You know how Oprah had those “a-ha moments?” The moments were the lights clicked on and some concept or idea sunk in and made perfect sense? I guess I have those from time to time, whether or not I give O-dog the naming rights. And although I am definitely a half glass full type of gal, I must say that I’ve had more “we’re fucked moments” as of late.
Perhaps it’s from watching too much cable news coverage. The high stakes game of chicken that those fuckballs in DC play. The millionaires and billionaires fighting over football money when the real losers of no season would have been the local economies on game day. The ignorance of not rationing health care when nobody wants to do anything preventative to take care of the one body s/he was given. The weather and its impact on infrastructure around the county. I could go on and on, but it gets tiresome reliving the negativity.
Sometimes it just makes me want to sell what I can and buy one of those 80 square foot houses. I could set up home somewhere quiet and live out my days with the bitches, not having to contemplate the fuckatude in this society that nearly takes my breath away on a daily basis.
I used to think that many of my peers couldn’t have the intelligent conversations regarding these issues simply because of their youth. I assumed that an active interest in news and politics at some level would have to happen as we got older and were shouldering more of the tax burden, wanting a further education, or desiring a better environment for the children we were raising.
Turns out I was the naïve one.
And apparently ignorance must be bliss.
Man Friend’s mom texted me earlier today to express her disgust that Michele Bachmann was on NPR, her sacred radio station of progressives. I got a chuckle out of it, since we are usually on the same page politically and both detest Bachmann. I made a comment to a co-worker, who I respect as a hard working, smart person. “Who’s Michele Bachmann?” she asked with a quizzical expression on her face.
And so it goes…
Dumbfounded, I made another Bachmann on NPR to a different respected co-worker. That person hadn’t heard of her either.
I found myself wondering just what do people think about all day if they aren’t aware of the biggest news stories and issues facing our society. Seriously, like what do people think about? I have had to learn to meditate so I can shut my brain down and not drive myself completely fucking crazy thinking about how much water is needed to drill for natural gas or why people who chose to have children don’t all recycle and conserve resources. Even if it’s bliss, ignorance is still ignorance.
I always figured when the ship went down and Rome was burning, there would be plenty of us dancing. Now I don’t even think many of us would hear the music. Most will probably be wandering around, looking for a Budweiser and staring at our smart phones, wondering why the status updates aren’t going through.
But fuck it. I’m glad I think about all of it. One of my professors at UNL said my greatest gift and my biggest curse was my ability to see the big picture. I am still learning how to not drive myself nuts while fitting all the pieces together.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Accusation...
I was accused of over sharing. Well, not really accused, but I was told that I share a lot and it wasn’t exactly presented to me as a compliment. The funny thing is, I don’t even talk about half of what is going on in my head and if need be, am a Fort Knox of secrets, even from family. I can provide character references to attest to that.
But yes, I took the statement as an accusation, although I do not believe that was the intent, and needed some time to reflect on exactly why. The person would felt that I share too much is probably reading this and I consider him/her to be a smart, funny individual. An individual who also shares a lot via social networking, but his/her sharing is more about music or seeing humor in the insanity of this world. So I guess s/he is a sharer in a different way.
There are parts of me that are private. There are parts of me that I only share with the bitches and my closest humans like Man Friend. But there are also parts of me, like my struggles with drinking or men that I am totally open about, whether it’s in this forum or a more personal setting. Maybe you have to get to a place where you have been stripped of everything but your stories to realize just how much power your words have.
I remember walking down the street one day with Alli in the pre-Joey days. We were strolling along 15th and I came to the conclusion that I own nothing. Part of it was being fairly fresh off of a break up in which many material possessions and one canine were taken from me. But it took losing those things to make me really understand what I valued. It didn’t matter what titles or legalities might apply, the only thing I really possessed was my sense of spirituality and self. I didn’t even own that beautiful bitch next to me, she was her own little spirit and I was somehow lucky enough to have had her dance into my life.
So “stuff” took on a new meaning and I learned that the real power in ownership is in owning your own shit. That sentence will make perfect sense to you or no sense at all. And that’s okay. Part of my owning my shit is acknowledging the validity or ridiculousness of my thoughts and feelings. Sharing them might help somebody else. I know it helps me.
