. I switched to the one I use now (Ortho-Tricyclen), and my mood improved and I'm able to regulate my periods better.
*Spiritual:
A couple taking the pill: "Hence to use this divine gift [the sexual act] while depriving it [taking contraception], even if only partially, of its meaning and purpose, is equally repugnant to the nature of man and of woman, and is consequently in opposition to the plan of God and His holy will."
Seriously, I couldn't make that up. I thought the nature of man and of woman was to have jolly fun in the sack, but I guess God thinks sex is only for making babies.
Speaking of the "nature of man and of woman," here's a slight tangent. I thought you might like to know another view of why we have sex:
Q: What about the human instinct to breed?
Humans, like all creatures, have urges which lead to reproduction. Our biological urge is to have sex, not to make babies. Our "instinct to breed" is the same as a squirrel's instinct to plant trees: the urge is to store food, trees are a natural result. If sex is an urge to procreate, then hunger's an urge to defecate.
Culturally-induced desires can be so strong that they seem to be biological, but no evolutionary mechanism for an instinct to breed exists. Why do we stop breeding after we've had as many as we want? If the instinct is to reproduce, how are so many of us able to over ride it? There are too many who have never felt that urge: mutations don't occur in this high a percentage of a population.
Looking to our evolutionary roots, imagine Homo erectus feeling the urge to create a new human. He then has to understand that a cavewoman is needed, sexual intercourse must be engaged in, and they will have to wait nine months.
Considering how often our species has the urge for sex, it's likely human sexuality serves primarily a pair-bonding function rather than procreative. Human infants are vulnerable for so long that their survival, in prehistoric times, may have depended on a strong pair bond between parents. Bonobos, perhaps our closest biological relative, engage in sex for social reasons far more than for reproductive reasons. From vhemt.org
*Relationship:
Ways in which the pill destroys relationships:
It easily opens the door for marital infidelity;
it especially opens the door for temptation to youth;
"a man who grows accustomed to the use of contraceptive methods may forget the reverence due to a woman, and... reduce her to being a mere instrument for the satisfaction of his own desires, no longer considering her as his partner whom he should surround with care and affection."
I told my husband he must have gotten used to my contraceptive methods and started thinking irreverently about me. I guess I must be a fuck doll. Poor me. Not to mention that one or both of us might have some sort of marital infidelity ('cause it's easier, didn't you know?), and if that happens, it's all the Pill's fault. Good to know, right?
Let's look at just a few of their resources for compiling that list of side effects:
1 Randy Alcorn, Does the Birth Control Pill Cause Abortions? (Gresham, OR: Eternal Perspective Ministries, 1998), 29-30 (online condensation by Randy Alcorn; accessed April 14, 2008).
Q: How does the pill work? A: The birth control pill and similar birth control products work in a woman's body in one of three ways: It can prevent ovulation and it can obstruct sperm from reaching the egg (prevent fertilization) by thickening the cervical mucus. However, if both of these methods fail and a new human person is created, the pill and other contraceptives can stop a tiny child's implantation in his/her mother's womb because the pill irritates the lining of the uterus so that the tiny baby boy or baby girl cannot attach to the lining of the uterus and the newly formed human person is aborted and dies. This is called a chemical abortion.
It's widely accepted in medical fields to use the term "fetus" in order to avoid the complications involved in using the hotly-contested term of "child" or "baby" before it's born. However, notice the distinct lack of tact.
Q: How does the pill kill babies? A: This can happen because the pill and other birth control products can prevent implantation from occurring. When the preborn baby implants in the womb, the baby establishes a connection with the mother so that he or she can receive the sustenance needed to grow. If the preborn baby cannot implant in the mother's womb, he or she will die.
Ok, let me quote one more and then I'll make my remarks...
Q: Isn't it better to be on the pill when you are sexually active? A: Better for whom? The pill does not prevent you from getting a sexually transmitted disease, it is not 100 percent effective in preventing pregnancy and you could conceive a child who gets chemically aborted before the baby's presence is even known to you. Moreover, sexual activity outside of marriage is seriously wrong.
So's being a judgmental prick. Whew, so that's out of my system, here's what I was going to say regarding the last two I quoted: isn't the point of the Pill to prevent pregnancy? Obviously when one's taking the Pill, they're hoping for just such a thing to happen. Perhaps not in such gruesome terms as causing an "abortion" to happen, but here's something else that they're not telling you here: Planned Parenthood is upfront about the possible effects of the Pill. It's not a dirty secret they're hiding. It's also not proven that birth control prevents the fertilized egg from implanting itself into the uterine wall.
