The F Word..

Last night, I couldn’t get to sleep at all. And I wasn’t busy writing a pop song. It wasn’t like when I was little and I was sure that Russian tanks would be rolling down Main Street or a nuclear bomb would blow us all to hell. It wasn’t that type of fear-induced worry where you sweat yourself into a bad dream. It was more of a mind racing from one thing to another that kept me landing on the same question. Is feminism dying?

I was all worked up because I was thinking about how female politicians that I admire like Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein are getting older. Who is gonna step up and take the lead? It’s scary to me how many people, including women, there are who are willing to back someone as blatantly anti-woman as Rick Santorum. Coincidentally, he was in a small Minnesota town, not far from where I’m typing, last night. I noticed a few Facebook posts regarding his visit and one response to a post mentioned how nice it was that someone was interested in a rural part of the country. TOO BAD HE THINKS HALF THE FUCKING PEOPLE LIVING IN SAID AREA AREN’T FIT TO LEAD AND SHOULDN’T HAVE AUTONOMY OVER THEIR BODIES.

I’ve never really understood why more women (and men) in rural areas haven’t embraced the title of feminist. All you’re affirming is you believe that regardless of what’s between one’s legs, everyone should be treated equally politically, socially, and economically. Rural women have worked raising families and doing farm work as long as there have been farms. At least that’s the way it was explained to me, by my grandmas, who both lived on farms and raised children. Why is wanting to be equal such a threat?

And insert whatever you want about religion here. Religion definitely has something to do with the weird patriarchal society that often prevails in rural areas. My favorite rural people are the Libertarians who just don’t want to be bothered. That makes so much more sense to me that trying to compartmentalize a person because of a (perceived) lack of a cock.

I understand that oppressors need someone to oppress. A bully has no identity or access if s/he has no one to beat. Historically, I realize we aren’t very far removed from segregated schools and women being denied voting rights. It’s just mind blowing to me how sexist, racist, classist, and homophobic this country still really is. Greg Brown talks about how bad change comes so quickly and good change takes so long in one of his songs. I have to cling to that sometimes.

I used to not use the “f word.” That word being feminist, since it often got a snide reaction out of people, varying from allegations of misandry to bra burner to whatever derogative they used for lesbian. I don’t hate men, own many bras, and love lesbians, but that is seriously a whole other blog that culminates in deciding whether Tabatha or Rachel is my ultimate celebrity chick crush.

I originally pondered if feminism was dead, but I was probably just being a dramatic, hysterical female. (Pause for hysterical drama.) I think it’s something fluid, like the law, open to interpretation and changing as the times change. I do think it’s important for women and girls to grasp the importance of what has changed and what work still needs to be done. It’s a different ball game for women of color and women of different economic situations. To me, one of the most important issues is getting more men to identify as feminists. Crazy? Maybe, but I think they are out there.

The first night I ever really talked to Man Friend, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You know, I’m a misogynist.”

I didn’t know him well enough to know if he was full of shit, trying to get my goat, serious as a heart attack, or trying to find out the extent of my vocabulary.

My response?

“Well, I’m a feminist, so this could get interesting.”

Gettin' the Ring, Get in the Ring...

SPOILER ALERT: THE FOLLOWING IS OVERTLY HETEROSEXIST AND WESTERN-CENTRIC. THE WRITER, HERSELF, IS NOT.

Yesterday, a friend posed the question if there was anything on Earth more stupid than a promise ring? My favorite response was yes, an abstinence ring, but contemplating why fake marrying one’s father will keep someone from having pre-marital sex is a whole other realm of bizarro than I care to get into this evening. I must admit, I did always think promise rings were pretty stupid. A way of saying, “I think I like you enough that I will want to marry you someday.” Don’t overthink it, stupid, you’ll know or you won’t, right? And no sense worrying about possible outcomes that don’t have any bearing on the present moment. Ring or not, she’s gonna be faithful or unfaithful on her own accord.

Of course I decided to Google promise rings and see if there is some historical significance to the practice. Talk of betrothals just makes me want to vomit. But the few sites I managed to peruse without losing my smoothie, I did learn a few things. Apparently, not everyone considers a promise ring to be a pre-cursor to an engagement one. Some people consider the previously mentioned purity or abstinence ring as a promise ring. And I guess Tiffany recorded a song about one? After Playboy. Also, there appeared to be no consensus that a promise ring had to be strictly for a lady. Probably more of a nod to the more religious variety than to our gay friends, but I’ll take it none the less.