But yes, I took the statement as an accusation, although I do not believe that was the intent, and needed some time to reflect on exactly why. The person would felt that I share too much is probably reading this and I consider him/her to be a smart, funny individual. An individual who also shares a lot via social networking, but his/her sharing is more about music or seeing humor in the insanity of this world. So I guess s/he is a sharer in a different way.
There are parts of me that are private. There are parts of me that I only share with the bitches and my closest humans like Man Friend. But there are also parts of me, like my struggles with drinking or men that I am totally open about, whether it’s in this forum or a more personal setting. Maybe you have to get to a place where you have been stripped of everything but your stories to realize just how much power your words have.
I remember walking down the street one day with Alli in the pre-Joey days. We were strolling along 15th and I came to the conclusion that I own nothing. Part of it was being fairly fresh off of a break up in which many material possessions and one canine were taken from me. But it took losing those things to make me really understand what I valued. It didn’t matter what titles or legalities might apply, the only thing I really possessed was my sense of spirituality and self. I didn’t even own that beautiful bitch next to me, she was her own little spirit and I was somehow lucky enough to have had her dance into my life.
So “stuff” took on a new meaning and I learned that the real power in ownership is in owning your own shit. That sentence will make perfect sense to you or no sense at all. And that’s okay. Part of my owning my shit is acknowledging the validity or ridiculousness of my thoughts and feelings. Sharing them might help somebody else. I know it helps me.
Friday, July 15, 2011
ES Adventures on the Town
Her name was Elizabeth Street and she was one of those chicks that everyone got along with. Not the coolest girl in the room, but confident enough and funny enough to never consider having to sit alone, sometimes even when she wanted to. The kind of girl that guys who knew socially described as the perfect woman, probably because they never felt her claws. A bit on the tall side, she carried her weight well, and her dark features were that of the girl next door. She’d finished college, but didn’t really go to college with the intention of a career, and it wasn’t like there was a ton to do with a sociology degree, so here she was, tending bar or working coffeehouses to pay the bills. For whatever reason these types of jobs made her feel less of a slave to the machine. Must have been the attraction to living on the margins of society. Some accused her to constantly needing to be different, or in some cases, difficult.
It would seem to almost everyone that she had her proverbial shit together. And for the most part, she did. There was one fatal flaw in her character however, and that involved men.
It wasn’t that she always dated them, or frankly even gave them a lot of attention. Sometimes she only visited with them for a laugh, like that night out at one of the local bars. She’d long considered herself a bit of a feminist and was usually opposed to the phenomena known at "Ladies' Night." Let's put a bunch of women in one place, feed them half-priced drinks, and publicize it for all the horny, recently paroled in the area to congregate and see what happens. However, since her friend, DJ Dreamboat, spun records there on Ladies’ Night and his dance parties are notoriously fabulous, she suspended her beliefs on Tuesdays to go and shake her bones with her friends.
That night started off like any other as she enjoyed a couple of drinks and chatted up friends. They hit the dance floor and the first moment she took a break, this dude came running, literally running across the floor and sat at her table. The devil in her thought it had potential for amusement, so she said hi.
She must have forgotten that she was wearing the t-shirt that read: Losers with limited cash flow, this chick wants your attention.
He began, “What you doin' girl?” in that yell-speak hybrid only necessary in a club.
“Dancing with my friends, having a drink,” she said as she tipped her bottle of O’Douls toward him.
“Isn't that some kind of non-alcohol beer?”
Wow, he’s really exceptional, she thought as she rolled her eyes and said, “Yep.”
She’d given up booze several years earlier and it had become a handicap of sorts in some social settings.
After several seconds of awkward silence, he said, “So are you gonna buy me a vodka cranberry?”
Though sometimes dumbfounded, she was rarely speechless. She looked at him blankly. “Why don't you have YOUR friends buy you a drink?”
“They ain't got no mutherfuckin' money either.”
She took a drag of her cigarette and considered all the mean things she could say, like how much fun jobs were or how her friend’s mentally challenged brother had superior social skills.
“I am higher than a mutherfuckin' kite. You smoke weed?”
She tipped her head slightly to the right and before she could muster an answer he blurted out, “You seen that movie, Me, Myself, and Irene?”
She nodded as he continued, “You know that part where he's in the police station and his face gets all...”
She totally quit listening to the douche at that point and nodded when it seemed appropriate. Then suddenly this chick came up and hit him square in the side of the head, making her think she should listen in the hopes that it would get interesting. Too bad it was really hard for her to make out anything they were saying. She was pretty sure she was called a “dumb ho” and he was a “stupid motherfucker.” She really couldn’t disagree with the latter assessment.
