I'm not a big weeper. Not because I am holding back the urge to shed salt water from my face, but because, I think, that there is a certain numbness that washes over me that beats out the tears. It is the sad result of living in a world where the good is so good and the horrible is so horrible that they seem to cancel eachother out.
Notice I didn't say balance.
Anyway, this blog is not about whether I cry a lot or a little, that bit was for effect. So that you know that if something brings me to weep, it's either too sad, too gorgeous or too enraging to put words to. I tell my kids that I express myself through fluids. Lucian doesn't get it. Anna thinks it's gross.
Two nights ago, I made the mistake of browsing through my CNN app right before I (tried) to nod off to sleep. The usual suspects: health care, the Trayvon Martin mess, the 2012 election, etc. But there was a new one in the mix, one that maybe a few of us missed because of the many dog and pony shows happening on other stages across the world. This one was subtle, but it sliced right into the core of the place in me that carries a sureness of my situation in the world. You could call it my identity, but that's too sparse. It's the place that I feel most assured of who I am, what I am doing and that, for the most part, things are good.
Things are not good, folks. Not anymore. I've been popping Zantac like Pez for the last few days. The low-lying nicotine problem has blown up like the goddamn smallpox (although, I am hiking a lot more, too, go figure) and my restless leg syndrome is back in full force.
So, what did I see? Well, the headline read: Mississippi tightens abortion restrictions.
I knew right then and there that I should've waited until the morning to read it. But, of course, I am a news gal and this is my vice. In sum, the good state of Mississippi has but one abortion clinic (yes, only one for the whole state) which may be shut down, due to tighter legislation regulations requiring obgyn's to have "admitting privileges." Who the hell knows what that means. Anyway, the governor of the state is practically gleeful that the clinic may have to close its doors. Last year he tried to get it to shut down by introducing, I shit you not, a Personhood Amendment stating that "life begins at conception." Of course, that got thrown right the hell out. The good governor said that in closing the clinic, he is protecting the women and children of his state. What a benevolent protector, wow, great guy.
I don't need your protection, Mr. Governor. I need protection FROM people like you. Looking back in history, ancient and modern, it seems that no man has taken it upon himself to protect women. In fact, according to my calculations, woman and children have been ravaged and destroyed by men and their deeds since the dawn of humankind. It is a mass genocide that it allowed to continue in every corner of the globe. When you think of child abusers, rapists, human traffickers and "lawmakers," most of them are men, and many of them go out of their way to feed their perversions, washing their hands on women and children. What protection? And what is this 'personhood' shit?! What about the 'personhood' of the women who already exist? Where is our amendment stating that we have rights and that we may enact those rights at any time? Who is banging the gavel for women these days?
That's right, nobody. Not even our venerated president (it kills me to say this, btw) who remains silent and watches on as, state by state, women's rights (the same women who hold up this economy, who raise millions of children alone every single day and night) are obliterated in the flame of Puritan politics. Where are you, man? You have two daughters, and this is the greatest tragedy this country has ever seen. It is a drawn out funeral and the bodies are being stacked like twigs in the mass grave of freedom.
A few weeks ago I had lunch with a group of Native American artists who will be exhibiting in our local museum this summer. At the end of the lunch, I chatted with a woman who is a beadwork artist. She is extraordinary, truly. We got on the subject of ceremony in her tribe, and how the men brutalize themselves through near starvation and exhaustion in order to become closer to the "Spirit" or God, or whatever you want to call it.
"The only way to do so is to truly humble yourself," she said.
"What about the women," I asked. "Do they do the same thing?"
She shook her head. "Some of them fast for a little bit, and do the dances. But we don't really need to do much to get closer to God," she said. "The men know that. We bleed every month, we carry children in our bodies, we birth children, we work, we suffer a lot more just for being women. They know that. We have a direct bloodline to the sky."
I've been thinking about that conversation since that day. About the ways in which women are humbled every single day; hard work, child-rearing, periods, poverty, abuse, abandonment, war, politics, loss. Women are brought low, very low, very often. And yet it seems that there are many who would have us lower, who are gripping at our ankles to keep us from our personhood. If I catch you at my daughter's ankles, I will cut off your hands.
Don't mess with God's messengers, we know how to bleed. And eventually we will figure out how to use these wings of ours.
This is a darkly humorous bit about life as a rural mother and freelance writer in Western Massachusetts. Little Appalachia, if you will. The title, I feel, clearly reflects how life is coming at me like an overloaded freight train, and my own ridiculous response to it. Me VERSUS all; teenage children, people who want me to work for free, conservative government, food karma, weird menfolk. You'll either laugh, shrug your shoulders, or call DSS immediately. Happy reading.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Not a vessel
It is hard to imagine that on a beautiful morning like this in which the birds are wildly excited, the sun is bright and the mud is thick, that there is a war being waged in this country, the likes of which I have never seen. Here it is, 2012, and quite suddenly, it seems that the G.O.P. has taken it upon itself to use women's health, issues and bodies as trampling ground for a conservative agenda. Just look at the headlines. Every day, it's another Planned Parenthood closed, or another service taken away, or another human being insulted and ridiculed for having a uterus and a voice.
I've had it.
More than half of the voters in this country are women. Women are now the backbone of this economy, the mothers (and fathers!) of millions of children, the mentors to young minds, the steel beams that hold this fragile nation up. I'm serious. Just take a look at the Census if you doubt the role of women in this country and the world. And yet, and yet, funding by the millions is being taken away state by state--funding for breast cancer treatment, ovarian cancer screening, childcare, sick leave, contraception, reproductive health--you name it, it's dissolving under the banner of "God" and "morality." How is leaving more than half of your citizens out in the cold considered morally upright? We are, in essence, no better than the Taliban if this sh*t continues at the rate it's going now. By the time the next election comes, Title X, equal pay, and adequate health care will be completely off the table. Then what?