I guess I never really understood the point of a ring generally. Okay, so a wedding band makes sense as a symbol of your commitment. If it’s something you agree to and can afford, I think that’s pretty cool. I have witnessed people slipping their rings off, which kind of makes me want to puke, but makes me more thankful to not be married to a douche that would do that. Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone loved his/her spouse so much they claimed and celebrated him/her, instead of hiding it? Oh the sanctity.

I just giggled when I realized that I typed “tit.” Beavis.

But back to the pre-marriage rings, why do women wear a ring and men don’t? It’s almost like men are pissing on their turf or marking her off the market. Not to mention the absurd amount of money that these rings can cost. I did nearly eject my smoothie after reading that the average engagement ring cost $5,200 and 12% of American couples spend in excess of $8,000 (http://www.jckonline.com/2011/09/02/average-engagement-ring-costs-5200-says-survey-knot ) . And this is less than a few years ago. Cuz he loves you more if it costs more? Cuz you can stare at it and think how pretty it is when you realize you were more concerned with what the ring was like than being concerned with what being married would be like?

Don’t get me wrong, I know people who are happily married. I don’ t know how much they spent on rings. Some of my friends don’t have any rings. I just think $5,200 plus more for wedding bands is a pretty gnarly investment for a 50/50 shot at success. And what happens to the rings if you get divorced anyway? I may have put up this ad on eBay to try and get rid of a ring I was given…

This ring needs a new home and new kharma, meaning a giver who wants to refer to the receiver as his/her fiance, not his/her roommate. It’s perfect for the pragmatic gal who loves you more than your money. Sized 6½ wedding set, originally purchased in 2004 for $450. It’s white gold and the diamonds are, “perfect even though they’re not that big,” according to a friend of mine who’s into that stuff. Carrots are something I eat and jewelry stores make me want to vomit. The prongs on the engagement band will need to be re-done within the next year or two.

It didn’t sell so I gave it to one of the line cooks at work. I wonder what ever happened to it?

I guess I would be suspect of anyone who expected an engagement ring. Carrots, indeed, are something I eat. Let the hate mail begin…

Untitled rambling...

This town is pretty drunk. I know there are plenty of drunk towns the world over, but sometimes the dominant factor that alcohol is around here is almost suffocating. Drink cuz you’re happy, drunk cuz you’re sad, drink cuz you’re bored. Better bring beer to the softball game. Of course we’re going to the bar after the funeral. Naturally the volleyball league is at the bar. Somebody posted a list of the 20 Most Hungover Cities in America on the Book a couple of weeks ago and the last 15 years of my life was listed, so maybe I’m not completely crazy in my feelings. It’s just the overall attitude about alcohol around here that is troubling. A DUI arrest is like a right of passage around here. I actually heard someone say it was just her turn since everybody does it. I know people who willingly ride with people who are shitfaced drunk because there appeared to be no other way to get home. Balls.

Don’t get me wrong. I still like to enjoy a Buckler. I still like to go out and socialize sometimes. I make a living by serving people and plenty of what I serve includes alcohol. This isn’t a rant about banning booze. I promise. There is a place in some people’s lives for a glass of wine with dinner or a drink after work. I accepted long ago that I wasn’t one of those people and I would have to learn to live in their world.

The interesting part about being a sober person that hangs out in bars is witnessing the pervasive, nasty way that chronic alcoholism has a hold on some people. I am well aware that I could hit the door at any time. And sometimes I have to because sometimes it’s just too much, like the anger I feel building when I see someone laughing at a woman who is so drunk she pissed her pants. Just another day for the bartender. I guess we all have our own normal. I couldn’t help but wonder if that wouldn’t have been me if I had stayed on my path. There but for the grace of something divine I am still trying to fathom.

But this rambling does have a point. Sometimes you have to stay close to the monster, just so you remember that it bites.

There were moments this fall when I was ready to say fuck it. Drinking is just so much easier. It’s less interesting, less rewarding, more disappointing, more expensive, well you get the point, but it’s easier in that moment. That’s sort of what drinking was for me, an easy way to say fuck it and not have to deal with anything. I don’t question why I was lucky enough to learn to live without booze at a relatively young age. Sometimes I wonder how, but always decide it’s a fruitless convo and I should put the energy into being grateful I am where I am right now.

