I rant on occasion. Okay, that’s just a balls out lie. Man Friend can tell you that some of my biggest rants are at the television and they involve sports and political programming. My love to bitch and rant made me start a list of things that so much of the populace seems to dig, but I could give a shit about. So, it’s time to publish a list… we’ll think of it has a critical thinking list…
Mumford and Sons/Modest Mouse
I think I get equally disinterested in a band when celebrities and hipsters proclaim love for it. Maybe I shouldn’t watch an E!News. Maybe it’s because I was never cool enough to be a hipster. Or maybe I just don’t like music that gets filed under M. Although I totally own Maroon 5 as a guilty pleasure and do, in fact, have moves better than Jagger. So you don’t have to tell me which song I need to hear to understand or appreciate the music. I say, eh, and as long as we’re talking music, on to another musical dislike.
Needing to have credit for introducing someone to a musical artist
Someone once claimed to have introduced me to Bob Dylan, even though I had over 10 discs and three concerts under my belt prior to meeting him. I’ve never had a problem recommending music or a book or movies or whatever to someone. If s/he likes it, great, and if not, that’s cool, too. But I’ve known people who will fight over who introduced a band or artist to the friendship. Fucking balls, fight over healthcare reform or whether MJ or LeBron will go down as the greatest, but why argue over who found a band first. It’s like some weird badge of honor and self-importance to some people and I just don’t get it.
Colorado
Everyone around me used to talk about Colorado like it was the promised land. When I lived in Lincoln, lots of people cheered for the CO professional sports teams and talked about how cool Boulder was. And how young and hip everyone was. Then when I moved to So Dak, there was an odd exodus of people moving there. Everyone acted like it was this incredibly cool place filled with micro-breweries, pot, and never-ending fun. But I would read about really conservative, anti-choice politics and think about school shootings and really wonder. To me, it was So Dak with tits, meaning mountains. I’m sure there are lots of amazing people there and amazing scenery, but there also seemed to be a lot of conservative politics from the retired military and megachurch populations. Hello Mr. Haggard! And let’s not get started on the credit card hippies.
I’ve softened a bit on my CO stance and we’ll credit the fine work of Dog Chapman on the Denver episodes for that.
Qudoba
It’s a tortilla. It’s meat. It’s vegetables. I can make something more interesting, cheaper, and more healthful. I should admit that this annoyance primarily comes from a group of stoners I met when I first moved to So Dak and one would always want to “Go to the ‘Dob,” every time he was ripped. He was ripped a lot.
Bacon
Can we please just get over bacon? Having worked in restaurants for years, I am yet to find any chef or cook who is not over the moon for this salty chunk of fat. Then there are the contests devoted to cooking with it and people using it in dessert. Yes, I think everyone should eat less meat and yes, I think hog confinements are deplorable. But this isn’t an ecological or animal welfare argument. I just really don’t think bacon is very good. I will enjoy pork tenderloin from time to time. Bacon is just entirely over-rated. The stupid Facebook memes of piglets as “Bacon Seeds.” Eh. Eh. Eh.
Shopping
This is probably listed more because of my status as a chick. You know how we’re supposed to enjoy shopping and want to spend a whole day doing it? Malls are supposed to be magical and all that retail therapy bullshit? I know exactly what I want when I go shopping, get it, and leave. The only possible exceptions to this are grocery and price club shopping, because checking out other people’s carts is a fascinating, judgmental process. Carts with obese children, those stories write themselves. And as far as price club, it’s mystical to see someone with cheap wine, a bag of pre-cut broccoli, and a gianormous pack of adult diapers. So I guess non-essential shopping is really the eh for me. How many pairs of shoes do you really need? It’s not like the shoes are gonna hug you.
Cars for non-essential transportation
I get that there’s a whole culture of people who fix cars or restore them or race them or whatever. That’s nice for them. I just think it’s really weird. Like I’m sure they think it’s weird that I buy three or four pairs of running shoes every year.
“How I Met Your Mother”
What a stupid show, primarily due to that idiot redheaded girl. Maybe vapid and clueless is funny to some, but she wrecks the whole thing for me. Or maybe my love of Jason Seigel and Neil Patrick Harris made my expectations way too high. Doogie Howser as the ultimate womanizer should be a laugh riot. Sadly, it is not.