As if the daily struggle isn't hard enough. I am a woman, I work hard every day, I raise two children, so I can only speak from my own experience, but let me tell you, this ain't no cake walk. Sometimes I can barely contain my rage knowing that still, to this day, with all of my education, my experience and my expenses, a man makes more money than I do, simply for having a penis. Why? Why, when more than 13 million women in this country are raising kids by themselves and responsible for MUCH MORE than their single, male counterparts, are they still making less? It is a muddy pit and there doesn't seem to be enough shovels to get out.
And all of this legislation, and fighting over birth control and contraception is, in my eyes, a veil over a much deeper problem. For some reason, this culture still hates females. Not sure why. We all have mothers and sisters and daughters and we love and respect them in our daily lives. But the culture itself, it seems, does not. I've been on this tirade before, and sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but you would not be here, we would not be here, if it weren't for the power of the women around us. No way, no how. And yet, we are sluts, bitches, prostitutes, drama queens, idiots...AND, women clearly don't know what to do with their bodies, clearly.
I have always been in silent awe (not good awe) of the way that the abortion issue is treated. Even the terms "pro-life" and "pro-choice" are totally ridiculous. What the hell is "pro-life" supposed to mean? I love life, I would never murder someone, the thought that life ends is too sad to endure sometimes. I am totally pro-life. Live it, struggle through it, help others, you bet! I am not pro-control of what people do with their bodies and their lives in order to get through a very tough time. Why aren't pro-lifers standing outside the urlologist's office protesting vasectomies and prostate screening? BECAUSE that's a man's territory. That's why. He's making a responsible decision to stop populating the earth by getting snipped. What's the f*cking difference. Sperm are live, eggs are live--fertilized or unfertilized, the argument doesn't stick.
And as for "pro-choice." What do people think, that making the decision to have an abortion is easy? Are you kidding me? It's not like picking out what color shirt you're gonna wear that morning!!! Yes, there is some choice involved, but it is a choice that comes as a result of simply being a female. Oh shit, I'm pregnant, now I have to make a "choice." More like a gut-wrenching, sleep deprived decision that, either way, will haunt you for the rest of your life. Always.
I am not a vessel for the government, neither is my daughter or my son for that matter. Take your nasty hands off my body, our bodies, and focus on something else, like poverty, or jobs, or this crumbling nightmare of an education system, or hell, equal pay for women. I don't care what "party" you belong to, we all owe it to the women in our lives to stop this hate train before the next pile of coal is loaded into the engine. How would any of us feel, because it's coming, if our daughters, due to this legislation, died of breast cancer because screening was denied? Or if we watched them struggle through the rest of their lives because of a pregnancy that could have been avoided had they been on the pill?
We have to think more locally than this, people. These ARE people we love who will suffer and suffer greatly. All for some strange, elusive ideology that was never right in the first place.
I've had it.
More than half of the voters in this country are women. Women are now the backbone of this economy, the mothers (and fathers!) of millions of children, the mentors to young minds, the steel beams that hold this fragile nation up. I'm serious. Just take a look at the Census if you doubt the role of women in this country and the world. And yet, and yet, funding by the millions is being taken away state by state--funding for breast cancer treatment, ovarian cancer screening, childcare, sick leave, contraception, reproductive health--you name it, it's dissolving under the banner of "God" and "morality." How is leaving more than half of your citizens out in the cold considered morally upright? We are, in essence, no better than the Taliban if this sh*t continues at the rate it's going now. By the time the next election comes, Title X, equal pay, and adequate health care will be completely off the table. Then what?
As if the daily struggle isn't hard enough. I am a woman, I work hard every day, I raise two children, so I can only speak from my own experience, but let me tell you, this ain't no cake walk. Sometimes I can barely contain my rage knowing that still, to this day, with all of my education, my experience and my expenses, a man makes more money than I do, simply for having a penis. Why? Why, when more than 13 million women in this country are raising kids by themselves and responsible for MUCH MORE than their single, male counterparts, are they still making less? It is a muddy pit and there doesn't seem to be enough shovels to get out.
And all of this legislation, and fighting over birth control and contraception is, in my eyes, a veil over a much deeper problem. For some reason, this culture still hates females. Not sure why. We all have mothers and sisters and daughters and we love and respect them in our daily lives. But the culture itself, it seems, does not. I've been on this tirade before, and sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but you would not be here, we would not be here, if it weren't for the power of the women around us. No way, no how. And yet, we are sluts, bitches, prostitutes, drama queens, idiots...AND, women clearly don't know what to do with their bodies, clearly.
I have always been in silent awe (not good awe) of the way that the abortion issue is treated. Even the terms "pro-life" and "pro-choice" are totally ridiculous. What the hell is "pro-life" supposed to mean? I love life, I would never murder someone, the thought that life ends is too sad to endure sometimes. I am totally pro-life. Live it, struggle through it, help others, you bet! I am not pro-control of what people do with their bodies and their lives in order to get through a very tough time. Why aren't pro-lifers standing outside the urlologist's office protesting vasectomies and prostate screening? BECAUSE that's a man's territory. That's why. He's making a responsible decision to stop populating the earth by getting snipped. What's the f*cking difference. Sperm are live, eggs are live--fertilized or unfertilized, the argument doesn't stick.
And as for "pro-choice." What do people think, that making the decision to have an abortion is easy? Are you kidding me? It's not like picking out what color shirt you're gonna wear that morning!!! Yes, there is some choice involved, but it is a choice that comes as a result of simply being a female. Oh shit, I'm pregnant, now I have to make a "choice." More like a gut-wrenching, sleep deprived decision that, either way, will haunt you for the rest of your life. Always.