I have had more conversations with old drunks that I can count. Those people have some damned regrets. Things they wanted to do with their lives, messed up marriages, you fill in the blanks. The thread that is always woven into the story is the loneliness. The 60 year old always wants to go back and tell the 30 year old to not let that girl get away. The 60 year old can’t get back the time with the kids since the kids are grown up now and learned to get along without. I guess in the end all we want is to be loved.

I think you gotta let your soul shine, as Chef Boy would say, in order to really be loved. Too much of anything will hide that light, my friends. The key here is hide, not extinguish. I don’t think anyone is ever a lost cause. Sure, the habits do get harder to dissolve the longer they go on, but then I’m just back to hope. ☺

What's up, bitches?

I’ve been called out a few times recently for my love of using the word “bitch.” Sigh. It’s a little amazing what some people let knot up their panties.

Obviously it’s a word I use a lot. I’m not one to be easily offended by words, after all, words only have the power you give them. To me, the offensiveness of a word lies more in the tone that the speaker uses. If I walk up to a group of my friends (mixed gender expression) and say, “Hey bitches!” I’ll bet you American dollars they won’t care. Or if am telling a story about my fur babies that starts with, “You’ll never guess what the bitches did today,” I promise it will be the same story. You, dear reader, certainly don’t care, as you’ve chosen to read this blog. It isn’t like the time when I worked at an after-school program and a first grader, whose parents were going through a rough divorce, referred to me as a “fucking bitch” as he threw a block at me.

But my whole point here is that most of the time when I am using the word, it is in reference to the female canines that live with me. Perhaps technically, they are altered females, since I decided they wouldn’t be mommas and had them spayed. But I think that is sort of like telling a woman who had a hysterectomy that she is no longer really a woman. Alli and Joey will always be bitches to me. Bitches. The plural of bitch, which, I am using correctly according to Merriam Webster’s website: www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/bitch .

Definition of BITCH
1
: the female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals
2
a : a lewd or immoral woman b : a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse
3
: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant
4
: complaint
See bitch defined for English-language learners »
See bitch defined for kids »

Examples of BITCH
1. That word is a bitch to spell.
2.

Origin of BITCH
Middle English bicche, from Old English bicce
First Known Use: before 12th century

Related to BITCH
Synonyms: beef, complaint, bleat, carp, fuss, grievance, gripe, grouch, grouse, grumble, holler, kvetch, lament, miserere, moan, murmur, plaint, squawk, wail, whimper, whine, whinge [British], yammer


So all the synonyms are related to the verb. I guess they didn’t want to put in slut, hussy, or any of the thousands of women of historical/intellectual/spiritual importance from Eve to Hilary Clinton who have had to bear the brunt of its negative meaning.

Interestingly, if you click on the definition of bitch for kids… drumroll…



One entry found for bitch.

Main Entry: bitch
Pronunciation: bich
Function: noun
: a female dog


I guess kids only get to know that a bitch is a girl dog. I couldn’t imagine where they would possibly learn about definitions of bitch other than a student dictionary anyway. I almost want to ask some of those super sheltered, home-schooled kids, like a pack of the Duggars and ask them what a bitch is. They might be on my side…

It isn’t my fault that society has taken a word and made it insulting or negative. I am probably overbearing and immoral to many people, so call me a bitch. I’d wear that title with pride since the same aggressiveness or moral code would make me someone else’s hero.

And you don’t need to call me out, yes, the blog title is a little tongue in cheek. I’m one of those people that should be taken with a shaker of salt at times. My use of bitch is at times playful, at times serious, and most of the time, literal.

So bitches, it’s colder than a bitch tonight, and it’s time for me to go snuggle up with my bitches.

Pan and Scan...

I was flipping channels the other day, which anymore seems like checking out the same edition of SportsCenter or avoiding The Jersey Shore or some reincarnation of The Kardashians, and actually came upon something about which I had nearly forgotten. Turner Classic Movies. I’m no expert on cinema, nor am I some type of Luddite longing for the days of yore. Over the years, TMC has reminded me that there are so many great old movies, especially musicals, and last Sunday, it taught me a bit about life.

