I have been wavering on moving my blog, but for some reason, I haven't quite gotten around to converting completely and instead am maintaining two identical blogs, which is a bag pain.
So I think I am going to finally do it. You can find me here:
http://myverylastnerve.wordpress.com/
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Moving!
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The Politics of Rape and Why I Don’t Like Chocolate Cake
Unless you live under a rock, you’ve been hearing a lot about rape
lately. And most of it isn’t good. Not that rape it ever good, but
hearing about educating girls, protecting women, punishing offenders are
all good stories about a very bad thing. But no – instead we’re hearing
about idiots who are so profoundly stupid that they are trying to
spread a whole bunch of nonsense about what rape is and its effect on
women (and society in general, for that matter).
I won’t go on and on about it, since unless you live under a rock,
you’ve heard it all already. But I will say this. I am outraged and
sickened that – in 2012 – we have people who:
A) believe that women’s bodies have some sort of magical,
bad-guy-rapist-fighting secretions that keep them from getting pregnant
(and lest you think that the latest asshole, Akin is the only one, this
has been going on for years – for YEARS, assholes have been telling us
that “rape causes a woman to ‘secrete a certain secretion’ that kills
sperm”, that “women do not get pregnant when raped because ‘the juices
don’t flow, the body functions don’t work’” and that “the emotional
trauma of rape upsets the possibility of ovulation, fertilization,
implantation and even nurturing of a pregnancy”), and
B) are seeking to “define” rape. Let me help them out here – rape is
defined by RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) as:
“Forced sexual intercourse, including vaginal, anal, or oral
penetration. Penetration may be by a body part or an object. Rape
victims may be forced through threats or physical means. In about 8 out
of 10 rapes, no weapon is used other than physical force. Anyone may be a
victim of rape: women, men or children, straight or gay.”
Got it? There is no “legitimate rape” vs. well…I don’t know what the
alternative is – illegitimate rape? I don’t know what they are thinking
with that one.
And while we’re on the subject, we don’t need to call it “forcible rape” either – because by definition, rape is always “forcible” – otherwise it would just be called sex.
And we don’t need to qualify the circumstances either. There is no
date rape, or acquaintance rape – calling it by those names diminishes
the severity of the crime. If sexual activity is forced on a woman (or
man), knowing the rapist, dating the rapist – being married to
the rapist doesn’t change the fact that it is rape. We need to
stop this nonsense and start valuing the rights of our women (and yes –
men, but let’s be honest, if men getting raped were more common, this
would likely not be an issue).
I had an incident when I was in high school that the “rape
qualifiers” would call (attempted) date rape (actually, “acquaintance
rape” because he wasn’t my date, but he was a classmate at the same
party) – and that offends me. Because the phrase “date rape” sounds like
two people who decided to fool around and then one felt guilty
afterward. It’s basically a way of condescending to the woman who has
experience, while winking at the man and saying, “We know it wasn’t really
rape.” This is not what happened to me. I was physically restrained,
touched without my consent and nearly raped, and only a lucky break of
circumstances stopped it. It was violent and terrifying and to this day –
nearly 30 years later – I can remember how I felt and how he looked and
what he tasted like. It was no less serious than so-called “forcible”
or “legitimate” rape. I wrote about it before, but the whole “going
(more) public” with this blog has made me lock some entries up for
privacy. But here is an excerpt:
He was harmless. Or at least I thought he was until he grabbed me
and threw me on the bed. He got on top of me and starting kissing me.
He tasted like chocolate cake. I was terrified and gagging and trying to
protest, but he kept shoving his tongue down my throat and rubbing
himself on me, grabbing my breasts, trying to get his hands in my pants.
I fought him off as well as I could and then he got his knees on my
arms and pinned me down. I wanted to punch him in his disgusting, ugly
face, but I couldn’t move. He was trying to simultaneously get my pants
off and take his penis out. Or maybe I should say his dick or his cock.