William S. Burroughs
I know I’m supposed to be able to separate the art from the artist. I know. And while I will acknowledge that he is a good writer, I just personally can’t get past what a sucky human he was. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead… Hitler was a vegetarian, so that’s nice. But seriously, Mr. Burroughs, you shot your wife and were a terrible addict. Your son was so messed up he drank himself to death at 33. At some point, the art matters less than the mess he left in his wake.
Ron Paul
If you put a gun to my head, I would probably tell you I am a Libertarian. I really don’t give a fuck what people do. Wanna smoke pot, own an arsenal of firearms or porn, or have access to a medically safe abortion? Go nuts. Grow a field of pot. I don’t care. But so many younger people fell victim to the Ron Paul cult this year. It might be because of his appeal as an alternative candidate or the fact that the man does have principles. But his anti-choice stance will never fly with this chick and the weird racist stuff is just over the top for me. Back to my Libertarianism, I believe in the First Amendment and if someone wants to Join the KKK, they can. But I sure as fuck don’t have to agree with them and am not gonna have my picture taken with them. Yikes. Eh. P.S. Rand is a turd.
Fake holidays
New Year’s Eve, St. Patricks, Cinco de Mayo, and the like. Just gianormous excuses to get wasted. Amateur hour for 24. The professionals don’t need this excuse. It’s not like the chick that shit her pants or the guy throwing up on the boulevard was out to celebrate Catholicism coming to Ireland. And a bunch of white people stumbling around in Dollar Store sombreros…
I give Derby Days a pass here since it is a fake holiday centered around a sporting event. No culture or religion is being ripped off or compromised.
Contemporary church services
Bass guitars and raising your hands to the air doesn’t make it more interesting or fun. It makes it creepy and cult-like. I like my religion old-timey. In all honesty, if I were religious, I think I would go Catholic, if I didn’t have to check so many feminist credentials at the door. Or maybe Jewish. Hmm…
Please don’t hate or send me invites to your super fun service where everybody wears jeans. I believe what I believe and it works for me.
Pregnancy
A couple of teenagers in the backseat of a car trying to get cast on the next season of “Teen Mom” is a real miracle. Almost everyone has the ability to get pregnant or get someone pregnant. (My gay and lesbian friends get a pass here. The work a gay or lesbian couple has to go through to get pregnant is proof of how much they want to parent.) Maybe I’ve gotten a little jaded from hearing too many unplanned pregnancy stories, but I don’t see getting knocked up as much of an accomplishment. Call me when you graduate, set a new PR, or get your dream job.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Just Waiting on a Friend
The bitches are pretty clear about what they like. Food, play, and sleep top the list. They like to run, they like to have their ears scratched, and I’m pretty sure they like to practice being cute while I’m at work. Most of the things they really seem to like have to do with getting my attention.
Canines are pretty good at commanding attention. To be more precise, I should say they demand your attention. Anyone who has ever been followed around the house by his dog or felt that nose pushing under her hand, just begging for some petting knows exacting what I’m talking about. Even when they’ve been naughty, after a little time has passed, I’m totally okay if I sit down to read or watch TV and suddenly a little furry brownhead is resting on my thigh as if to say, “I’m here, I love you, and please love me back.”
Humans aren’t as quick to demand attention or ask for forgiveness, at least the ones who need it most. Babies rightfully have the capacity and we all know some adult babies who will suck the life out of you if you let them. Today I have been thinking about one particular friend of mine who just got a special visit from someone very dear to him.
Saturday was my friend’s birthday, you see, and while he is a very young man, life has been difficult. It wasn’t for lack of family or love, but rather issues with anger and drugs that led to some horrible choices that have made this life a hard one for him. This birthday and many, many future birthdays will be spent in prison. This isn’t a debate about any aspect of the judicial system. My friend was part of a crime that led to the death of another person. Some might say that letting him rot in a cell for decades is exactly what he deserves. Others, like me, would say that we shouldn’t be singularly judged by the worst of our actions. But that isn’t why I was thinking about my friend.
