tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31110640728494849562024-02-18T22:16:45.965-05:00My very last nerveGinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.comBlogger377125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-90508917963772758502012-08-30T11:22:00.000-04:002012-08-30T11:22:07.138-04:00Moving!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.<br />
<br />
So I think I am going to finally do it. You can find me here:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://myverylastnerve.wordpress.com/">http://myverylastnerve.wordpress.com/</a><br />
<br />Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-43323592775508791432012-08-29T17:24:00.000-04:002012-08-29T17:24:05.055-04:00The Politics of Rape and Why I Don’t Like Chocolate CakeUnless 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).<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
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<br />
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B) are seeking to “define” rape. Let me help them out here – rape is
defined by RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) as:<br />
<br />
<em>“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.”</em><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And while we’re on the subject, we don’t need to call it “forcible rape” either – because <em>by definition</em>, rape is always “forcible” – otherwise it would just be called sex.<br />
<br />
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 <i>married to
the rapist</i> 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).<br />
<br />
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 <em>really</em>
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:<br />
<br />
<em>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.</em><br />
<br />
<em>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.</em><br />
<br />
<em>And I stopped eating chocolate cake.</em>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-88100126231575523932012-08-02T14:12:00.002-04:002012-08-02T14:12:35.518-04:00Veggie Babies: A Cautionary TaleRecently, 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).<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, she came into the room, carrying this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0OALum2B5aM-BhTIKBL9AN_xFyhY1k-0O8HER9-7dkB7G4jgNPh9A4AHl13ceBBXBiJYuV2QmsOjSsawv_Ll248jEGhQGpVqv9keAZF_0PSQHhyphenhyphen0cf7grWjMu6O4qqDnoAaUxQDivYLG/s1600/zucchini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0OALum2B5aM-BhTIKBL9AN_xFyhY1k-0O8HER9-7dkB7G4jgNPh9A4AHl13ceBBXBiJYuV2QmsOjSsawv_Ll248jEGhQGpVqv9keAZF_0PSQHhyphenhyphen0cf7grWjMu6O4qqDnoAaUxQDivYLG/s320/zucchini.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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A veggie baby. Yes - my child dressed a humungous zucchini in doll clothes and carried it around the house all night.<br />
<br />
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 <i>know</i>, Mom"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Until I noticed a basket that she often uses to carry her dolls and remembered the last "doll" she had in it. Zucchini baby!<br />
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Needless to say, the next night when she asked, "Mom, can I have this potato?" the answer was no.Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-62556890188576174002012-07-27T10:07:00.000-04:002012-07-27T10:07:03.369-04:0016 Days of Crazy<div>
I am an Olympic addict. Other than football & hockey, I don’t do a lot of sports watching on TV -even the sports I like. And most of the Olympic sports wouldn’t hold my interest at all during the other 1,445 days. But during these 16? I’m like a crackhead. Every night, I end up staying up too late because I can’t stop watching. And the next morning, I am scouring the TV and internet for more, before dragging my tired ass to work. It’s out of control, this exhausting myself over shit I don’t even care about.<br />
<br />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.<br />
<br />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.<br />
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And one other source of olympic-related entertainment? Diver package shots. No really: </div>
<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJ7ddx-SdmpRYGYGts2kjXrFZ738KyZL-ixFv6wJEMvPw9k2xTgcU-pOUlfOrLGNaY2i2QyUvlEZBK_NC-Ro2nOLIxaFAw16YKAb756AQ6Lium3iXoYtHNHiQGKo6ww5L9e3vrFhXRr0i/s1600-h/helm2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233673931204429538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJ7ddx-SdmpRYGYGts2kjXrFZ738KyZL-ixFv6wJEMvPw9k2xTgcU-pOUlfOrLGNaY2i2QyUvlEZBK_NC-Ro2nOLIxaFAw16YKAb756AQ6Lium3iXoYtHNHiQGKo6ww5L9e3vrFhXRr0i/s400/helm2.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />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.<br />
<br />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. <br />
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<embed allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" id="VideoPlayback" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docid=4122944961711350389&hl=en&fs=true" style="height: 326px; width: 400px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed> <br />
<br />I have warmed up <i>a little</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />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”!<br />
<br />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.<br />
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Anyway - see you in 17 days!</div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-8585325814431800772012-07-26T09:06:00.007-04:002012-07-26T15:00:17.690-04:00Defending Disney<span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now people are all up
in arms over the poor, dear, sweet, selfless Santa, and all the poor kids who
witnessed this. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fuck that noise. The fact is that there are people who hate
Disney – they will jump all over any perceived fault and beat it to death. There
are people who just like to complain. There are people who are simply…well…dumbasses.