It would seem to almost everyone that she had her proverbial shit together. And for the most part, she did. There was one fatal flaw in her character however, and that involved men.
It wasn’t that she always dated them, or frankly even gave them a lot of attention. Sometimes she only visited with them for a laugh, like that night out at one of the local bars. She’d long considered herself a bit of a feminist and was usually opposed to the phenomena known at "Ladies' Night." Let's put a bunch of women in one place, feed them half-priced drinks, and publicize it for all the horny, recently paroled in the area to congregate and see what happens. However, since her friend, DJ Dreamboat, spun records there on Ladies’ Night and his dance parties are notoriously fabulous, she suspended her beliefs on Tuesdays to go and shake her bones with her friends.
That night started off like any other as she enjoyed a couple of drinks and chatted up friends. They hit the dance floor and the first moment she took a break, this dude came running, literally running across the floor and sat at her table. The devil in her thought it had potential for amusement, so she said hi.
She must have forgotten that she was wearing the t-shirt that read: Losers with limited cash flow, this chick wants your attention.
He began, “What you doin' girl?” in that yell-speak hybrid only necessary in a club.
“Dancing with my friends, having a drink,” she said as she tipped her bottle of O’Douls toward him.
“Isn't that some kind of non-alcohol beer?”
Wow, he’s really exceptional, she thought as she rolled her eyes and said, “Yep.”
She’d given up booze several years earlier and it had become a handicap of sorts in some social settings.
After several seconds of awkward silence, he said, “So are you gonna buy me a vodka cranberry?”
Though sometimes dumbfounded, she was rarely speechless. She looked at him blankly. “Why don't you have YOUR friends buy you a drink?”
“They ain't got no mutherfuckin' money either.”
She took a drag of her cigarette and considered all the mean things she could say, like how much fun jobs were or how her friend’s mentally challenged brother had superior social skills.
“I am higher than a mutherfuckin' kite. You smoke weed?”
She tipped her head slightly to the right and before she could muster an answer he blurted out, “You seen that movie, Me, Myself, and Irene?”
She nodded as he continued, “You know that part where he's in the police station and his face gets all...”
She totally quit listening to the douche at that point and nodded when it seemed appropriate. Then suddenly this chick came up and hit him square in the side of the head, making her think she should listen in the hopes that it would get interesting. Too bad it was really hard for her to make out anything they were saying. She was pretty sure she was called a “dumb ho” and he was a “stupid motherfucker.” She really couldn’t disagree with the latter assessment.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tiny Trolls Heave Huge Insults...
Two little girls at my niece’s daycare hurt her feelings the other day. They told her she wasn’t pretty, which according to my brother, was quite a blow for her. Quite a blow for me, too, since she looks like a tiny me. But the part that really bugged me was that she’s only three years old.
Like I said, she looks like me, so of course I think she’s the cutest little thing ever. It’s mind bending to me that this type of nonsense starts so young. My brother said they talked about it and he assured her that she is a very pretty little girl. The good part about her being three is that she doesn’t have the life experience to know that her dad is always gonna say that. My first instinct would have not been so pretty. My first instinct was to tell those two tiny trolls to get fucked for being pre-mean girls and ask them what exactly pretty is anyway? Pageant girls made up like tiny hookers? Weak, skinny little things? One of the dumb heroines from a Disney cartoon? Short or tall? Only blondes? Just because we look like the ones Hitler forgot doesn’t mean we aren’t pretty…
One of my male friends in college gave this half drunken ramble about how girls are classified according to their looks. There were several main categories: beautiful, cute, pretty, hot, big boned, and no. No is obvious. Stop a truck, a face only a mother could love, and the like. Big boned was a nice way of saying fat and reserved for fat girls who were nice, funny, and had good attitudes. Hot was the sort of untouchable print model-like chick who was probably a bitch but you put up with it because you liked looking at her and most of your friends wanted to fuck her. Pretty is the natural, girl next door type. And cute, yes, cute. Bunnies are cute. Puppies are cute. Cute is where you clump lots of girls who aren’t super attractive, but they aren’t really unattractive either. Any of these chicks can be sexy depending on how they carry themselves and how drunk you are. But what, you say? I forgot beautiful? No, the best is always last. Beauty is manifested from within. That’s the stuff where a girl starts talking and she’s sweet and smart and kind, and maybe she laughs at your dumb joke and the whole room lights up. That pretty face you noticed is suddenly beautiful. That’s the good stuff. Man Friend echoed a similar sentiment regarding beauty years later, so I think we’re on to something here.