There was a short feature, probably only 12 to 15 minutes, in which several well-known directors such as Curtis Hanson and Martin Scorsese discussed the film editing technique known as “pan and scan.” Since movies were always shot in the wide-screen format for play in the theater, the directors made the cuts and edits in a way in which their stories unfolded across the width of the screen. Pan and scan came into play to make movies fit onto television screens. The issue the directors had with it was that it altered the original composition of the film as the pan and scan editor could lose over 40% of the original image as they focused on what their perceptions of the most important part of the image. It was really eye opening to see the wide-screen images of classic movies, like “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” with the pan and scan image highlighted over the original wide-screen image. So much of the choreography was lost, which had a definite impact on the story.

It dawned on me that a lot of us live our lives in a pan and scan format. We all have big stories about the places and people that move in and out of our lives. We really do. I don’t care if you’ve travelled the world or barely left the county in which you grew up. The stories are there. What is interesting is how we edit them. It’s how we perceive the truths around us. Living in pan and scan is probably the ultimate story of missing the forest for the trees. Maybe editing yourself to try and keep the focus on your best parts is a nice safety net. And of course there are some things you don’t need to share with the world. But for my money, the most interesting things are often tucked away in the corners, just waiting to be explored.

Peanut Butter Shorthairs...

I ran into a former co-worker today. Well, I waited on her, so I guess I didn’t really “run” into her. Full disclosure here, kids. Since we’re both busy people, the primary form of contact we have is Facebook. Funny thing, the Book. I have a tendency to post things and figure people don’t really look at it unless they make a comment or say they like it. She was the third person of the morning that mentioned the picture I posted of the biscuits I made for the bitches. Yes, the bitches do get homemade treats just cuz they are sexy.

They also get homemade treats cuz Man Friend bought us a doggie treat cookbook for Christmas. Know me well, he does.

The actual treats were called “Peanut Butter Shortbreads” and for a second I thought about getting a Pointer cookie cutter made and calling them “Peanut Butter Shorthairs.” Okay, maybe I will still do that since it would be the cutest thing since Michelle Tanner.

It was really funny while I was making the treats. It was a simple recipe, just some whole wheat flour, all-purpose flour, baking power, peanut butter, and milk. Bam. I couldn’t help but wonder if they would end of tasting something like what I imagined a diabetic peanut butter cookie would taste like…

Yes, I tried the dough.

Thick, grainy peanut butterishness. It wouldn’t be good in Ben and Jerry’s.

Nothing amazing, but when I went to the other room to put the first batch on the cooling rack, the dough was good enough for Joey to counter cruise and grab a couple uncooked bites.

Whore.

They didn’t really smell delicious, like when I have a cookie or cake in the oven. I doubted the neighbor kids would come running if I put them in the window to cool. For those of you who thought I live in the central part of a small Midwestern city, you’re wrong. I actually live in an Antebellum novel. At any rate, with the bitches’ excitement while eating the treats, I kinda wanted to try the biscuit.

I know it’s kind of weird.

I didn’t try one. Yet.

I Don't Have 99 Problems But, In Fact, Two Are Bitches...

The past few months have been hard. Everybody has problems, I know. This isn’t a story about trying to one up or play down problems. I know that nothing about my struggles, as few as they really are, is overly interesting or complicated. If I have figured out anything at all, it’s that the problems themselves aren’t singular. Everyone experiences hurt, pain, or loss. It’s the reaction that is singular. The piece of the puzzle that we actually have the ability to control is where it gets personal and thankfully, I have been able to cling to my inner Anne Frank and hope that things will get better.

It was sort of a chain reaction of things, which started when I took the LSAT and screwed up my answer sheet when I was skipping around one of the sections. Sigh. School stuff was usually pretty predictable for me. I wouldn’t say I was completely prepared, but I had done some practice tests and stuck my head in a Kaplan book, so I knew what to expect.

I didn’t expect to feel like an animal in a cage, the cage being a tiny desk in which I couldn’t even cross my legs without turning to the side. The cage being in a room with no natural light. Blah, blah, blah. This could go on with excuses for why I fucked up, but in the end it was just my being sloppy. Most people can be sloppy for less than $139 and a Saturday. The weird part was that I felt like I had screwed up as I was leaving the testing room. I should have listened to my guts and just cancelled the score. But the little optimist in me thought I was just tired and brain fried.

So I held on to that hope in the three weeks waiting for the emailed result. Since the email was sent to the account linked to my James Bond phone, I knew the instant the unofficial result arrived. I was at work. You know, that place where I have to be nice to people and take care of their needs to get money. I should have waited till the end of my shift to look, but of course I took a quick peek and was certain that it was all a huge mistake. So I walked around in a daze until the end of the night, when I got home to Man Friend and had the standard “Maybe I am just a big fucking idiot” meltdown. Lots of stomping around the house, scaring the bitches, and such, basically acting the fool because I didn’t get what I wanted, when and how I wanted. Bathe in the self-pity, you silly girl.