I am not a vessel for the government, neither is my daughter or my son for that matter. Take your nasty hands off my body, our bodies, and focus on something else, like poverty, or jobs, or this crumbling nightmare of an education system, or hell, equal pay for women. I don't care what "party" you belong to, we all owe it to the women in our lives to stop this hate train before the next pile of coal is loaded into the engine. How would any of us feel, because it's coming, if our daughters, due to this legislation, died of breast cancer because screening was denied? Or if we watched them struggle through the rest of their lives because of a pregnancy that could have been avoided had they been on the pill?
We have to think more locally than this, people. These ARE people we love who will suffer and suffer greatly. All for some strange, elusive ideology that was never right in the first place.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Bum "Rush"
I'm gonna start with, what we call in the news industry, a hard lede. Straight up, if Rush Limpbaugh had said n*gger in any context that fat Bible-belt-don't-even-fit-him bastard (yes, this whole thing is getting personal, game on) would have been fired that day. At least, that's what the rational optimist in me says would happen. But as things stand in this misogynistic culture, it takes a friggin' mattress company to take a stand and pull their advertising from the ultraconservative dick farm he calls a "radio show." My ass. For Chrissake's, Don Imus (remember him, another mouth on fire) called Limbaugh a "fat, gutless, pill-popping loser" in an interview on The Morning. This is the one and only thing that Imus and I will ever agree on, for the record.
So, the pill-popping loser--wait a minute, pill-popping doesn't even hit the tip of that fat ass iceberg. Pill-popping is one thing, but as I recall there is a difference between a loser and a friggin' criminal. Anyone remember that big arrest for FRAUD when the big boy lied to doctors in order to get more monkeys (i.e. Vicoden) to throw up there on his flabby back? What's most disturbing to me is that Limbaugh couldn't even convince a doctor that he needed pain meds. Do you know how easy it is to get opioids in this country, legally? The doctors hand out those scripts like a Pez dispenser shoots candy. Sh*t, my 8-year-old son has only to cough once or twice and suddenly he's got a milk-jug bottle of Codeine with his name on it.
So, Rush is dumb, we know this. What's the big deal that he called Sandra a "slut" and a "prostitute"? There are two camps here, one is the outrage camp, the other is the "just ignore him, he's not a real human being anyway" camp that I so want to be a part of, but I can't. Ignore him?! I wish. But the thing is, people actually listen to this guy and believe the rolling pile of sh*t that comes out of his mouth. He's got the trademark red-faced, gin-inspired anger of a tele-evangelist and a marital track record almost as bad as Henry VIII. But people still listen to the guy, including his latest wife, Kathryn Rogers, who is, btw, a year older than me.
I wonder what she has to say about all this...seeings how she wears the financial pants in that f*cked up family. I can just imagine her and that oversized chipmunk lying in bed (gag,cough), it is dark, they've had a fight about his "Fluke" comments and she leans over to him and whispers "who's the real prostitute?" That guy is a money-whore, but why she married him is beyond me. It's gonna suck for her when his employer stops paying for his daily Cialis prescription.
I know of several radio stations that have pulled his show right off the air. Smart thinking since more than half of this country is comprised of women--bankers, business owners, mothers, and yes, even prostitutes. The backlash from this, I'm hoping, is gonna be a lot longer than that pathetic 4-hour erection he might have thanks to the grand mercy of his health insurance. Maybe he has a point, I don't want to pay for that flaccid conservative to ever be able to get anything up in the air again.
So, the pill-popping loser--wait a minute, pill-popping doesn't even hit the tip of that fat ass iceberg. Pill-popping is one thing, but as I recall there is a difference between a loser and a friggin' criminal. Anyone remember that big arrest for FRAUD when the big boy lied to doctors in order to get more monkeys (i.e. Vicoden) to throw up there on his flabby back? What's most disturbing to me is that Limbaugh couldn't even convince a doctor that he needed pain meds. Do you know how easy it is to get opioids in this country, legally? The doctors hand out those scripts like a Pez dispenser shoots candy. Sh*t, my 8-year-old son has only to cough once or twice and suddenly he's got a milk-jug bottle of Codeine with his name on it.
So, Rush is dumb, we know this. What's the big deal that he called Sandra a "slut" and a "prostitute"? There are two camps here, one is the outrage camp, the other is the "just ignore him, he's not a real human being anyway" camp that I so want to be a part of, but I can't. Ignore him?! I wish. But the thing is, people actually listen to this guy and believe the rolling pile of sh*t that comes out of his mouth. He's got the trademark red-faced, gin-inspired anger of a tele-evangelist and a marital track record almost as bad as Henry VIII. But people still listen to the guy, including his latest wife, Kathryn Rogers, who is, btw, a year older than me.
I wonder what she has to say about all this...seeings how she wears the financial pants in that f*cked up family. I can just imagine her and that oversized chipmunk lying in bed (gag,cough), it is dark, they've had a fight about his "Fluke" comments and she leans over to him and whispers "who's the real prostitute?" That guy is a money-whore, but why she married him is beyond me. It's gonna suck for her when his employer stops paying for his daily Cialis prescription.