Q: The Supreme Court has ruled that it's my right to privacy -- who do you think you are to say otherwise? A: On June 7, 1965, the U.S. Supreme Court handed down the Griswold v. Connecticut decision. The Supreme Court justices first presumed that previous Court decisions dealing with a citizen's right to liberty and security that prohibited invasion of one's home and acquisition of evidence that might later be used to convict him of a crime also addressed privacy within marriage. In fact, the justices argued, "The concept of liberty is not so restricted... it embraces the right of marital privacy though that right is not mentioned explicitly [emphasis added] in the Constitution" and is based on "specific guarantees in the Bill of Rights [which] have penumbras, formed by emanations from those guarantees that help give them life and substance." 5
This confusing language, which has no relationship whatsoever to what the Founding Fathers intended, gave married women permission to use the birth control pill. The Supreme Court literally created the "right to privacy" out of thin air.
We now know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that not only did the Supreme Court literally make up the right that you claim gives you permission to use birth control, but the most popular form of birth control, the pill, can kill innocent preborn children. If there is a chance that human beings are going to be murdered, I am going to do everything in my power to help prevent that from happening. If you knew there was a chance that someone might poison your neighbor, don't you think you would try to notify your neighbor and do as much as you could to help save a life?
I don't know if you caught that, but what they're advocating is allowing the government to regulate what happens in your private life by stating that women's rights and privacy within marriage are NOT covered by the Bill of Rights and were never intended to be covered according to the Founding Fathers. Not to mention, wow; I'm supposed to feel like a murderer if I choose not to continue with an unwanted pregnancy, bringing a child into a world where I might be ill-equipped to provide the basic elements of a good life, because I'd try to save my neighbor from being poisoned? TOTALLY NOT THE SAME THING.
And the last gem from the Talking Points:
Q: Why does Planned Parenthood say the pill does not cause an abortion? A: Planned Parenthood and other organizations cover up the reality that the birth control pill can, in fact, kill a preborn baby. They have a vested interest in lying to young women because they exploit them. Planned Parenthood brainwashes young girls by telling them that the pill merely prevents pregnancy, when the fact is that the pill can act after fertilization, which is when pregnancy begins, and kill the preborn baby. Planned Parenthood says that pregnancy does not begin at fertilization, but this is their biggest lie. In 2006, Planned Parenthood received over $345 million in clinic income. One-third of its clinic income is from selling birth control. Obviously, they make big money by lying to women.
I'm not sure if you're aware, but the Planned Parenthood's totally raking in the dough by providing affordable reproductive health services. I heard they're taking donations to feed their Starbucks addictions without dipping into their own gold-lined pockets! (Note to the stupid: that's a joke.) Actually, $345 million doesn't go very far when you consider the expenses involved in providing cheaper, quality alternatives for services that typically cost far more than men's health-related services, operating costs, staffing costs, and just putting up money for all the programs to help low-income women afford basic health care, including that precious topic, prenatal care for those that choose to keep their babies.
Want to protest the protest? Here're some ideas: *Write your legislators, thanking them for supporting women by keeping access to birth control options open. Also make sure to remind them not to support the Domestic Gag Rule, should it come up.
*Volunteer at your local Planned Parenthood on June 7, 2008; find their number, call and ask what you can do to help them on that day. Chances are if the Protest the Pill gets big enough, they'll be happy to have help dealing with the protesters.
Popping out for a quick, refreshing walk with the dog has never been such an emotional train wreck. Other people's dogs seem to be able to poop wherever, whenever the need arises, as evidenced by the startling frequency of stepping in poop that I do. Not one to be overly concerned with another's ability to take a well-rounded poop, nevertheless I've become entirely wound up in everything my dog eats and when she goes out. I'm convinced that if I err from the schedule or feed her the wrong thing, there will be poop in my house. Nevermind that there's rarely poop outside my house most of the time--especially lately, which has worn my nerves to the point that I stand anxiously peering at my dog's bottom, waiting to see the crowning signs that indicate it's time for her to go outside. Sadly, even then a poop isn't a guaranteed sighting. My dog suffers from DADD, Dog Attention Deficit Disorder, otherwise known as THE FUCKER WON'T TAKE A SHIT. My 'hood has lots of dogs, and my immediate apartment complex is the only place where the dogs are actually kept inside rather than outside, and none of the cat owners bother to coax the kitties inside at night, so at any moment, day or night, Ari will assume the position, expel the head of some poop, and catch sight of any of the 92349987234 cats and/or dogs running loose. SWOOP! The poop goes back inside and nothing can induce her to put her focus back on the task at hand. Enter a red-faced Chiquita, annoyed as fuck.