Then we threw in the impending gray season. Oh gray season. October is when it usually starts for me for so many reasons, but the hot weather and sunshine that fueled my runs, rides, and happiness begins to fade away. Even though this winter has been quite warm, I find myself longing for a muggy morning run to push out the toxins and bond with the bitches.

Speaking of the bitches, these were two of my problems. I love them. You know this. It goes without saying, but I feel the need to repeat myself. I love them. They just weren’t getting along.

There had been little scraps over toys or food once Joey was taller than Alli. There could be five toys lying on the floor and they would scrap over one. Alli destroyed some of Man Friend’s stuff. She chewed up two of his phones, a stocking cap, a baseball cap, and a wallet. If Alli would take something of his and destroy it, there was never a fight. If Joey took something of mine, like a hair clip, Alli would go after her. This seemed to be the only pattern and it never made sense because an hour later, they would be sleeping in a pile on the pappasan chair.

They would go months without incident and then try to kill each other. There was bloodshed, both canine and human. I now have a lovely scar on my wrist from the straw that broke the camel’s back in November.

After several bites and several hundred tears, I decided that one of the bitches wasn’t going to live with us anymore. It was like Sophie’s Choice without Nazis. I knew who to ask to take one of my girls, I just didn’t know how to pick which one.

“How are you deciding which one to get rid of?” was the most commonly asked question. I wanted to rip people’s faces off when they asked that. You get rid of bad habits or trash. These were my beautiful babies that I had fed, run, and loved since they were puppies.

I thought about that day in the pre-Joey era when Alli and I were walking down 15th Street and I realized I didn’t own her, and more importantly, she taught me that I really didn’t own anything but my spirituality. The house, the books, the pots and pans, the people in my life could all be taken from me. I was just lucky enough that the furry little spirit named Alli had chosen to walk through my life.

And part of my heart wondered if she had chosen to walk out of it.

Arrangements were made, introductions happened, but in the end, I just couldn’t let one go. The lady just wasn’t dirty enough without two bitches. And hope took over.

Hope is that thing. It floats and rises to the top. It triumphs over experience. It’s a tricky one, hope. It will make the battered wife believe he won’t hit her again. It will make the parent believe his drug-addicted child only stole from him once.

Once when I worked at the Public Defender’s Office, I answered the phone and the caller asked for Hope. Those of you in the know are aware that at that time, Hope worked on the other side of Dakota Avenue, at the State’s Attorney. I couldn’t resist.

“There’s no Hope here.”

And god, at times it felt like there wasn’t. But sometimes it was the most hopeful place on earth, cause even with the weight of the world against you, sometimes things worked out all right.

This time hope came in the form of a co-worker. I hadn’t been eating and was so distracted I walked into traffic and was almost hit by a car. I couldn’t believe how painful the process of letting go was and apparently it was written all over my face. She suggested a dog behavioralist and I decided to go for it. I would be a pretty shitty person if I didn’t do everything I could to try and keep our little pack together.

So now I’m learning. The dog trainer’s whole concept is that he doesn’t fix dogs, he fixes people. I guess I made the connection that my dogs see me as a dog and I was doing all sorts of shit to confuse them, which led to the weird aggression issues. We’ve set up a new diet for them and I’m putting myself first. Yeah, put myself first. I’ve never had an issue being a leader among the human sect when it was needed, but for some reason, I think my intense love for animals set me up to put their needs first. Like humans eat first. It’s just my instinct to feed them first because I thought if they were fed and happy, then I could enjoy my meal. Nope, turns out they actually respect you when you eat first and then go to them, in their dominant order. And I am actually seeing the results. I used to think it was cute when they would stare me down and beg for a scrap while I was cooking or eating. Turns out I was letting them dominate me. Sigh. They’ve been kicked out of the human bed and have time outs, like little kids. All in the name of making me the alpha leader of the pack.

Granted, we are just getting going with all this, but Joey seems to be having an easier time than Alli. I’ve also had four more years to screw Alli up, so I guess that’s to be expected. So far, I am happy with the way things are going and looking forward to seeing what else we can do. I’m hopeful that my original vision of many more miles and years of wagging will come to fruition.