I know of several radio stations that have pulled his show right off the air. Smart thinking since more than half of this country is comprised of women--bankers, business owners, mothers, and yes, even prostitutes. The backlash from this, I'm hoping, is gonna be a lot longer than that pathetic 4-hour erection he might have thanks to the grand mercy of his health insurance. Maybe he has a point, I don't want to pay for that flaccid conservative to ever be able to get anything up in the air again.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Green flag booty
We've been kind of excited around here (at least Anna and I have been excited) about this year's Daytona 500. What woman wouldn't be? There's a girl in a bright green car and we want her to win, maybe show the boys how it's done. Admittedly, NASCAR is a tough sport for most feminists to contend with, but I will take what I can get. A few years ago, I was not above using Eight Belles, the big filly at the Kentucky Derby, as my sports mascot. That is, until she broke both front ankles and had to be put down on the track right after coming in second...
Anyway, back to the chick with the race car. So, Danica Patrick. She's competitive, serious, charitable, drug-free--Everything you could want in an athlete. Anna wanted to see pictures/footage of Danica's previous races so we used trusty Google to get some info.
Big mistake. Big, disappointing mistake.
The first six photos were of her in her racing suit, bright green. And her car, also bright green, and sponsored by Go Daddy.
The next 500 pics displayed a young woman in a string bikini barely covering her ass. Her poses were typical; chest out, legs splayed, skin oiled like a new saddle. Think Playboy without the nipples. Anna looked at me, then looked at the photos, then looked at me.
"Where the hell are all her clothes?!" she asked, shaking her head.
"Good question. Maybe they burned up in the qualifiers."
I didn't want to believe it. In the hopes that it was all just media crap and Photoshop gone wild, I took a stroll to Danica's official website.
Another big freakin' mistake.
Her site looked and read more like a singles ad than an official sports figure. There she was, all 100 pounds of her (that little tidbit was the second number displayed in her profile, the first is her height, which is apparently 5"2') decked out in black leather shorts and a bling-bling black tank top. According to the "Danica File" as it is so named, her off-track "credentials" are as equally impressive as her "on-track" resume. These credentials include "gracing" the cover of Sports Illustrated (Swimsuit Edition 2008, of course), SHAPE and ESPN, the Magazine. She has also "starred" in two Go Daddy commercials. One in which she is clad in lingerie as a dream and the other in which she and Jillian Michaels (supposedly America's toughest trainer) are applying body paint to a naked model (like live woman, we're talking here). At the end of the commercial the "artists" step back and realize that for all their hard work, they "missed a spot."
After my traumatic navigation through Danica's official site, I had to, for comparison's sake, visit Dale Jr.'s page. Of course, he was not wearing a bikini. In fact, I didn't see much skin on little Earnie. Most of his pics were of his car, or him suited up and at a press conference. There was a cute one of the dog, too.
No skin, no sex, no objects, just an all-around nice guy with some pretty impressive racing stats.
And yesterday, during the pre-race hubbub, all three announcers referred to Danica Patrick, professional racer, as "sweetheart."
It is now noon on Monday, the race is slated for 7:00 p.m. tonight on FOX (shiver, I know, FOX, ugh). I still want Danica to win, but the wind is almost gone from my sails. I can only imagine the flesh-eating, objectifying commercial offers she will get (and most likely take) if she is the first to meet the checkered flag.
Apparently, the race is still on, and we are still way behind.
Anyway, back to the chick with the race car. So, Danica Patrick. She's competitive, serious, charitable, drug-free--Everything you could want in an athlete. Anna wanted to see pictures/footage of Danica's previous races so we used trusty Google to get some info.
Big mistake. Big, disappointing mistake.
The first six photos were of her in her racing suit, bright green. And her car, also bright green, and sponsored by Go Daddy.
The next 500 pics displayed a young woman in a string bikini barely covering her ass. Her poses were typical; chest out, legs splayed, skin oiled like a new saddle. Think Playboy without the nipples. Anna looked at me, then looked at the photos, then looked at me.
"Where the hell are all her clothes?!" she asked, shaking her head.
"Good question. Maybe they burned up in the qualifiers."
I didn't want to believe it. In the hopes that it was all just media crap and Photoshop gone wild, I took a stroll to Danica's official website.
Another big freakin' mistake.
Her site looked and read more like a singles ad than an official sports figure. There she was, all 100 pounds of her (that little tidbit was the second number displayed in her profile, the first is her height, which is apparently 5"2') decked out in black leather shorts and a bling-bling black tank top. According to the "Danica File" as it is so named, her off-track "credentials" are as equally impressive as her "on-track" resume. These credentials include "gracing" the cover of Sports Illustrated (Swimsuit Edition 2008, of course), SHAPE and ESPN, the Magazine. She has also "starred" in two Go Daddy commercials. One in which she is clad in lingerie as a dream and the other in which she and Jillian Michaels (supposedly America's toughest trainer) are applying body paint to a naked model (like live woman, we're talking here). At the end of the commercial the "artists" step back and realize that for all their hard work, they "missed a spot."
After my traumatic navigation through Danica's official site, I had to, for comparison's sake, visit Dale Jr.'s page. Of course, he was not wearing a bikini. In fact, I didn't see much skin on little Earnie. Most of his pics were of his car, or him suited up and at a press conference. There was a cute one of the dog, too.
No skin, no sex, no objects, just an all-around nice guy with some pretty impressive racing stats.
And yesterday, during the pre-race hubbub, all three announcers referred to Danica Patrick, professional racer, as "sweetheart."
It is now noon on Monday, the race is slated for 7:00 p.m. tonight on FOX (shiver, I know, FOX, ugh). I still want Danica to win, but the wind is almost gone from my sails. I can only imagine the flesh-eating, objectifying commercial offers she will get (and most likely take) if she is the first to meet the checkered flag.
Apparently, the race is still on, and we are still way behind.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Stupid girrrrrls
My 11-year-old daughter announced last week that she had a boyfriend. Or, that "Skippy asked me out."