And those are the people who are most vocal about this – it’s now become a
national story (Poor, dear Santa).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The problem is that those people would have you believe that
this sweet old man was just minding his own business, enjoying his day in the Magic
Kingdom, and those evil corporate bastards who feel they own the rights to all
costumed characters attacked and abused him, then dragged him forcibly out of
the park. And that is very much not what happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">See, Walt Disney World has this rule about people in
costumes – unless it is the Halloween party, adults are not allowed to wear
them in the park (kids are fine). People have been asked to change or leave in
the past over costumes. And while it’s easy to believe that Disney is just
trying to keep us down, censor and oppress us (poor Santa), the fact is that
the rule is there for our safety and the safety of children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Think of it this way – if I walk into Walt Disney World
wearing my Snow White costume, little kids – expecting to see Snow White in the
parks, may think that I am the “real” (or official) Snow White – they might ask
for my autograph. They may want photos with me. Sounds harmless right? Well,
what if I touch one of those kids inappropriately? Or give them some tainted
candy? Or drugs? Then I waltz out of Walt Disney World free and clear and leave
a harmed child in my wake. Now who is going to get blamed? Disney, that’s who.
Even if it becomes clear that I was not a cast member, the public will rail on
about how Disney should not have let me walk around in costume like that,
because how are people supposed to know that I was an evil child-harmer and not
an official character? And in fact, when I wore that very costume during the
Halloween party, despite having 20 years and 60 pounds on the “real” Snow
White, several little girls still thought I was her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thus the rule!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And here’s the thing. When something like this occurs, Walt
Disney World is generally kind and tactful – they will often offer to provide the
person with a park t-shirt free of charge, just to keep their guests happy and
coming back. They don’t walk up to someone and scream at them to “CHANGE OR
LEAVE!” They will discreetly approach the person, let them know about the rule
and the problem, and give the person <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>chance
to change. That’s what they did with this man (Poor dear). They explained the
situation to him, and he basically decided that he was Santa and fuck them -
<i>he</i> decided to leave rather than stop doing what he was
doing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh yeah – see – he wasn’t just hanging out, minding his own
business and looking like Santa – he was meeting and greeting and taking photos
and signing autographs, <i>claiming to be Santa to these kids</i> – reportedly “ relishing in his role”. I mean – if someone
looks like Santa and they go out wearing “holiday themed clothes” in July – they
WANT people to think they are Santa. And I’m sorry – most of the time, a person
who does that may very well be a sweet, dear old man, but as far as I am concerned
it’s creepy. And it’s a damned good way for a pedophile to get his hands on
some kids. I’m not saying that was the case with this guy, but it could happen.
Just because someone claims to be harmless and simply love kids, just because they
wear the costume of a beloved and harmless kids’ character does NOT mean that
they are harmless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember John Wayne
Gacy? Probably not because I’m old as hell, so let me tell you: John Wayne Gacy
was a lovely man who used to dress up like a clown and entertain at children’s
parties. Harmless, right? Ask the families of the (at least) 33 boys he
sexually assaulted, murdered and buried under his house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suddenly Disney’s rule doesn’t seem so bad, now does it? And
anyone who <i>truly</i> care about children (like poor, dear Santa
man), should understand that Walt Disney World did what they did to protect
kids, not to oppress this guy. Besides – one grown man’s widdle hurt feewings cannot
even compare to the safety of an entire park full of children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instead of just following their rule, this guy decided to
leave the park and go to the media. Doesn’t sound so selfless to me. And let’s
be honest – do you really want this guy hanging around your kids? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1X2R5DYWVs0Ta6zEpF0ZC9Y8n3AXepR9E6EBuVNGAhAUogIH0UcgHsPAkZmn6gbjH5oMvCq4EiCLmvXyIWSv1SZfzrQQXXZoZPrt81q82ZC6a7GbJyx4O111Z9pczWWdxoHfDMDmaFm8a/s1600/santa2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1X2R5DYWVs0Ta6zEpF0ZC9Y8n3AXepR9E6EBuVNGAhAUogIH0UcgHsPAkZmn6gbjH5oMvCq4EiCLmvXyIWSv1SZfzrQQXXZoZPrt81q82ZC6a7GbJyx4O111Z9pczWWdxoHfDMDmaFm8a/s320/santa2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3deSb8CMiY0F1tX7LsRJ9jGZbuUQ6xsfzgd3HsYPDnjIqlme8dgvGmqqxQSvi_Oze5T9BzuAyLJgjqRUimUz4lm6hAMxUXj2fSdetDkb5TK7x3RP8YZg09GOVP7_diR4-GhsZrY_87_s/s1600/santa3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3deSb8CMiY0F1tX7LsRJ9jGZbuUQ6xsfzgd3HsYPDnjIqlme8dgvGmqqxQSvi_Oze5T9BzuAyLJgjqRUimUz4lm6hAMxUXj2fSdetDkb5TK7x3RP8YZg09GOVP7_diR4-GhsZrY_87_s/s1600/santa3.jpg" /></a></div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-45653107385920696602012-06-28T10:10:00.002-04:002012-06-28T10:10:37.951-04:00Weighty Issues<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time she criticized my weight, I was 104 pounds.