I am at my wit's end. I like to reward her for a job well done, using her favorite fat-free chicken jerky, but not even that is working anymore.
Note to self: If Firefox dumps your passwords and you can't figure out why you're not logging into your favorite websites, update your Java application. Thanks, dumbass.
I refuse to believe that I am the only person on the planet with several neuroses involving fruit. See, once upon a time, I incurred a sinus infection whilst visiting a pernicious ex-boyfriend. Said ex lived in the basement of his mother's house well into his early 20s, so visiting him was visiting his family. His mother (make no mistake, by the way, out of the two of us, I made out with the better deal: amazing friendships with his mother and sister) took matters into her own hands and shoved an entire orange into my own weak hands, demanding that I finish it with no delays.
Here's where I explain something: I don't like oranges.
Actually, that's a lie; I like oranges, but in order to stick one down my gullet, I must undergo an intensely involved process of preparing it. First, I must have the proper tools: an orange, a knife, a plate and a pair of tweezers. I prefer to peel the orange, using the knife, and leave it on the counter for ten minutes to dry.
Then, using the tweezers, I peel the remaining pulp and strings from each segment. If this sounds like it'd take forever, you're right! Each segment takes approximately 2-5 minutes, depending on how much crap is on it.
That day, being forced to consume an entire orange without the appropriate prep-work left me gagging. So somehow, I forgot about this event when, two weeks ago, I decided to buy an entire flat of oranges, of which I've consumed two. The other day, peeling my orange, I remembered it. Nevertheless, I carried on, and removed all the strings, then ate my orange, segment by segment.
Yesterday's decision by the California Supreme Court is certainly good news for same-sex couples. California's state ban on same-sex marriages was lifted on Thursday, eliciting a joyous response from people all over the state.
As awesome as the news is, I'm on the edge of the edge, waiting for someone to teeter the tenuous balance of the playground see-saw into the favor of extreme conservatives, overturning the ban yet again. It happened in 2000; I'm hoping California has the guts to stand behind its court's decision even should an amendment to the state's constitution to reinstate the ban appear on the ballot this fall.
Luckily, Mr. Scwharzenegger said he won't fight the court's decision.
"Also, as I have said in the past, I will not support an amendment to the constitution that would overturn this state Supreme Court ruling." Via Mercury News
It's not wrong to celebrate -- yes, do! But remember:
This decision is already under threat, because opponents of same-sex marriage weeks ago submitted more than 1 million signatures in support of an effort to place a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage on the ballot in California this fall. Should that measure make it onto the ballot and be approved by the voters, the court’s decision today would be overturned and the victory fleeting. From Feminist Law Professors
At least one of the groups opposing same-sex marriage is considering asking the Supreme Court to stay its ruling until after Election Day in November, so California voters have a chance to decide whether to amend the state's constitution to ban same-sex marriage and make Thursday's ruling moot. State officials are still verifying petition signatures submitted to put this amendment on the ballot. From Mercury News
...Regardless of how or why we got here, we can't consider this ruling anything less than a victory. It is great news. However, this isn't a total victory yet... Religious and conservative groups are still working on stopping same-sex unions.
...celebrate, propose to your loved ones, plan your trip to Cali... but remember that we're far from done.From my friends at Evilslutopia.com
WARNING: YOUTUBE VIDEO IS LONG AND HEARTWRENCHING Finding no help or answers, a 16-year-old girl from Florida turned to YouTube to find sympathetic ears. According to Jezebel, the 23-year-old who allegedly raped her was not prosecuted because the girl was a month shy of turning 16, the legal age of consent, and it turned into a case of "he said/she said."
CNN's Ashley Fantz reports that with 5 percent of Florida cases never even reaching a prosecutor's office, many women who've survived sexual assault turn to other sources to find someone to hear their story, like Facebook, Myspace, or even, as we see here, YouTube.
"What you hear from every rape crisis center from Pensacola to Key West is that there are hardly ever any prosecutions," she said. "Most sexual violence is acquaintance rape, and unfortunately, a lot of juries still think that if a victim had a relationship with their attacker, then they cannot be raped by that person." (Emphasis mine.)