"What'd you say?" I asked, silently crossing my fingers behind my back.
"Um, yes. I like him."
I bowed my head in resigned silence while quickly scanning my memory bank as to what pistol on the market was the most silent yet most accurate.
"So, what does that mean, exactly? What, do you hold hands in the hall now? Or mope around at recess like an Emo couple?"
"It means we eat lunch together more often. I already laid down the ground rules, Mom, relax."
The ground rules? She hasn't even gone through puberty yet and she's already talking about the f***ing ground rules.
"What are those? The 'ground rules'?"
"No physical contact of any kind, basically that's it."
Now that's what I am talkin' about! I guess I won't have to hire a sniper after all. She could just be paying me lip service, but knowing what I know of this impudent child, she doesn't do lip service well. It kills her to be fake. Her eye starts to twitch and she can't keep her right brow from shooting up in jaded disgust. I think she would, like her mother, rather eat sh*t than kiss somebody's ass. No matter what the personal gain.
But still, she has a boyfriend. Or a lunch buddy or whatever you want to call them before their genitals drop and they get a driver's license, job and apartment. And boyfriends tend to carry the "stupid girl" disease so rampant in today's society. I know Anna is at risk for this terrible disease because she announced to my mother and I that Skippy is a "bad boy" and that's what she prefers.
"Papa was a bad boy," my mom chimed in. "He had a brown leather jacket and a motorcycle and I thought that was so cool. Your mom likes bad boys, too."
I almost punched her. This was a "do as I say, not as I do moment" and she blew it. UP.
So, what is a stupid girl, exactly?
Before I go any further, by the way, I will admit that I carry this disease. It has, thankfully, gone into remission for the time being, but it lurks, and I can feel its rise every so often.
A stupid girl, for starters, cannot stand to wake up alone. She is the one who dreams of the knight in shining armor and will bring the armor suit around with her, trying to force the breast plate over puffed out chests; cram the helmet on a big head or watch a small head swim in it; she will even go so far as to build a king's pedestal (or a white horse, whatever works) and throw a giant heap of shit up there in the hopes of crowning it at some point with a ceremony. This ceremony often comes in the shape of an overpriced, crinoline and frosting coated party, also known as a wedding.
Once the king and queen are crowned, there is an awful void of reality which stupid girl must fill if she is to keep the gnawing feeling from tearing her guts apart. Then comes baby, 'cause that'll fix everything, right?
Other stupid girl species include the girl who makes bracelets out of man beads, adding one bead at a time, no matter how despicable (or how wonderful). The beads are notches really, in a tight-fitting, f*cked up belt that only looks good when you're drunk or self-loathing.
Now don't be fooled, stupid girl may have an excellent education, a good job, the experience of years, nice family, you name it. But in the end, she cannot be alone in her intelligence. She cannot laugh at herself. She hates the way her stomach creases when she sits down at the dinner table, as if this is somehow a measure of her value as a human. She clings to the odd belief that happiness comes from Real Simple magazine and that true love does conquer all.
Horseshit.
Here's what this stupid girl learned from being stupid:
1) Never, ever f*ck anyone because you feel sorry for him (or her).
2) Earn your own cash. Whether it's selling kitchen supplies, landscaping, high-power corporate swinging, tarot readings, whatever, just make sure you can make your own way. This world is changing, better prep your daughters for that now.
3) Natural birth and breastfeeding your kid for 5 years do not make you a better mother or more of a woman.
4) Big, strong thighs get you places.
5) Laughter is the best medicine, don't take yourself so goddamn seriously.
6) Feeling embarassed about your period is useless, it's gonna happen. So is menopause. And childbirth. Nothin' you can do but bleed, sweat, bleed and sweat some more.
7) Speak up, 'cause nobody else is going to speak for you.
8) "The Obvious" usually carries a sledgehammer, it does not like to be ignored.
9) Whatever you say while your kids are in the car, they will surely repeat at school.
10) Gas is a part of life.
11) Heartache is worth a good cry, not criticism. Very unprofessional.
12) Size does matter.
I know I will be eating my words at some point. That's what smart stupid girls do. Fortunately, I know who to invite to share the meal with.
"What'd you say?" I asked, silently crossing my fingers behind my back.
"Um, yes. I like him."
I bowed my head in resigned silence while quickly scanning my memory bank as to what pistol on the market was the most silent yet most accurate.
"So, what does that mean, exactly? What, do you hold hands in the hall now? Or mope around at recess like an Emo couple?"
"It means we eat lunch together more often. I already laid down the ground rules, Mom, relax."
The ground rules? She hasn't even gone through puberty yet and she's already talking about the f***ing ground rules.
"What are those? The 'ground rules'?"
"No physical contact of any kind, basically that's it."
Now that's what I am talkin' about! I guess I won't have to hire a sniper after all. She could just be paying me lip service, but knowing what I know of this impudent child, she doesn't do lip service well. It kills her to be fake. Her eye starts to twitch and she can't keep her right brow from shooting up in jaded disgust. I think she would, like her mother, rather eat sh*t than kiss somebody's ass. No matter what the personal gain.
But still, she has a boyfriend. Or a lunch buddy or whatever you want to call them before their genitals drop and they get a driver's license, job and apartment. And boyfriends tend to carry the "stupid girl" disease so rampant in today's society. I know Anna is at risk for this terrible disease because she announced to my mother and I that Skippy is a "bad boy" and that's what she prefers.
"Papa was a bad boy," my mom chimed in. "He had a brown leather jacket and a motorcycle and I thought that was so cool. Your mom likes bad boys, too."
I almost punched her. This was a "do as I say, not as I do moment" and she blew it. UP.
So, what is a stupid girl, exactly?