It seems weird that I would remember the exact number, but it’s not something you
forget – the first time the one person who is supposed to see you only in the
best light looks at you with disdain. It was the beginning of my long struggle
with my weight. Not physically – I stayed thin for many more years – more than
ten. It wasn’t until after I met my husband and stopped working two jobs and
going to school and started cooking gourmet meals and eating at nice
restaurants that the extra pounds found their new home on me. But mentally – emotionally,
my issues surrounding weight and food started right there, in my living room,
when my mom was disgusted that I was 104 pounds, but my friend Kelli was only 103.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, she was aware of every inch of me, every pound, and
every morsel of food that crossed my lips. She turned me into a closet eater - figuratively,
as I snuck around with my friends to the local pizza shop, or diligently
searched the car for McDonald’s sesame seeds before returning it, and
literally, as I hid food in my closet, to be eaten away from her judging eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In those days, I never really believed her accusations that
I was fat, but I knew <i>she</i> believed them, and that was
enough. I avoided getting undressed in front of her, I sat on the couch or in
the car with a pillow or my purse in my lap to hide what I knew she perceived
as my bulging thighs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTy1MeNW1imbU6TPcX4Hn2KPLMMyfQ19-p8uKsDLENk7r8tGu6855odw93QFnKWz0Q497JL0oDQhFPD7_CtyPoGLvtsco2w-TV3DZvLaXywaop0RjPz20dV9KZ1aB2H7xsaBXsSNYhSEu9/s1600/face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I became a liar. I lied about what I ate, answering salad to
every (inevitable) inquiry. I ate salad for lunch, salad for dinner, always
salad. Afterwards, I spent years hating salad – not really hating salad, but
the <i>idea</i> of salad – no matter how much I really liked it, I
refused to have it as a meal. hated myself for lying (I hate liars and I am
terrible at it), but self-preservation was key. There were too many Christmases
with a huge pile of new clothes bought a size too small because she “though I
was on a diet.” There were too many screaming matches as I was trying to leave
the house for school in the morning, because I was “too fat to wear that” (usually
the clothes she herself bought me and said looked good). There were too many threats that we "wouldn't go on vacation if I didn't lose five pounds by Friday." There were too many humiliating
meetings with the majorette captains or sponsors, begging them to bend the
rules and allow me to march in that night’s game or parade, despite the fact
that I didn’t wear the required sweatsuit (size extra small) – after all, it
was white and everyone knows white makes you look fat – she couldn’t allow me
to leave the house looking that way. So I lied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even as I got older and started obviously gaining weight, I
lied. I was an adult, living away from home, and still she controlled me. I
reported all the “salads” I ate. I cut the tags out of my clothes before I went
home to visit, because “they were itchy,” (but I assured her, they were a size eight.
Or ten. Or twelve. Whatever size was one or two smaller than the tags in the
garbage truly said).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the years, I lost and gained what feels like a million
pounds. The first time I joined weight watchers, I easily (I was in my 20s) got
down to a size four. I looked great. I felt great. Until I didn’t. I was proud
of myself and I liked the way I looked. But then I noticed how much better my
relationship with her got and it made me mad. Instead of appreciating the
positive change, I felt ripped apart. It was more clear than ever that her love
was conditional. It would have been easier to accept that she just didn’t like
me. But it turned out that she didn’t like fat me. After years of calling me
fat, I <i>became</i> fat, and suddenly skinny me was OK to love.