The question is quickly becoming, are they finding the help they need? Luckily, Crystal's plea may lead her to better support than she received in the past, but check out the responses to her posting - not exactly what she was hoping for:
Good acting and good story, go somewhere else for attention.
if anything she should be liable for court and municipal costs related to her bullshit claim
Another woman, Stacy, 25, was raped by an acquaintance and soon found herself in a similar situation. She reported it to the university authorities, but instead of treating the accusation with the gravity it deserved, they allowed her attacker to continue going to class (which she shared). Not finding the help she needed, she started looking elsewhere.
She began instant messaging in chat rooms but quickly realized that many people who initially seemed sympathetic were only pretending.
"The next thing you know, they are making it seem like they are turned on. They were asking me for details of my rape. It was very disturbing," she said. "I had to block several people. After that, I thought the worst of the world. I thought everyone was a perpetrator, and I trusted no one." Via CNN
Should the take-away message here be “trust only thyself”?No, of course not.If you have been sexually assaulted, here’re a couple of things you can do:
*Report the incident; if you’re not comfortable, confide in someone you trust and ask them to help you.
*Check out the National Sexual Assault Online Hotline; they’ve got people trained to listen to you and hear your story, as well as the resources to help you.You can also call them at 1.800.656.HOPE (1.800.656.4673).It’s anonymous, so you don’t have to share your identity if you don’t want to.
*If you decide to tell your story through online forums (Myspace, YouTube, LiveJournal, etc.), carefully consider how much information you want to give out.It’s a serious concern that a lot of women are giving out too much information about themselves, which can be really dangerous:
Advocates worry that victims are divulging too much information. CNN found several Facebook and MySpace profiles on which young people say they have been raped. The postings include their names, photographs and hometowns. Via CNN
*Along those lines, also think about the future when posting:
Because anything posted on the Web is available forever through an Internet search, a rape survivor must consider how they would feel if that information were dredged up in the future, counselors said. By making themselves -- or their IP address -- available, victims open themselves to unreliable and unprofessional advice and the harsh judgment of their peers.
Perhaps worst of all, they could give their perpetrator a chance to find them again or gain more satisfaction.Via CNN
Always, always protect yourselves.
If your loved one is the victim of sexual assault, here’s what you can do to help:
Listen. Be there. Don’t be judgmental.
Be patient. Remember, it will take your friend some time to deal with the crime.
Help to empower your friend or family member. Sexual assault is a crime that takes away an individual’s power, it is important not to compound this experience by putting pressure on your friend or family member to do things that he or she is not ready to do yet.
Encourage your friend to report the rape to law enforcement (call 911 in most areas). If your friend has questions about the criminal justice process, talking with someone on the National Sexual Assault Hotline, 1-800-656-HOPE, can help.
If your friend is willing to seek medical attention or report the assault, offer to accompany him or her wherever s/he needs to go (hospital, police station, campus security, etc.)
Encourage him or her to contact one of the hotlines, but realize that only your friend can make the decision to get help. (From RAINN)
Good morning. May I introduce you to the latest flaw in my make-up? I'm a klutz. Somewhere between the decision to find sleep and actually finding sleep at around 11 last night, I gouged the hell out of my forehead. Imagine the dismay on Sir's face when I showed it to him; it's a right goodly owie. Woke up this morning still drunk, scrunched my face up in my usual [adorable] morning face scrunch, and noticed that part of my forehead did not move. Reached up to feel my forehead like it was simply an annexed foreign part, and noticed further still that it was crunchy to the touch and my first thought was, did I chop a pimple off my face with an ax? Ran to the sink in my bedroom, flipped the light on and stared, panicked.
Sir doesn't have a clue how I did it; he was drunker than I was. I'm totally PSYCHED that my skin all around it ("IT" is this giant dance of words trying not to call it what it is: an inexplicable fucking deep gash in my forehead - ohhh, that's why...too many words) looks gorgeous. Look at my skin. Isn't that some nice skin?
This picture is typical of my marriage: yes, I am a spaz, and yes, he does often look at me wondering where do I get off? But however spaz-tastic I've been during the day or how irritated he is with me, at night we sit down on our sofa, usually with Ari the Doglet curled up in a dogbun at our feet, and I listen to him. He tells me many things--the state of the world, the state of his mind, the state of me, the state of the smell of the dog, about the trips he took with his mother and the stress and horror of his job. I listen, because when in the presence of a storyteller with amazing capability for lyrical twists and turns, you don't speak. You listen, to hear where you're going this time, this trip, this story.