The last time I saw him, he was standing on a corner downtown. He was barefoot, babbling to himself, and obviously messed up. I knew he wasn’t in contact with his PO. He hadn’t been working at the restaurant with me for a few weeks and by the looks of him, I doubted that he had a job. He didn’t notice me and for a second, I thought about making the call. Not much time had passed since a DWI and I remembered the name of the PO. Then I thought about something a former boss said to me in regards to people with substance abuse issues, “Sometimes you gotta give them enough rope to let them hang themselves.”
Since I never thought of myself as a snitch, I sided with the latter advice and figured he would miss enough appointments, eventually find himself back in court, and maybe have a good shot at sobriety this time. Unknowingly, maybe he was begging for my attention, just like the bitches do. In my wildest dreams, I never thought he would be charged in a murder case.
I knew him as a charming, fun young man who was a good worker. I’ve known his grandma for many years and consider her a friend as well. She absolutely loved and adored him from the moment he was born. When he was getting into trouble as a kid, she always made a point to visit him and remind him that he was loved no matter what. But the last arrest was it for her and she couldn’t bring herself to visit him over the past couple of years.
I can’t imagine the feeling of seeing all the hopes and dreams you have for a child you love crushed, whether by his own actions or the actions of another. It must be one of the worst feelings in the entire world. One of the old adages about prison is that it isn’t just the person on the inside who is doing time. It’s also the ones who love them. No matter how reprehensible the crime, it’s a near certainty that the prisoner is important to someone and loved by someone. So I guess you hang on to hope, just like I had to when the bitches weren’t getting along. The hope that no matter whether freedom comes in 40 days or 40 years, everyone can find a little peace along the way.
His grandma went to visit on his birthday. We talked a little about it, about the emotions, the tears, and how he has changed. She had to distance herself from all of it for a long time, just to protect herself, I guess. And to be honest, I don’t really feel like that reunion is my story to share right now. I’m just incredibly thankful that it happened.
Canines are pretty good at commanding attention. To be more precise, I should say they demand your attention. Anyone who has ever been followed around the house by his dog or felt that nose pushing under her hand, just begging for some petting knows exacting what I’m talking about. Even when they’ve been naughty, after a little time has passed, I’m totally okay if I sit down to read or watch TV and suddenly a little furry brownhead is resting on my thigh as if to say, “I’m here, I love you, and please love me back.”
Humans aren’t as quick to demand attention or ask for forgiveness, at least the ones who need it most. Babies rightfully have the capacity and we all know some adult babies who will suck the life out of you if you let them. Today I have been thinking about one particular friend of mine who just got a special visit from someone very dear to him.
Saturday was my friend’s birthday, you see, and while he is a very young man, life has been difficult. It wasn’t for lack of family or love, but rather issues with anger and drugs that led to some horrible choices that have made this life a hard one for him. This birthday and many, many future birthdays will be spent in prison. This isn’t a debate about any aspect of the judicial system. My friend was part of a crime that led to the death of another person. Some might say that letting him rot in a cell for decades is exactly what he deserves. Others, like me, would say that we shouldn’t be singularly judged by the worst of our actions. But that isn’t why I was thinking about my friend.
The last time I saw him, he was standing on a corner downtown. He was barefoot, babbling to himself, and obviously messed up. I knew he wasn’t in contact with his PO. He hadn’t been working at the restaurant with me for a few weeks and by the looks of him, I doubted that he had a job. He didn’t notice me and for a second, I thought about making the call. Not much time had passed since a DWI and I remembered the name of the PO. Then I thought about something a former boss said to me in regards to people with substance abuse issues, “Sometimes you gotta give them enough rope to let them hang themselves.”
Since I never thought of myself as a snitch, I sided with the latter advice and figured he would miss enough appointments, eventually find himself back in court, and maybe have a good shot at sobriety this time. Unknowingly, maybe he was begging for my attention, just like the bitches do. In my wildest dreams, I never thought he would be charged in a murder case.
I knew him as a charming, fun young man who was a good worker. I’ve known his grandma for many years and consider her a friend as well. She absolutely loved and adored him from the moment he was born. When he was getting into trouble as a kid, she always made a point to visit him and remind him that he was loved no matter what. But the last arrest was it for her and she couldn’t bring herself to visit him over the past couple of years.