And it pissed me off, because the “me” in fat me and skinny me was the same. I
was still me – still a kind, loving, companionate, sensitive person – only in a
different package.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not as if I literally said “screw it, if she can’t love
me fat, then I don’t want her to love me at all,” (after all – I liked being
skinny and I wasn’t kidding anyone – I wanted her to love me), but that’s where
I ended up. A little part of me kept testing the hypothesis, always hoping that
it would change – that I would feel worthy even though I wasn’t skinny. But
again and again, that hypothesis failed. For the next 17 years, I lost weight
and then gained it back, each time gaining a little more than the last, until I
almost couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. Until I started avoiding
mirrors completely. As they left me feeling sad and sick. Look through my
photos from the past 6 or 7 years and you’ll be hard pressed to find many of
me. What a horrible way to live – what a terrible legacy to leave my kids.
Memories of a mom who hated herself and no photos to remember the person they
loved and who loved them the most.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that right there – not my own feelings, definitely not
<i>her</i> opinion, but the love I have for my children is what has
motivated me to try again. To succeed. Never again will I let myself go down
that path. Never again will I look in the mirror and cringe. Never again will I
refuse a photo of me with my children. I won’t let diabetes or heart disease or
hypertension ruin my children’s lives. I am making a change in my life and in
theirs. I am proud of myself and they are proud of me. I still have a long way
to go, but I’ve come a long way already and I plan to succeed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look in the mirror and there I am – the me I
remember – the me who disappeared under the weighty issues – and I like what I see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>This is what losing 18.2 pounds does to your face:</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTy1MeNW1imbU6TPcX4Hn2KPLMMyfQ19-p8uKsDLENk7r8tGu6855odw93QFnKWz0Q497JL0oDQhFPD7_CtyPoGLvtsco2w-TV3DZvLaXywaop0RjPz20dV9KZ1aB2H7xsaBXsSNYhSEu9/s1600/face.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTy1MeNW1imbU6TPcX4Hn2KPLMMyfQ19-p8uKsDLENk7r8tGu6855odw93QFnKWz0Q497JL0oDQhFPD7_CtyPoGLvtsco2w-TV3DZvLaXywaop0RjPz20dV9KZ1aB2H7xsaBXsSNYhSEu9/s320/face.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-65192331629566724442012-06-21T09:09:00.004-04:002012-06-21T09:09:45.927-04:00Putting All That Drama to Good UseCLO Academy Annie Camp was a HUGE success<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfH-Br0fvUKP0eaYK1nEJpCe9WvJsjvfPAOO3lX3F_3qi_yvQE9DpxT5Zk5Oub08mrYgvVE7WIDIVAAsvlllcOVX_fgLl4RlIhem-xQLwRcdJkjtilEdCHWvKtYRCajP4YvAJd2xgPS3hf/s1600/a96.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfH-Br0fvUKP0eaYK1nEJpCe9WvJsjvfPAOO3lX3F_3qi_yvQE9DpxT5Zk5Oub08mrYgvVE7WIDIVAAsvlllcOVX_fgLl4RlIhem-xQLwRcdJkjtilEdCHWvKtYRCajP4YvAJd2xgPS3hf/s320/a96.jpg" width="212" /></a>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-7608282947750490572012-06-05T11:11:00.003-04:002012-06-05T11:11:55.449-04:00Irresponsible Reporting and Blaming the Victim<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a news story this week about a male teacher who
was arrested for having sex with a 15 year old female student. He was a teacher
from another school hired to help produce the spring musical. This happened in
my school district. It happens everywhere and it’s just as upsetting, but when it’s
right in your own back yard, it seems to hit a little harder. Maybe it’s because
you know the victim. I mean – even if you don’t actually know who the victim
is, it’s a small town, and a small school, and you have son the same age, so
whoever she is – you know her.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly, I don’t think I would want to know who she is. If
there’s anything that this girl deserves, it’s privacy. But I think we all know
that privacy is probably the last thing she will get. It’s a small town. People
gossip and this is good, juicy, scandalous gossip for those who thrive on this
type of thing. I knew as soon as I heard the news story that I would end up
pissed off at more than just the sick asshole that did this. And sure enough, I
was right.</div>
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<br /></div>
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First, I saw the very brief story in the paper. But soon
afterward, I saw a version on wpxi’s website which gave more information. WAY more
information. In fact, they gave enough information to identify the victim. I
won’t share that information here, but suffice it to say, people from the area
knew who she was immediately after reading the article, and even those not from
the area wouldn’t need more than a few minutes and some wifi to figure it out. WPXI
has never been my favorite of the local news (they’re fond of the shock value non-stories,
like “what’s lurking in your lunchmeat” or “Look what germs we found in your bathroom”),
but this is downright irresponsible. Some states can and will restrict the
media from releasing information on sexual assault victims – particularly minors.