This whole thing really got me thinking about my definition of beauty and how long it took me to be okay with my looks. When I was growing up, I was often reminded of my intelligence. I’m sure someone probably said something affirmative about my looks along the way, but I certainly don’t remember it. I don’t remember a lot of negativity about my looks either, for that matter. I guess it really wasn’t overly important to me until junior high and high school. By then, I was more of the over-achiever or the funny one and even though the lack of shit like compliments, dates, or boyfriends was a downer, there was enough going on in my life to fill my time. I do believe, though, some of the seeds for feeling unattractive were planted then. And shit, then I was drunk and fat and then drunk for a long time, so since I was 100% uncomfortable with myself, I certainly wasn’t going to be attractive to anyone worth anything. It’s really only been the last few years that I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw.
I just want my niece to grow up being comfortable with how she looks. I hope it doesn’t take her as long as it’s taken me. I think it’s much more important to tell girls that they are smart and can do anything they want than to tell them they are pretty. I hope she doesn’t spend hours judging herself by how she thinks she is physically perceived by others. I hope she develops a sense of self that allows her inner beauty to shine. I want her to know that I had those same chubby little legs and now those legs can run further than a lot of people reading this. I want her to know that even though there will always be mean tiny troll spouting venom, there will also be people and dogs who will love you unconditionally. I want her to know that strength of mind, body, and soul together will get her through anything.
The bitches are the total package. They are smart, athletic, loyal, strong, stubborn, loving, and beautiful. I once saw a bumper sticker that read, “God let me be the person my dog thinks I am.” I just wanna be like my dogs.
Like I said, she looks like me, so of course I think she’s the cutest little thing ever. It’s mind bending to me that this type of nonsense starts so young. My brother said they talked about it and he assured her that she is a very pretty little girl. The good part about her being three is that she doesn’t have the life experience to know that her dad is always gonna say that. My first instinct would have not been so pretty. My first instinct was to tell those two tiny trolls to get fucked for being pre-mean girls and ask them what exactly pretty is anyway? Pageant girls made up like tiny hookers? Weak, skinny little things? One of the dumb heroines from a Disney cartoon? Short or tall? Only blondes? Just because we look like the ones Hitler forgot doesn’t mean we aren’t pretty…
One of my male friends in college gave this half drunken ramble about how girls are classified according to their looks. There were several main categories: beautiful, cute, pretty, hot, big boned, and no. No is obvious. Stop a truck, a face only a mother could love, and the like. Big boned was a nice way of saying fat and reserved for fat girls who were nice, funny, and had good attitudes. Hot was the sort of untouchable print model-like chick who was probably a bitch but you put up with it because you liked looking at her and most of your friends wanted to fuck her. Pretty is the natural, girl next door type. And cute, yes, cute. Bunnies are cute. Puppies are cute. Cute is where you clump lots of girls who aren’t super attractive, but they aren’t really unattractive either. Any of these chicks can be sexy depending on how they carry themselves and how drunk you are. But what, you say? I forgot beautiful? No, the best is always last. Beauty is manifested from within. That’s the stuff where a girl starts talking and she’s sweet and smart and kind, and maybe she laughs at your dumb joke and the whole room lights up. That pretty face you noticed is suddenly beautiful. That’s the good stuff. Man Friend echoed a similar sentiment regarding beauty years later, so I think we’re on to something here.
This whole thing really got me thinking about my definition of beauty and how long it took me to be okay with my looks. When I was growing up, I was often reminded of my intelligence. I’m sure someone probably said something affirmative about my looks along the way, but I certainly don’t remember it. I don’t remember a lot of negativity about my looks either, for that matter. I guess it really wasn’t overly important to me until junior high and high school. By then, I was more of the over-achiever or the funny one and even though the lack of shit like compliments, dates, or boyfriends was a downer, there was enough going on in my life to fill my time. I do believe, though, some of the seeds for feeling unattractive were planted then. And shit, then I was drunk and fat and then drunk for a long time, so since I was 100% uncomfortable with myself, I certainly wasn’t going to be attractive to anyone worth anything. It’s really only been the last few years that I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw.