I can’t imagine the feeling of seeing all the hopes and dreams you have for a child you love crushed, whether by his own actions or the actions of another. It must be one of the worst feelings in the entire world. One of the old adages about prison is that it isn’t just the person on the inside who is doing time. It’s also the ones who love them. No matter how reprehensible the crime, it’s a near certainty that the prisoner is important to someone and loved by someone. So I guess you hang on to hope, just like I had to when the bitches weren’t getting along. The hope that no matter whether freedom comes in 40 days or 40 years, everyone can find a little peace along the way.
His grandma went to visit on his birthday. We talked a little about it, about the emotions, the tears, and how he has changed. She had to distance herself from all of it for a long time, just to protect herself, I guess. And to be honest, I don’t really feel like that reunion is my story to share right now. I’m just incredibly thankful that it happened.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Say Goodbye to Your Little Friend...
The other day I was walking down the street with the bitches and noticed some pretty heavy-duty squirrel action in the coming block. Not like porno squirrels or anything weird, but about six or eight of them running frantically around in what appeared to be some sort of confused squirrel fashion.
I must admit that I’ve never put a lot of thought into the thoughts of squirrels. The bitches like to chase them and actually caught one once. The squirrels have caused plenty of arm jerks and tight leashes. My mom wages wars against the squirrels in her garden every year. And I do have to admit, although they are a pain in my runs and walks, I do think they are pretty cute and I admire their climbing skills.
But back to the pack of squirrels on Duluth Avenue… so there were six or eight of them, running around crazily, darting through the street, and I noticed the problem as we got a bit closer. Two squirrels were freshly passed away, just hit by a car, their bodies hardly flattened. Sad. It made me incredibly sad. I could only imagine the shock of seeing two of my friends or family members killed at once.
The softy in me started to tear up. I am, after all, the girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds I would find around the neighborhood. So as I’m starting to cry, we’re getting closer, and simultaneously, the bitches and the surviving squirrels were aware of each other.
The previously mentioned frantic pace turned into a complete manic episode for the pack of squirrels. The bitches started to pull as the squirrels ran to the other side of the street, seeking refuge up trees. And as I looked across in the mayhem, I saw a third squirrel who was injured, his back legs just mangled, who was trying desperately to get to the tree, but the legs just wouldn’t work. He would use the front paws with every muscle he had but he could only get about a foot before having to stop and regroup.
Part of me wanted to go across the street and put him out of his misery. But it wasn’t like carry a shovel with me on a walk and death by bitch, although probably quicker than what he was to experience, just wasn’t something I could stomach.
But then the damnedest thing happened. One of his little friends came back for him. Braving the threat of the bitches, other humans, cars, and the world in general, the second squirrel came back to the injured one and started talking to him, pushing him and encouraging him. Like a soldier going back for an injured friend.
Then the bitches quit pulling and watched.
Then I just cried. Bawled actually.
Nobody ever taught that squirrel loyalty or bravery. He just knew. He just knew that you don’t leave your friend who’s in trouble. There was no reward for his action. And while I’m not fluent in squirrel, I swear he was trying to spur on his buddy. That little squirrel had more guts than most people I’ve ever known.
I don’t know why the bitches quit pulling and just watched the squirrels. Maybe they knew his inevitable fate and saw an easy meal. Or maybe they knew his inevitable fate and offered up a little cross species respect. It sounds like a lot of credit to give to a dog, but after seeing the intuitive nature of that squirrel, who knows?
I must admit that I’ve never put a lot of thought into the thoughts of squirrels. The bitches like to chase them and actually caught one once. The squirrels have caused plenty of arm jerks and tight leashes. My mom wages wars against the squirrels in her garden every year. And I do have to admit, although they are a pain in my runs and walks, I do think they are pretty cute and I admire their climbing skills.
But back to the pack of squirrels on Duluth Avenue… so there were six or eight of them, running around crazily, darting through the street, and I noticed the problem as we got a bit closer. Two squirrels were freshly passed away, just hit by a car, their bodies hardly flattened. Sad. It made me incredibly sad. I could only imagine the shock of seeing two of my friends or family members killed at once.
The softy in me started to tear up. I am, after all, the girl who used to hold funerals for the dead birds I would find around the neighborhood. So as I’m starting to cry, we’re getting closer, and simultaneously, the bitches and the surviving squirrels were aware of each other.