But in Pennsylvania, the only official policy is to “urge the news media to use
restraint” in revealing the identity or address of child victims.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a bullshit, cop-out policy. This is a big part of
why so many sexual assaults go unreported. People – especially those who have gone
through a horrible experience like sexual assault – don’t want to be put in the
spotlight. But despite the lack of a law restricting them from doing so, WPXI
should be more responsible, more compassionate than to give out any identifying
information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thing is – they got it
wrong. The person identified by their information was not the actual victim. But
it doesn’t let them off the hook, because now there is ANOTHER family that had
been caused trauma by their irresponsibility. Several people tweeted them
directly and more sent emails (I did both) asking about their policies, but of
course, they’ve not replied. They’re probably too busy checking out local board
of health restaurant ratings and getting lab results on our kitchen sponges.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, of course, the finger-pointing starts. I have seen
grown women on facebook talking about how the girl is equally to blame, because
she is old enough to know better (apparently this was a consensual thing). Fuck
that noise. Let me give you a list of reasons why these people can go fuck
themselves:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Legally, whether she consented or not, she is unable
to consent. She is younger than the age of consent. So even if she begged for
it – she did not consent.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>When one person is in a position of power –
especially one that allows them to have a reward of some sort to offer (in this
case, roles in a performance) – the entire concept of consent goes out the
window. Even if he didn’t say, “Sleep with me and I’ll reward you,” it is always
implied. This is why even in colleges, relationships between teachers and (of
age) students are not allowed. Even without the explicit statement of coercion,
she may have felt coerced.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>It may have been (technically, not legally) “consensual,”
but have you ever met a 15 year old girl? Fifteen year old girls may half-ass
their homework or half-ass cleaning their room, but the one thing that 15 year
old girls do NOT half-ass is love. I have been a 15 year old girl and I speak
the truth. At that age, they are in the absolute <i>height</i> of
love fever. They want more than anything to be loved. They want to be seen, not
as a child, but as an adult. They will do anything to live out their dreams of
romance and fairy tale happily ever after. Have you ever known a 15 year old
girl who says she “likes” her boyfriend? Or “likes” whatever pop star is on top
at the moment? Or “likes” her best friend? No – teenage girls LOVE. They LOVE
their boyfriends and LOVE their friends and LOVE One Direction and LOVE their
new lip gloss and OMG LOVE rompers and flip flops and puppies and the beach and
on and on and on. Love is what is important to a teenage girl. So maybe she
thought she loved him. Maybe she believed he loved her. When it comes to love,
a fifteen year old is like a toddler. You don’t leave a plate of cookies in
front of your unattended 3 year old and tell them not to eat them. Just the
same, you can’t put a plateful of love – especially grown-up love – in front of
a 15 year old and expect her to walk away.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span><span>4.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Finally, the most important one. Regardless of
anything else – He is a teacher (and an adult). She is a student (and a child).
PERIOD. I don’t care if she stripped naked in front of him and begged him to
have sex with her – it is HIS responsibility as a teacher, as an adult, as a
fucking <i>human being</i> to not act on it.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So to the gossipers, and the finger pointers, and the
dumbass reporters: Think about what you are saying and doing – it could happen
to your daughter or sister or best friend. How would you feel if the tables
were turned?</div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-9490576051203396522012-05-25T11:11:00.003-04:002012-05-25T11:11:49.291-04:00Have 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<i>The spit is invisible, but I assure you, it was there:</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1c4oVMGIH48SVfZ0TKXiRsxreLt8L_FRmIWJ59Uqcdvoy69FP6opPt3GGlOrxKMx8f7hJnMlzycZ9ezrOaJ0DgRWu3FkoXMKzeWIFdrNdtDWFEsSO0gTaBtncS6p9My4DvQqJ0CEnN0bY/s1600/l21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1c4oVMGIH48SVfZ0TKXiRsxreLt8L_FRmIWJ59Uqcdvoy69FP6opPt3GGlOrxKMx8f7hJnMlzycZ9ezrOaJ0DgRWu3FkoXMKzeWIFdrNdtDWFEsSO0gTaBtncS6p9My4DvQqJ0CEnN0bY/s320/l21.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<i>I need one of these in my backyard: </i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvLbkuMxGG5tuq-60PzdXomkAK35_pMqZXx2W7NsS7-BplkiL62sGRPJWD3nS7_JH2nz2TzgM8j0agOTt0rgFj8LRVH88fR4-kFwYJlm-cwWvSu-s7UnGgjGKfytUfF_z6jeWNvMk_yIMk/s1600/l44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvLbkuMxGG5tuq-60PzdXomkAK35_pMqZXx2W7NsS7-BplkiL62sGRPJWD3nS7_JH2nz2TzgM8j0agOTt0rgFj8LRVH88fR4-kFwYJlm-cwWvSu-s7UnGgjGKfytUfF_z6jeWNvMk_yIMk/s320/l44.jpg" width="320" /></a><i> </i><br />