In one such evening, listening to him talk, he stood up mid-speech and disappeared into his room to rummage for an essay, and instead brought me something else. When we were getting married, he wrote his vows to me. We went another way with our vows, but he never told me about having done this, until last night.
I read one sentence and began to cry. It doesn't belong out where uncaring, disinterested eyes might fall upon it, but I can share a little:
I want you to be proud and vocal and to state your positions like a warrior goddess. What you want matters deeply to me. I pray that you have me hear you ... Today we are united before all that is and will be but I beg you to let your individualism flourish. I commit all my resources toward a union wherein the absolute You may thrive in singular grace and dignity. Today, You and I are We but also You and I.
How lucky am I to have someone committed to helping me become a warrior goddess??
It was the sixth of May when Chiquita found out the awful, awful truth. Awakening to the sort of cold morning where one wears her husband's prAna shorts and gloves, she knew something was very, very wrong. Her beloved dog had poo'ed her cage! Sighing wretchedly, Chiquita checked the doglet's paws to ascertain the safety of the floors surrounding the cage and determined it acceptable to walk the dog to the bathroom for a washing. Sadly, after cleaning the doglet, found it was necessary to move the rugs from the bathroom. Miss Ari the Doglet retched the contents of her stomach: poo, poo, and some undigested dog chow.
The Reception Temperature in San Diego is pretty chilly. Don't be misled; San Diego literally is somewhere between 60 to 80 degrees Fahrenheit most of the time - I don't mean how warm it is. When it comes to how well I'm settling in and making a life for myself, well, let's just say that San Diego isn't helping. Most of the time, the above picture demonstrates quite well how I feel: lackluster. Sure, I look smart, but also shy, and apparently that doesn't go over well when competing against 500 other applicants for every single available position; when qualifications have leveled the playing field, personality becomes the litmus test for every job. Unfortunately, I haven't yet figured out how to turn my peculiar version of friendliness into something less awkward than announcing in an interview that I wanted to work in a chiropractor's office because I want to study the human anatomy when really, I just want a job. And really, who are these people to make a receptionist job out to be the end-all and be-all of all jobs and only select those people who're dying to make minimum wage when they can get a perfectly capable and friendly college graduate instead?
I digress. It makes me feel like this inside:
Today, however, being a Saturday, I took it as a Sabbath day and nixed any applications I could be putting out. For some reason, I felt unreasonably attractive. Could be the glow; maybe San Diego's rubbing off on me despite my bitter grudge.
I love raspberries. The scent, the texture, the taste, has always reminded me of being a small child when squishing the berries was a simple delight. My grandmother pulling up a stool beside the stove, stirring a large pot of homemade raspberry Jell-O, the scent wafting to my nostrils; it spoke of her love for a little girl whose rapt adoration was treasured like a little token. My mother bringing me fresh raspberries in a bright orange Tupperware bowl after having spent an entire day searching for them to satisfy a deathly sick little girl's request...it was as if I knew the raspberries were the key to holding onto life. Every evening the aroma of a flower delicately scented with tinges of raspberry floats around my apartment. Living in San Diego has been difficult with unsuccessful job searches, law school rejections and money problems, but just the same, I can't help but stop to smell the flowers.
Recently, my friends over at Evil Slutopia offered to let me write a few pieces on art history and women and bad girls in art history, which in my time of need is like letting Winnie the Pooh eat up all your honey. And guess what? Someone liked my bit about Artemisia Gentileschi!
Evil Slutopia bills itself as being run by the Evil Slut Clique: Jezebel and Lilith, who like to drink lots of beer and have lots of sex, but in reality, they're so much more than that. While the world defines the word, "feminist," they set out to educate the masses who stubbornly believe a feminist is a bra-burning lesbian with short hair and a mean attitude toward men. In reality, while a feminist MAY be a bra-burning lesbian with short hair and a mean attitude toward men, that particular feminist comprises such a small portion of the entire demographic makeup; a feminist can be a man, for example, or a Roman Catholic, or a straight female with breast implants, or a gay man, or a celibate individual...the common link is that they all believe that a woman has the right to pursue equality in the workplace, in the running of the government, and at home. They believe a woman has the right to choose how to label her own sexuality or gender, how to arrange her reproductive future, how to plan her career, whether or not to raise children - and HOW to raise the children - and more than that...they believe that a human being has the right to run his/her own life as he/she wants.