Before I go any further, by the way, I will admit that I carry this disease. It has, thankfully, gone into remission for the time being, but it lurks, and I can feel its rise every so often.
A stupid girl, for starters, cannot stand to wake up alone. She is the one who dreams of the knight in shining armor and will bring the armor suit around with her, trying to force the breast plate over puffed out chests; cram the helmet on a big head or watch a small head swim in it; she will even go so far as to build a king's pedestal (or a white horse, whatever works) and throw a giant heap of shit up there in the hopes of crowning it at some point with a ceremony. This ceremony often comes in the shape of an overpriced, crinoline and frosting coated party, also known as a wedding.
Once the king and queen are crowned, there is an awful void of reality which stupid girl must fill if she is to keep the gnawing feeling from tearing her guts apart. Then comes baby, 'cause that'll fix everything, right?
Other stupid girl species include the girl who makes bracelets out of man beads, adding one bead at a time, no matter how despicable (or how wonderful). The beads are notches really, in a tight-fitting, f*cked up belt that only looks good when you're drunk or self-loathing.
Now don't be fooled, stupid girl may have an excellent education, a good job, the experience of years, nice family, you name it. But in the end, she cannot be alone in her intelligence. She cannot laugh at herself. She hates the way her stomach creases when she sits down at the dinner table, as if this is somehow a measure of her value as a human. She clings to the odd belief that happiness comes from Real Simple magazine and that true love does conquer all.
Horseshit.
Here's what this stupid girl learned from being stupid:
1) Never, ever f*ck anyone because you feel sorry for him (or her).
2) Earn your own cash. Whether it's selling kitchen supplies, landscaping, high-power corporate swinging, tarot readings, whatever, just make sure you can make your own way. This world is changing, better prep your daughters for that now.
3) Natural birth and breastfeeding your kid for 5 years do not make you a better mother or more of a woman.
4) Big, strong thighs get you places.
5) Laughter is the best medicine, don't take yourself so goddamn seriously.
6) Feeling embarassed about your period is useless, it's gonna happen. So is menopause. And childbirth. Nothin' you can do but bleed, sweat, bleed and sweat some more.
7) Speak up, 'cause nobody else is going to speak for you.
8) "The Obvious" usually carries a sledgehammer, it does not like to be ignored.
9) Whatever you say while your kids are in the car, they will surely repeat at school.
10) Gas is a part of life.
11) Heartache is worth a good cry, not criticism. Very unprofessional.
12) Size does matter.
I know I will be eating my words at some point. That's what smart stupid girls do. Fortunately, I know who to invite to share the meal with.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
With all these years...
A few nights ago, I attended a dinner for women professionals in the area. It was a mixed bag crowd, to say the least. I thought I had dressed appropriately for the occasion, my geometric knit dress from a local consignment shop, knee high black boots, a scarf, you know, young but not too young. But when I walked into the room I found that I might have over done the brightness factor. Two steps into the room, I thought to myself, "I need to buy a suit." Three steps into the room, "and a wide belt, and black heels."
It went on from there. The awkward factor was pretty high, I didn't know anyone, or hardly anyone, having been holed up in my writer's cave these last few years, and before that the teacher's chasm. My social graces were, ahem, rough. A few women had the courtesy to laugh at my off-color remarks about kids and sneaking cigarettes at night while they slept. I tried, just not in the right way. Maybe if I had a blazer on things would've been easier???
The dinner was an awards ceremony for two young women who were making a difference in the community. Beginning heavy-hitters so-to-speak. When I told my mother about the event, she asked "why don't you apply for next year's award?" I looked up the application process and called her.
"I don't think I will make the cut next year. It says 21 to 35."
"What, well, maybe if they have it before your 36th birthday?"
Maybe, but that seemed like cheating.
As the young women were giving their speeches, I was suddenly snapped back to a moment in time, a few years ago, when I was sitting in a very posh office in the middle of summer, sweating profusely while two men grilled me in an interview. It was light, at first, I tried to put my best foot forward, rattling off my credentials and smiling a big smile despite the fact that I had just busted my nose two days prior and was praying to God that the make-up wouldn't run down my neck onto my shirt. Or worse yet, the expensive couch.
That's when the BIG question came. The one that knocked the wind out of me (the angry wind).
"So, you're what, 30? Can you tell me what you've been doing with your time. I mean, this is your first editorial job right? Why so late?"
I wish he hadn't asked me that.
My first inclination was to stand up, give him the finger (him whose wife was probably at home taking care of baby while he sat in the grand tower of his office wallowing in his presumed success). I did not leave, just sat there stunned for a moment, then out with the terse reply.
"Eating bonbons, mostly. Oh, and raising two kids, that takes up quite a bit of time, you know (wink, wink). Teaching teenagers how to be human beings, putting myself through graduate school, writing, editing, oh and occasionally watching a movie and going for hikes. Managing a household, you know, that sort of thing."
More laughing. Then I was outta there. I think I hadn't even left the building before I lit a cigarette and stormed my way to the car.
What have I been doing?! With all my time?! Dude, I haven't taken an uninterrupted crap in like 6 years. I've had bouts of insomnia and poverty you can't even think of in your worst nightmare. Two heart attacks, three tumors, at least 15 short stories and 900 poems about death and love, burlesque classes, soccer practice, all-nighters grading papers, making three meals a day, praying my car doesn't die, therapy, chaotic family feuds, helping people time and again with resumes, applications and debt, cleaning up puke, administering advice, discipline and love, trying to prepare my delicate children for a tough world, organizing anniversary parties, chasing fire calls in the middle of the night, investigating the possible meth trade in Berkshire County...
What've I been doing?