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<i>She didn't weigh enough to stretch that cord at all:</i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhOxkpgDkR3NgjZATksH8xtianPOYbZJgyUPLw16I2onGhhbq52RU0lhdG-U0xyqgMCVKg98_O8P8RjTw9s51ANc_NIeuPyqeIbkPb_VgLezL8lLmvb72PyYhffcxTxRneGrVjDVokJq0C/s1600/pull.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhOxkpgDkR3NgjZATksH8xtianPOYbZJgyUPLw16I2onGhhbq52RU0lhdG-U0xyqgMCVKg98_O8P8RjTw9s51ANc_NIeuPyqeIbkPb_VgLezL8lLmvb72PyYhffcxTxRneGrVjDVokJq0C/s320/pull.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<i>But in the end, it was worth it, because it made this girl smile:</i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6P6hRwStqeKdg-ADpQP8TyfkAlfFUaHK-9Cq_6IQ7ffXP4_BuJv2ZPJT-c4PpovP9ZIUUi4Y2b8nH52yX6zXTp1aMPrj0Y6h5WtJlryCpZsSeKt5irLeXOhdkEmgM140Mm4oJlCz-Tf60/s1600/e1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6P6hRwStqeKdg-ADpQP8TyfkAlfFUaHK-9Cq_6IQ7ffXP4_BuJv2ZPJT-c4PpovP9ZIUUi4Y2b8nH52yX6zXTp1aMPrj0Y6h5WtJlryCpZsSeKt5irLeXOhdkEmgM140Mm4oJlCz-Tf60/s320/e1.jpg" width="212" /></a><br />
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<i>Unrelated - eclipse! </i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCAsX7tk5L_jJapTvird33dhv9JN9bmt7wuabDUtiN1k6Vu6WdYWBC2LuCAfD8XJX2ZUHnzDt20k9DdLyOxC2t3YttZQaR7qmJt1HZ-W1fprXZVeqWkPgcP_IZGjrOlPwNrK1CB_4hL8Fa/s1600/eclipse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCAsX7tk5L_jJapTvird33dhv9JN9bmt7wuabDUtiN1k6Vu6WdYWBC2LuCAfD8XJX2ZUHnzDt20k9DdLyOxC2t3YttZQaR7qmJt1HZ-W1fprXZVeqWkPgcP_IZGjrOlPwNrK1CB_4hL8Fa/s320/eclipse2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-84555049237767473652012-05-11T09:54:00.003-04:002012-05-11T10:29:58.432-04:00Depression is a Thing with Tentacles.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If hope is a thing with feathers*, depression is a thing with
tentacles. Depression is sneaky. It creeps up behind you and taps you on the
shoulder. And when you jump and turn around, it’s gone. “Whew,” you think,
“Close one!” But what you don’t realize is that when you turned to the right to
look for it, it didn’t actually disappear – it just moved to the left. And when
you turned to the left, it moved right. It was behind you the whole time. Pretty
soon, it taps you on the shoulder again. And again. And pretty soon, both shoulders. See,
depression is like an octopus –with more tentacles than you have arms. So as
you are brushing one off your shoulder, it’s got another on your arm. So you
brush that one off, too. But before you’re through, it has one around your calf
and another around your waist. And while you’re thinking about those, there are
two more back on your shoulders. And not long after that, it has you by the
neck and pulls you in until you are too tired to fight. Or at least too tired
to fight it off completely. You may pull away from some of those tentacles, but
there always seems to be one that has you by the wrist or ankle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Depression is a liar. It tells you that you are just being a
baby. Depression tells you that you don’t have friends. That you aren’t worthy.
That no one wants to hear about your feelings. Depression tells you that you
are wrong about everything. It makes you
believe the worst about yourself. Depression tells you that you are hopeless,
and then it feeds on your hopelessness. Depression grows strong as you grow
weaker. Depression is an asshole. Depression is a thing with tentacles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">* Hope </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">By Emily Dickinson</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hope is the thing with feathers</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That perches in the soul,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And sings the tune--without the
words,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And never stops at all,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And sweetest in the gale is
heard;</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And sore must be the storm</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That could abash the little bird</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That kept so many warm.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I've heard it in the chillest
land,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And on the strangest sea;</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yet, never, in extremity,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It asked a crumb of me.</i></div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-17167695763499979802012-05-08T11:15:00.000-04:002012-05-08T11:15:07.976-04:00Random WTF<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The things that
perplexed and/or pissed me off this past week:</div>
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At the girl’s soccer tournament
(where she was an absolute BEAST in goal), there was a mom sitting nearby who
was fair skinned & red-haired and looking like a lobster in the sun.