A feminist is really a pro-human.
And Evil Slutopia is about bringing awareness to all things pro-human. If they have lots of sex and drink lots of beer along the way, more power to them!
An hour ago, a year ago, a lifetime and a country's span ago, I married the love of my life and took his name because it was cooler than mine.
Because I love him so much, I want to share a story that illustrates the beautiful symbiosis of our life together.
In my Mr. Coffee, I brew ten cups of coffee with six heaping scoops of coffee grounds.
Sometimes, before I can get my first cup, Sir fills his coffee pot with about 12 large, heaping scoops of coffee, and using my coffee as water, brews himself a quadruple-strength cup of coffee. And when that doesn't get the job done, he pours it into his camp stove percolator with some more grounds, sets the heat on the stove to low, and cooks the coffee for three days until it becomes congealed, oily tar.
Pouring it into a cup, he sips, and declares it, "good."
Sir, you have enriched my life, given me wonderful things to write about, and made me feel like a queen.
Occasionally, Sir and I like to pop open a bottle of snazzy Ballatore Asti. I call it Asti Spumanti, in a fake Italian accent. We like the bubblies. It helps with our monogamous pants-dropping later. One night, Sir brought home a bottle to enjoy with some equally snazzy movies (probably something super like "Black Sheep"), and he, doing the honors for I am mildly dumb, prepared to pour us some delicious adult beverages. Sitting in my living room, I was close enough for him to ask me from the kitchen, "Want a mushroom?" Without thinking, I responded with enthusiasm, "Sure!" and immediately popped what he threw at me in my mouth.
Ladies and gentlemen, I tell you now so that someday when I am running for President it can't be brought up against me because you knew all along: we didn't even HAVE mushrooms in our house.
The worst of it is, the next time we had bubblies, he asked and I responded, again. This time I was smart enough to stop myself in time from putting the cork in my mouth. But only JUST.
I find inspiration in others' writings and photography; this morning I found a blog in which the author freely admitted to suffering from various anxiety problems. Many blogs tend to be authored by anxiety-ridden adults; popularity of a blog seems to be directly proportionate to the severity of issues at hand. I like to think we readers find a bit of ourselves in these people, but that's sort of like empathizing with the scary sand people in The Hills Have Eyes just because some of them have eyeballs. Life must be ok because even though that woman with a bulging forehead is holding my severed arm, I can clearly see her standing on two feet--just like me. Rest assured, if you have anxiety problems and run a successful blog, I'm not reading your stories because you're a freak show. It's just nice to know someone has it worse.
One thing that stood out to me was that this lady admitted to being afraid to answer her phone. If you were a fly on my wall, what you would have seen was this: dirty, unbathed, crazy-haired woman standing on top of recliner shouting, OH MY GOD YES! Because apparently I'm not the only one who doesn't answer her phone. Sorry, mom. I really was dodging your calls. You too, prospective employers.
To all of you who suffer from anxiety and run blogs, thank you. You make me feel so not alone.
And since I'd like to become famous just like you: I, too, suffer from anxiety.
Me: Your writing is poo. Sir: My writing quality is poo.
Semantics; at least we agreed something stunk.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Sir and I rolled into San Diego, wearily picked up our apartment keys, and crawled up the stairs to our new home on January 19, 2008. The first few days I suffered a violent case of "I hate this place" syndrome, determined not to revel in the glory that is sunshine and mild rain. It took several days before I realized that, for the first time in my life, I'd managed to escape from the clutches of an evil, spiteful winter.
This, above, is Coronado. Beaches and beaches of gorgeosity (that's Sir's word) that is unparalleled by anything I've ever experienced, with a little town so generously beautiful that I've become temporarily insane with the idea of somehow making enough money to recklessly throw cash at a charming, wee cottage (with the stunning price tag of $1.8 million). Adjectives aside, the town rocks. I walked into a beach store to ask about coffee shops I might poke into for my caffeine fix, and a gentleman was kind enough to not only point me to the nearest caffeine fix, but also to explain the finer points of each to allow me to make a more informed choice as to where I wanted to go. Sugar was high on my list of requirements, so I chose the coffee shop/gelatto stand. Heaven.
However, this most adequately describes where I actually live. The ghettos. Alas.