The previously mentioned frantic pace turned into a complete manic episode for the pack of squirrels. The bitches started to pull as the squirrels ran to the other side of the street, seeking refuge up trees. And as I looked across in the mayhem, I saw a third squirrel who was injured, his back legs just mangled, who was trying desperately to get to the tree, but the legs just wouldn’t work. He would use the front paws with every muscle he had but he could only get about a foot before having to stop and regroup.
Part of me wanted to go across the street and put him out of his misery. But it wasn’t like carry a shovel with me on a walk and death by bitch, although probably quicker than what he was to experience, just wasn’t something I could stomach.
But then the damnedest thing happened. One of his little friends came back for him. Braving the threat of the bitches, other humans, cars, and the world in general, the second squirrel came back to the injured one and started talking to him, pushing him and encouraging him. Like a soldier going back for an injured friend.
Then the bitches quit pulling and watched.
Then I just cried. Bawled actually.
Nobody ever taught that squirrel loyalty or bravery. He just knew. He just knew that you don’t leave your friend who’s in trouble. There was no reward for his action. And while I’m not fluent in squirrel, I swear he was trying to spur on his buddy. That little squirrel had more guts than most people I’ve ever known.
I don’t know why the bitches quit pulling and just watched the squirrels. Maybe they knew his inevitable fate and saw an easy meal. Or maybe they knew his inevitable fate and offered up a little cross species respect. It sounds like a lot of credit to give to a dog, but after seeing the intuitive nature of that squirrel, who knows?
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Everyone in my life needs an adult diaper and a helmet...
That really is how it feels sometimes. I know there are plenty of reasonably healthy people in my life. But for whatever reason, I also seem to attract a lot of people who seemingly have no interest in being well. Some just pass through, but others get under my skin, for better or worse. Both my therapist and a very smart, sober friend of mine think part of me enjoys feeling superior to others. Maybe. One of my friends thought what we dubbed my “Anne Frank Quality,” or my uncanny ability to see there is some good in everyone, was to blame. Maybe. I have put up with some insane nonsense.
It’s funny to me how I do tend to associate with people who drink a lot. Although it still makes me angry sometimes, I have accepted that I shouldn’t drink. For the rest of my life. Understood. And I do have sober friends. I just also have drunk ones. Just a few days ago I was asked, “How can you stand this? How do you just laugh and roll along with the drunkenness?” I replied, “At least if you’re drunk I know why you’re an asshole.”
That might be the most honest statement I’ve ever made. I didn’t even think about it, and although it came out as a joke, we all know there is always a bit of truth to a joke.
Life is a journey to get well. That statement makes complete sense or no sense at all. Ultimately, I guess we’re all where we’re at and that’s just how you have to take people. There are a lot of people walking around this planet unconscious. It’s a shame that the wonder and beauty of this existence is so lost on people who are so focused on form.
We’re all just a bunch of atoms, formed in a star so many years ago. A star just like our sun. A star died so here we are. Something is always giving life so something else may live. That is simply the transitory nature of existence.
So do we owe the universe? Do we have some sort of karmic debt to repay? I’m thinking almost like paying rent for our existence. I know there are religions that believe good works or gaining followers will buy one a ticket to eternity. But paying rent seems like such a misnomer since you, as in your form right now, wouldn’t really know if the landlord ever came calling for it.
I don’t even know what I’m getting at here. Adult diapers are made of atoms? As an alcoholic, I have a karmic debt to help others? Should I just sell all my shit and live in the mountains with the bitches until we die from exposure?
It’s a bitch trying to be well but also feeling so negative. I guess it’s just a moment, so I should get over it and try to focus on sleep and a better tomorrow. I promise I’ll share diaper and helmet stories someday.
It’s funny to me how I do tend to associate with people who drink a lot. Although it still makes me angry sometimes, I have accepted that I shouldn’t drink. For the rest of my life. Understood. And I do have sober friends. I just also have drunk ones. Just a few days ago I was asked, “How can you stand this? How do you just laugh and roll along with the drunkenness?” I replied, “At least if you’re drunk I know why you’re an asshole.”
That might be the most honest statement I’ve ever made. I didn’t even think about it, and although it came out as a joke, we all know there is always a bit of truth to a joke.