Penis sounds too innocuous. Those words do a better job of getting
across the ugliness. I couldn’t scream because he kept covering my mouth
with his. I was crying and thrashing around and thinking that this was
it – he was raping me. I wasn’t a virgin at this point but I was pretty
close to it – sex was still something special to me and I sure as hell
didn’t want to share it with this asshole.
Just then, a group of girls came into the room and he jumped off
me. One of those girls was his date – a long-time friend. Another was a
very good friend of mine. The third was a girl who hated me. And
immediately, even though they saw with their own eyes the position I was
in and even though they should have been easily able to hear my
protests and even though my face was covered in tears and my clothes
were in disarray and even though I had angry red marks on my arm, they
looked at me and yelled, “Gina! What are you doing?” In that one
instant, I went from being the girl who was almost raped to the girl who
tried to fuck her friend’s boyfriend at the prom picnic. I’m not sure
which hurt worse. At the same time, I hated those girls for treating me
that way and was grateful that they stopped what almost happened. But
mostly, it was like buckets of salt on a fresh, gaping wound and I hated
them. I hated him, I hated them, I hated everyone.
And I stopped eating chocolate cake.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Veggie Babies: A Cautionary Tale
Recently, someone gave me some zucchini, as people often do when they grow 25 billion more than they will ever use. Unfortunately, they were enormous, which makes them not so great for anything other thasn baking. I did eat one for duinner one night and it proved to be exactly as not great as I thought, so when the girl asked if she could play with the other one, I said yes (despite the fact that I had no idea what she wanted it for).
A few minutes later, she came into the room, carrying this:
A veggie baby. Yes - my child dressed a humungous zucchini in doll clothes and carried it around the house all night.
The next day, she asked if she could take it to day care with her. At first, I told her no, since it's a freaking zucchini dressed in dol clothes, but she wore me down & I finally agreed. I warned her that a zucchini baby was not destined to live a long life and that she would have to throw it away in a day ro so, befoe it got mushy and disgusting. Her response was the typical 8 year old "I know, Mom"
Fast forward to 4 days later, when I got in my cart after work. I'm driving to work and suddenly there is a fruit fly in my face. Then another. Then 57 more. At every stop light I'm looking for the old apple that she must have shoved in the door console, or the half finished juice box jammed into a cup holder (can you tell I speak from fruit-flies-in-the-car experience?) to no avail. I couldn't for the life of me find the source of those damned pests.
Until I noticed a basket that she often uses to carry her dolls and remembered the last "doll" she had in it. Zucchini baby!
Needless to say, the next night when she asked, "Mom, can I have this potato?" the answer was no.
Friday, July 27, 2012
16 Days of Crazy
There are very few sports I don’t get excited about during the Olympics. These are usually the (what I consider to be) non-sports And sometimes basketball, because I’m sorry – I just can’t feel the Olympic spirit for a bunch of millionaires. I know it’s hard to distinguish between professional and amateur athletes nowadays – especially given how different countries treat and support their athletes – but with basketball, it really bugs me. I have a tendency to root for the underdog when USA is playing. I guess I should have more USA spirit, but meh. They can go home and cry in their great big piles of money.
I was disappointed last time that there are no pornstaches on the Romanian men’s gymnastic team like there were in Athens, but I'm holding out hope for London. Because that shit was funny.
And one other source of olympic-related entertainment? Diver package shots. No really:
And on to the non-sports. Don’t let me say right off the bat that I am not talking about the actual athletes here – they ARE athletes and most of them could probably kick my ass. But the “sports”? Not so much.
Rhythmic gymnastics – I’m looking at you. Sorry, but I just don’t get it. I used to be a gymnast and I have a hard time comparing a full twisting double back flip with dancing with a ribbon. Besides, I can’t help but to picture Will Ferrell in Old School. I’ll admit, the way they balance that ball with their body is cool but it’s more Cirque de Soliel that Olympic Sport.
Synchronized swimming is another. I don’t care for it, and I picture Martin Short in a life jacket and nose plugs ("Hey! I know you! I know you!"). Seriously – if you have not seen the SNL skit with him, Christopher Guest, and Harry Shearer, you are seriously missing out.