Another mom and I told her she was getting burned and offered her some of our sunscreen, and she said, “Thanks, but I want to burn. I put a bunch of oil on
before I came so I can burn. I like to burn. I never peel or anything – just
burn.” Um…OK? I'm glad you don’t peel or anything. How about skin cancer – do
you get that?</div>
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<br /></div>
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****************** </div>
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<br /></div>
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I generally like the soccer
games – you don’t get the drama you have with some of the other sports & activities
(I’m looking at <i>you,</i> cheer), and all the parents get along.
But I can’t say the same for the other teams’ parents. We have had several
games in a row where parents have encouraged their kids to play dirty –
tripping and elbowing, have made fun of and harassed kids on our team, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- my favorite – one mom who actually said she
was going to “punch [one of our seven year old girls] in the fucking face.”
Klassy!</div>
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<br /></div>
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****************** <br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
Speaking of cheer drama – the
mom of one girl is insane. She talks shit on everyone, including little girls.
Everyone avoids her like the plague. Her favorite insult is “trash.” She loves
complaining about the trash in town and she was very upset about the trashy
kids who would end up on the team because there were no tryouts for the football
squad. The irony n these statements is that this same woman had photos of
herself on facebook a few years back that would fall right into what I would
categorize as trash. Like, not just nude photos, but Hustler-like photos.
Graphic, actions shot photos. So apparently, I am confused about the definition
of what trash is. Or she is. One of those.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then, after her daughter didn’t
make it for the competition squad (there were tryouts for that), she unfriended
the moms on facebook whose daughters did and made a grand statement about how
we were all ugly on the inside (and the outside, too), annoying, and we need to
get a grip and stop living through our kids. Um, Pot? Meet Kettle.</div>
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<br /></div>
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****************** <br />
</div>
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We had to take the girl to the
emergency room for x-rays on Saturday evening (nothings broken, but she is
enjoying her crutches nonetheless – crutches are a MUST HAVE in the second
grade circles). Anyway, they were concerned about her growth plates, so we had
to head back to radiology several times during our visit and sit in the tiny
radiology waiting room until it was our turn. One of those times, we had to
share the waiting room with a woman whose son was getting an x-ray. While she
waited, she decided she would eat her big, stinky sandwich. With her mouth
open. While making as many chewing, slurping, licking, chomping sounds as
possible. While dripping ketchup all over the cloth couches in the waiting
room. My favorite part was when the nurse wheeled her son out and stopped
outside the door so she could follow them back to his exam room, she said
(through a full mouth of disgusting, chewed food) “Hold on,“ and proceeded to
put MORE ketchup on her sandwich, then FINISH the sandwich while the nurse and
her son waited n the hallway. She made me feel good about my own parenting.</div>
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And speaking of the ER – Lord
help me, but I want to punch those people who bring their kids in for the
sniffles. </div>
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On the way home from the
hospital, we stopped for something to eat, since we hadn’t eaten all day and
were starving and as we sat in Steak & Shake, we saw a sight to behold. A
mother and daughter who looked like that crazy tan lady that was just on the
news. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to post a photo, but then
I remembered this:</div>
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<img alt="mainImg" id="image1" src="http://i1.cpcache.com/product/642542216/shirt.jpg?color=White" width="480" /></div>
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I <a href="http://www.cafepress.com/myverylastnerve">put it on a shirt</a> and I'm wearing it everywhere.</div>
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</div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-22602901894880885842012-04-27T16:06:00.000-04:002012-04-27T16:15:37.528-04:00Five Dead Guys<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I was in my
friend’s hair salon recently - and let me just go off on a tangent here,
because I consider myself lucky that she even lets me come there, because every
single time, I manage to offend some other customer, either with my colorful
language (motherfucker is a color, right?), my outspoken political views, the
fact that I show up with booze, or - my
personal favorite – my liberal use of the word vagina for the express purposes
of watching people try to pretend like it doesn’t bother them. Honestly – my friend
is a saint for still loving me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Aaaaaanyway,
I was in the salon, and we got to talking about celebrity men and how we’re old
because we think that the celebrities of yore (I’m not totally sure what “yore”
means, but I like saying it) were so much more attractive than the celebrity men
of today. So, of course this led to me mentioning my Five Dead Guys I’d Do
List. And this was the point where everyone shut up and looked at me like I was
some kind of freak. But the joke was on them because I wasn’t talking about
five dead guys I’d do AFTER THEY WERE DEAD! Jeesh – I’m not a sicko. Much.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I had to
explain that to them, because clearly, they just <i>assume</i> I’m some
kind of sick necrophiliac, which I’m totally not. I mean, really.