I just want my niece to grow up being comfortable with how she looks. I hope it doesn’t take her as long as it’s taken me. I think it’s much more important to tell girls that they are smart and can do anything they want than to tell them they are pretty. I hope she doesn’t spend hours judging herself by how she thinks she is physically perceived by others. I hope she develops a sense of self that allows her inner beauty to shine. I want her to know that I had those same chubby little legs and now those legs can run further than a lot of people reading this. I want her to know that even though there will always be mean tiny troll spouting venom, there will also be people and dogs who will love you unconditionally. I want her to know that strength of mind, body, and soul together will get her through anything.
The bitches are the total package. They are smart, athletic, loyal, strong, stubborn, loving, and beautiful. I once saw a bumper sticker that read, “God let me be the person my dog thinks I am.” I just wanna be like my dogs.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The End of Tot Mom...
“A stunning blow to justice.” “The devil is dancing tonight.” “A stunning blow to law enforcement.” “You don’t need to crawl inside the mind of a defendant and figure out why they commit murder.” These are the things Nancy Grace is saying right now. Maybe I’m unsure what death smells like, but I have a clue about the stank of ignorance.
I doubt Casey Anthony was mother of the year. I don’t know how involved she was with her child or if she had anything to do with the disappearance and death of her child. I do know that, thankfully, we live in a country that demands that the State must carry the burden of proof. All too often, this system fails people. I remember helping with jury selection when I worked at the PDO and there were potential jurors of the attitude that a defendant must have done something wrong simply because he or she was arrested. It’s good to hear of a case like this where the jurors understood the concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
It’s the condescension of the Nancy Grace crowd that really chaps my ass. First, they convicted and vilified this woman for the past few years. The so-called legal experts grandstanding and screaming on her show are nothing but laughable. Laughable to me since I’m not the one on trial. It’s as though the media wants to pressure the defendant into accepting some type of plea.
Then there is the whole other issue of her insulting the jurors and insinuating that they had their minds made up before the evidence was completely presented. She’s blasting one for a DUI arrest, another for a paraphernalia conviction, and another for fiddling with her pen and seeming uninterested. Had they issued a conviction on all counts, she’d probably be championing them as the salt of the earth, the everyday working people of our society who aren’t afraid to dole out justice.
Perhaps it’s time to go toast a grapefruit Izzy to justice. And I must say kudos to the prosecutor and sheriff for being class acts during the post-trial press conferences.
I have to quit watching this nonsense for the sake of my blood pressure. It’s hard to decide whether Nancy’s face or voice is more abrasive.
And P.S., Nancy, “Tot Mom” was didn’t catch because it’s stupid. My dogs, though less articulate, are smarter than you. They lick their own assholes.
I doubt Casey Anthony was mother of the year. I don’t know how involved she was with her child or if she had anything to do with the disappearance and death of her child. I do know that, thankfully, we live in a country that demands that the State must carry the burden of proof. All too often, this system fails people. I remember helping with jury selection when I worked at the PDO and there were potential jurors of the attitude that a defendant must have done something wrong simply because he or she was arrested. It’s good to hear of a case like this where the jurors understood the concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
It’s the condescension of the Nancy Grace crowd that really chaps my ass. First, they convicted and vilified this woman for the past few years. The so-called legal experts grandstanding and screaming on her show are nothing but laughable. Laughable to me since I’m not the one on trial. It’s as though the media wants to pressure the defendant into accepting some type of plea.
Then there is the whole other issue of her insulting the jurors and insinuating that they had their minds made up before the evidence was completely presented. She’s blasting one for a DUI arrest, another for a paraphernalia conviction, and another for fiddling with her pen and seeming uninterested. Had they issued a conviction on all counts, she’d probably be championing them as the salt of the earth, the everyday working people of our society who aren’t afraid to dole out justice.
Perhaps it’s time to go toast a grapefruit Izzy to justice. And I must say kudos to the prosecutor and sheriff for being class acts during the post-trial press conferences.
I have to quit watching this nonsense for the sake of my blood pressure. It’s hard to decide whether Nancy’s face or voice is more abrasive.
And P.S., Nancy, “Tot Mom” was didn’t catch because it’s stupid. My dogs, though less articulate, are smarter than you. They lick their own assholes.
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