I have warmed up a little to synchronized diving, so I'm taking it off my non-sport list, but it better watch it’s step or it’s going rght back on. Because it’s cool – I mean – it’s hard enough to dive alone, much less in tune with a partner. But it’s still a little Bob Fosse.
Trampoline. Fun. Not a sport. It’s a tool that is used by people training in other sports. Divers and gymnasts use trampolines. I’ll admit – the tricks they do are pretty cool and are definitely hard, but still.
Badminton? Well, it’s a backyard game to me, but I get to say shuttlecock a lot. Also – rowing IS on my list of sports, but I had to mention it because, “coxswain”!
Ping pong. Seriously? You can call it table tennis all you want but it’s still ping pong. It’s in my basement. And if it’s in my basement, it can’t be an Olympic sport. Otherwise, I would be a medalist in Olympic Laundry Avoidance.
Anyway - see you in 17 days!
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Defending Disney
Surely by now, you have seen or heard the story of Santa
Claus being kicked out of Walt Disney World, but if not – here is the gist of
it: A man who looks very much like Santa (and often plays Santa professionally)
went to Walt Disney World and was asked to change his clothes to look
less “Santa-like.” Now people are all up
in arms over the poor, dear, sweet, selfless Santa, and all the poor kids who
witnessed this.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Weighty Issues
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Irresponsible Reporting and Blaming the Victim
Friday, May 25, 2012
Have You Hugged a Teacher Lately?
We have reached the time of year that I think of as Mom Needs A Drink Season. Between end of year activities, Memorial Day band & scout stuff, picnics, parties, spring band and chorus concerts (also known as those times when I think about hanging myself with my camera strap), cheer goings on, and new this year, CLO camp, and dance recital - May and June are KILLER.
Somewhere in the middle of that, there will be a short beach vacation, during which I will drink every last weight watchers point in rum.
On Wednesday, I volunteered to help at the big end of year luau party at the girl's school. They have crafts and a dance party and inflatables and "minute games." I was assigned to a minute game called "This Blows." True story. Someone at the school thought that "This Blows" was a perfectly good name for a game played by 5-11 year olds. Personally, I didn't really care because I have a foul mouth and little class, but I am sure there are some parents out there who might not approve.
It wasn't the name of the game that bothered me - it was the game itself. You had to blow up a balloon and then use the air to try and shot down a pyramid of cups. This resulted in me and my partners in misery to have to restack those fucking cups approximately eleventeen billion times. Mostly while kids blew them back down before we finished. Again and again. And again.
And if that wasn't fun enough, let's talk about balloons. You know what you get when you add kids and balloons? Spit, that's what. Lots and lots of spit. The younger kids couldn't blow up the balloons on their own, so they'd spit all over one, then shove it in your hands to blow for them. We would throw those spit bombs away and get fresh ones. And then dip our hands in a vat of hand sanitizer. Or they'd spit all over a balloon and decide it was "broken" and put it back in the pile, then we'd have to dive in and retrieve it before another little germ factory came along and shoved in in THEIR little spit hole.
The older kids did a better job of blowing up the balloons, but then they'd point them at the cups (and us, sitting behind the cups) and blow their spitty, germ gas all over us. Then we'd bathe in hand sanitizer again. Repeat eleventeen billion jillion times. In between groups of kids, they would ring a bell to let the kids know they had to move to the next station, and I came about thisclose to tackling the bell handler about 40 times and ringing the fuck out of it.
After it was over, I walked up to a group of teachers who were standing around talking (probably praying and planning their human sacrifices to speed up the time until school is out and they are free), and said, "I don't know how you are not all raging alcoholics." Seriously, y'all - find a teacher and HUG THEM. And then buy them a drink or two. Or twelve.
The spit is invisible, but I assure you, it was there:
I need one of these in my backyard:
She didn't weigh enough to stretch that cord at all:
But in the end, it was worth it, because it made this girl smile:
Unrelated - eclipse!
Friday, May 11, 2012
Depression is a Thing with Tentacles.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Random WTF