Life is a journey to get well. That statement makes complete sense or no sense at all. Ultimately, I guess we’re all where we’re at and that’s just how you have to take people. There are a lot of people walking around this planet unconscious. It’s a shame that the wonder and beauty of this existence is so lost on people who are so focused on form.
We’re all just a bunch of atoms, formed in a star so many years ago. A star just like our sun. A star died so here we are. Something is always giving life so something else may live. That is simply the transitory nature of existence.
So do we owe the universe? Do we have some sort of karmic debt to repay? I’m thinking almost like paying rent for our existence. I know there are religions that believe good works or gaining followers will buy one a ticket to eternity. But paying rent seems like such a misnomer since you, as in your form right now, wouldn’t really know if the landlord ever came calling for it.
I don’t even know what I’m getting at here. Adult diapers are made of atoms? As an alcoholic, I have a karmic debt to help others? Should I just sell all my shit and live in the mountains with the bitches until we die from exposure?
It’s a bitch trying to be well but also feeling so negative. I guess it’s just a moment, so I should get over it and try to focus on sleep and a better tomorrow. I promise I’ll share diaper and helmet stories someday.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Because there are better things to do while sitting on the toilet...
It's been a long time. Too damned long, really. I was letting life get me all out of whack and not really sure which way was up. I know you've felt that way yourself. And since I've been all about trying to be a better, more-centered person and not letting my ego run the show anymore, I made a fateful decision.
Last Thursday, I gave up Facebook for 30 days.
Since it was my primary form of contact with a lot of people, it was a little scary to me. I mean, how would I know who was blaming who for what, or who was knocked up, or who hates his/her ________ (insert job/boss/significant other/best friend/parent)? How would I be able to see what all the anti-choice crazies are up to this week without those status updates that alternately sent chills down my spine or made my blood boil?
It started as an innocent little wager with Man Friend. He was always giving me shit for being on my phone all the time. "You Facebooking?" or "You on the Book?" seemed to be the most popular question at my house. And, although I must admit that the amount of asking, while annoying, really made me think about how I was spending my time.
I would check it first thing in the morning. Like while I was peeing and before I made coffee. I would check it at stoplights. I would check it when I was bored at work. I would check it on my break from work. I would check it on commercial breaks while I was watching TV. I would take reading breaks to check it. I would bring my phone everywhere just so I could check the damned Book. And it certainly was the last thing I would check before I went to sleep at night, the bright little screen jacking with my brain just before my head hit the pillow.
A little obsessive, definitely. And a little crazy for a woman who has no trouble admitting that she's an alcoholic and really shouldn't have a drink for the rest of her days on this earth.
There have been many moments in which I had to tell myself to put down the phone and take a couple of breaths. Then I remind myself that ultimately, the universe will tell me the things that I need to hear. The rest is just noise...
Last Thursday, I gave up Facebook for 30 days.
Since it was my primary form of contact with a lot of people, it was a little scary to me. I mean, how would I know who was blaming who for what, or who was knocked up, or who hates his/her ________ (insert job/boss/significant other/best friend/parent)? How would I be able to see what all the anti-choice crazies are up to this week without those status updates that alternately sent chills down my spine or made my blood boil?
It started as an innocent little wager with Man Friend. He was always giving me shit for being on my phone all the time. "You Facebooking?" or "You on the Book?" seemed to be the most popular question at my house. And, although I must admit that the amount of asking, while annoying, really made me think about how I was spending my time.
I would check it first thing in the morning. Like while I was peeing and before I made coffee. I would check it at stoplights. I would check it when I was bored at work. I would check it on my break from work. I would check it on commercial breaks while I was watching TV. I would take reading breaks to check it. I would bring my phone everywhere just so I could check the damned Book. And it certainly was the last thing I would check before I went to sleep at night, the bright little screen jacking with my brain just before my head hit the pillow.
A little obsessive, definitely. And a little crazy for a woman who has no trouble admitting that she's an alcoholic and really shouldn't have a drink for the rest of her days on this earth.
There have been many moments in which I had to tell myself to put down the phone and take a couple of breaths. Then I remind myself that ultimately, the universe will tell me the things that I need to hear. The rest is just noise...
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
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.”
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.”
Thursday, January 26, 2012
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…
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…
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