The real question is, what've you been doing, Scooter? What've you been doing up in that tower of yours? Rolling in at 10 a.m., leaving at 2 p.m. for a lunch with wifey (or sneaking out in a pair of ridiculous sunglasseses, like I didn't notice where you were off to, Jesus, man!)?
Moral of the story, who knows. Maybe it's a "put yourself in someone else's shoes thing." Or, it could just be as simple as keep your damn mouth shut if you don't relish the idea of getting blasted with a verbal firehose 'cause you're too stupid to know what's what in this world.
On a funnier note, the State of Massachusetts just sent me a "Notice of Intent to Assess" because they are suspicious of my $400 refund. How much did Mitt Romney make last year? And he paid in 15%. And you have time, my beloved state, to wonder if my $400 refund (out of the gross 20k I made last year, swear to God) is valid? I may laugh myself into another heart attack...
It went on from there. The awkward factor was pretty high, I didn't know anyone, or hardly anyone, having been holed up in my writer's cave these last few years, and before that the teacher's chasm. My social graces were, ahem, rough. A few women had the courtesy to laugh at my off-color remarks about kids and sneaking cigarettes at night while they slept. I tried, just not in the right way. Maybe if I had a blazer on things would've been easier???
The dinner was an awards ceremony for two young women who were making a difference in the community. Beginning heavy-hitters so-to-speak. When I told my mother about the event, she asked "why don't you apply for next year's award?" I looked up the application process and called her.
"I don't think I will make the cut next year. It says 21 to 35."
"What, well, maybe if they have it before your 36th birthday?"
Maybe, but that seemed like cheating.
As the young women were giving their speeches, I was suddenly snapped back to a moment in time, a few years ago, when I was sitting in a very posh office in the middle of summer, sweating profusely while two men grilled me in an interview. It was light, at first, I tried to put my best foot forward, rattling off my credentials and smiling a big smile despite the fact that I had just busted my nose two days prior and was praying to God that the make-up wouldn't run down my neck onto my shirt. Or worse yet, the expensive couch.
That's when the BIG question came. The one that knocked the wind out of me (the angry wind).
"So, you're what, 30? Can you tell me what you've been doing with your time. I mean, this is your first editorial job right? Why so late?"
I wish he hadn't asked me that.
My first inclination was to stand up, give him the finger (him whose wife was probably at home taking care of baby while he sat in the grand tower of his office wallowing in his presumed success). I did not leave, just sat there stunned for a moment, then out with the terse reply.
"Eating bonbons, mostly. Oh, and raising two kids, that takes up quite a bit of time, you know (wink, wink). Teaching teenagers how to be human beings, putting myself through graduate school, writing, editing, oh and occasionally watching a movie and going for hikes. Managing a household, you know, that sort of thing."
More laughing. Then I was outta there. I think I hadn't even left the building before I lit a cigarette and stormed my way to the car.
What have I been doing?! With all my time?! Dude, I haven't taken an uninterrupted crap in like 6 years. I've had bouts of insomnia and poverty you can't even think of in your worst nightmare. Two heart attacks, three tumors, at least 15 short stories and 900 poems about death and love, burlesque classes, soccer practice, all-nighters grading papers, making three meals a day, praying my car doesn't die, therapy, chaotic family feuds, helping people time and again with resumes, applications and debt, cleaning up puke, administering advice, discipline and love, trying to prepare my delicate children for a tough world, organizing anniversary parties, chasing fire calls in the middle of the night, investigating the possible meth trade in Berkshire County...
What've I been doing?
The real question is, what've you been doing, Scooter? What've you been doing up in that tower of yours? Rolling in at 10 a.m., leaving at 2 p.m. for a lunch with wifey (or sneaking out in a pair of ridiculous sunglasseses, like I didn't notice where you were off to, Jesus, man!)?
Moral of the story, who knows. Maybe it's a "put yourself in someone else's shoes thing." Or, it could just be as simple as keep your damn mouth shut if you don't relish the idea of getting blasted with a verbal firehose 'cause you're too stupid to know what's what in this world.
On a funnier note, the State of Massachusetts just sent me a "Notice of Intent to Assess" because they are suspicious of my $400 refund. How much did Mitt Romney make last year? And he paid in 15%. And you have time, my beloved state, to wonder if my $400 refund (out of the gross 20k I made last year, swear to God) is valid? I may laugh myself into another heart attack...
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Dirt is...dirty
I hope I haven't lost all of you in my two-month hiatus. A good friend of mine has been hounding me to get a blog up before Christmas. Actually, I'm glad I took a break for a bit, sort of a two-month renewal if you will. Don't worry, I didn't go off on some retreat and wake up every morning at 3 a.m. and eat brown rice and meditate. Can you meditate while drinking coffee? Is that even allowed? Not that I would have cause to give a sh*t, unfortunately.
What better way to kick start the blog once more than by sharing my little observances of small town life, especially as winter reaches out her icy grip. It's not so much the weather that makes people crazy (although, October's blizzard nearly caused me to have a stroke), but the lack of light, perhaps? Not enough pizazz in your life so you gotta set off some rockets using other people's lives as the match?
Just curious. I find that even when I'm not part of an actual conversation about this scandal or that, I somehow end up hearing it, or just walking into it. This is one reason why I need to quit smoking, for good. Usually, people go outside to smoke, whether it's at a bar or a family function, and aside from the smoke itself, I do end up walking right into a sh*tstorm of gossip, or worse, a marital fight.
Like you can emasculate your husband on the sly! C'mon. We all see your lips moving and the snarling teeth. I know, I've done it. Hence, the divorce.
Anyway, so there it is, the gossip. It lures me in at first, because I'm not sure who the key players are or if it's a good thing or a bad thing,etc. Then it gets ugly. I've noticed that once someone with "information" has an audience, that's when the show begins.
Most of these updates center around, you guessed it, infidelity. Which, by the way, is a highly interpretive term, open to all kinds of judgments and even some sympathy. In a nutshell, however, cheatin' is the cross upon which many small town residents are nailed at one point or the other.
"Can you believe he found his wife, in their bed, with another man!?"
What do ya say to something like that? Um, yeah, I believe it. He's a drunk and she's been miserable for years and the other guy is hot and she doesn't have to wash his nasty skivvies every day.
Usually, I just try to look neutral and ask how the kids are taking it. What amazes me is how suddenly incredulous and self-righteous everyone becomes when they find out. How suddenly, we, the faithful are exalted as angels because we didn't wind up in the sack with somebody else. Like this is the dipstick upon which we measure our own moral fortitude.
Gimme a break. Maybe it's my own f*cked up sense of right v. wrong, but I can think of a lot worse, or comparable, actions than a roll in the hay with someone else's spouse. How is that any different from, say, giving your kids sh*tty food every day or lying to your mother or screwing your family (this usually involves money)? It all seems to simmer in the same pot of deceit and selfishness. The end result is hurt, it doesn't matter how you got there.
So, who's side do you take? There are no sides, sin (or whatever you want to call it) is pretty weighty stuff. Recently, I learned of a couple who, after several years of marriage, most of them miserable, have finally decided to call it quits. I don't know if it is because of her doe-eyed face or the fact that she vomits her woes on anyone who will listen, but a majority of "spectators" sided with the wife.
"He's a useless bastard, she should've left him a long time ago. He just used her for her money."
I am perplexed because these are the same people who, until this point, have been on speaking terms with the guy and even had him over to dinner or waved to him in the street, or congratulated him on his wedding day...to her!
"But his wife was banging somebody else for awhile, maybe a few somebody's," I said, no better than any other gossip. "I mean, that's kind of awful, too. And if you guys thought he was such a prick, why didn't you say anything?"
Dead silence.
"It's not my place."
Aaaah, I see. But it's your place to cast judgment and then rename it "fact," as if this was all some kind of sick science experiment. It's laughable. And just plain sad.
Is there a lesson here? I'm not really sure. Is it human nature to judge and cast social sentences, you bet. Is it right? You're asking me?
Something about glass houses...
What better way to kick start the blog once more than by sharing my little observances of small town life, especially as winter reaches out her icy grip. It's not so much the weather that makes people crazy (although, October's blizzard nearly caused me to have a stroke), but the lack of light, perhaps? Not enough pizazz in your life so you gotta set off some rockets using other people's lives as the match?
Just curious. I find that even when I'm not part of an actual conversation about this scandal or that, I somehow end up hearing it, or just walking into it. This is one reason why I need to quit smoking, for good. Usually, people go outside to smoke, whether it's at a bar or a family function, and aside from the smoke itself, I do end up walking right into a sh*tstorm of gossip, or worse, a marital fight.
Like you can emasculate your husband on the sly! C'mon. We all see your lips moving and the snarling teeth. I know, I've done it. Hence, the divorce.
Anyway, so there it is, the gossip. It lures me in at first, because I'm not sure who the key players are or if it's a good thing or a bad thing,etc. Then it gets ugly. I've noticed that once someone with "information" has an audience, that's when the show begins.
Most of these updates center around, you guessed it, infidelity. Which, by the way, is a highly interpretive term, open to all kinds of judgments and even some sympathy. In a nutshell, however, cheatin' is the cross upon which many small town residents are nailed at one point or the other.
"Can you believe he found his wife, in their bed, with another man!?"
What do ya say to something like that? Um, yeah, I believe it. He's a drunk and she's been miserable for years and the other guy is hot and she doesn't have to wash his nasty skivvies every day.
Usually, I just try to look neutral and ask how the kids are taking it. What amazes me is how suddenly incredulous and self-righteous everyone becomes when they find out. How suddenly, we, the faithful are exalted as angels because we didn't wind up in the sack with somebody else. Like this is the dipstick upon which we measure our own moral fortitude.
Gimme a break. Maybe it's my own f*cked up sense of right v. wrong, but I can think of a lot worse, or comparable, actions than a roll in the hay with someone else's spouse. How is that any different from, say, giving your kids sh*tty food every day or lying to your mother or screwing your family (this usually involves money)? It all seems to simmer in the same pot of deceit and selfishness. The end result is hurt, it doesn't matter how you got there.
So, who's side do you take? There are no sides, sin (or whatever you want to call it) is pretty weighty stuff. Recently, I learned of a couple who, after several years of marriage, most of them miserable, have finally decided to call it quits. I don't know if it is because of her doe-eyed face or the fact that she vomits her woes on anyone who will listen, but a majority of "spectators" sided with the wife.
"He's a useless bastard, she should've left him a long time ago. He just used her for her money."
I am perplexed because these are the same people who, until this point, have been on speaking terms with the guy and even had him over to dinner or waved to him in the street, or congratulated him on his wedding day...to her!
"But his wife was banging somebody else for awhile, maybe a few somebody's," I said, no better than any other gossip. "I mean, that's kind of awful, too. And if you guys thought he was such a prick, why didn't you say anything?"
Dead silence.
"It's not my place."
Aaaah, I see. But it's your place to cast judgment and then rename it "fact," as if this was all some kind of sick science experiment. It's laughable. And just plain sad.
Is there a lesson here? I'm not really sure. Is it human nature to judge and cast social sentences, you bet. Is it right? You're asking me?
Something about glass houses...
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