<i>Live</i> men smell bad enough most of the time, much less dead
ones. And these guys have been dead for a long time! There’d be nothing left
but bones. And sure – a bone might be what we’re talking about here, but I’m a
woman and everyone knows women like to cuddle afterward and YOU CAN’T CUDDLE
BONES, PEOPLE! Use your heads! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And besides –
there is a quote by someone I can’t remember and I am too lazy to look up about
how a man never looks behind a door unless he has hidden there himself. And if you’re
thinking what the hell does a door have to do with having sex with dead people,
you need to put down the vodka and listen – I will translate: It means that when
you mention a perfectly innocent and wholesome thing like a Five Dead Guys I’d
Do List and your sick friends’ minds go directly to necrophilia – your friends
are sick and clearly think about necrophilia more than is healthy. And by “more
than is healthy” I mean “AT ALL.” Sickos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">So after I
explained that necrophilia is wrong and they are all sick for thinking about
it, they <i>still</i> thought that my Five Dead Guys I’d Do List
was weird, which surprised me because I thought everyone had a Five Dead Guys I’d
Do List. Turns out, they don’t. which is dumb, because a Five Dead Guys I’d Do
List makes perfect sense as far as Guys I’d Do Lists go – your significant other
can’t get jealous, because they’re dead and you can’t
<i>actually</i> do them. Unless you’re a sick necrophiliac like my
friend and her clients. But the rest of us normal, non-sicko people are OK and
if our husbands and boyfriends get jealous, we can simply respond with, “They’re
dead! What, do you think I’m some kind of sicko? Sicko!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I probably
shouldn’t tell you who is on my Five Dead Guys I’d Do List, because those of you
who aren’t busy with your sicko necrophilia thinking will get all “HEATHEN!
BLASPHEMY!” on me when I tell you one of the dead guys on my list. But you all know me and already know I'm a heathen. And really, if all the necrophilia talk hasn't scared you off, then nothing will. So, without further ado (and in no particular
order):</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Five Dead Guys
I’d Do:</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Cary Grant:</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClFkWMZl5NgIp16i-I_P8cvxIUWrkE4MNKEa2Kf2gwO9nX3dFtElXKLKEHi-TSgZo8xLHcedS7so-OWb6oP4tt9hiUyb291Vn_BNUqQrvQtW_BYC22zy2rswpdNh2Cd0Oe13qHIsw_lLz/s1600/cary-grant-close-up.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClFkWMZl5NgIp16i-I_P8cvxIUWrkE4MNKEa2Kf2gwO9nX3dFtElXKLKEHi-TSgZo8xLHcedS7so-OWb6oP4tt9hiUyb291Vn_BNUqQrvQtW_BYC22zy2rswpdNh2Cd0Oe13qHIsw_lLz/s320/cary-grant-close-up.jpg" width="241" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5q4h9MwTF_0z5hyWKW5NWET6NBh9MKFpXQ_tR2KZO_mhgNsG270zMOijlChrB37zWWHcOn16zll4jMbEWpyZ5cz5bEEdNB0CzI8GZQpPCNPEk8p5RTQ2ePHMtxwRG9lyzx7bRuQAZ5CU/s1600/cary2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5q4h9MwTF_0z5hyWKW5NWET6NBh9MKFpXQ_tR2KZO_mhgNsG270zMOijlChrB37zWWHcOn16zll4jMbEWpyZ5cz5bEEdNB0CzI8GZQpPCNPEk8p5RTQ2ePHMtxwRG9lyzx7bRuQAZ5CU/s320/cary2.jpeg" width="249" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkjsScghxV6zwZYnHMjyP1Ba4iBMgF1g0ixjKiVzhCZidOb8pVtlvp84o-JgFXucN-5I-rFLO5yB8aRZHBc1DfbaWXa3BLx8AqT2LRCJklQfAPdDCpW2iGv_V9EK7Vt6jafuPWKEvw2MAx/s1600/936full-gregory-peck.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The quintessential handsome man. I don’t usually go for the cleft chin look,
but he wins me over with the smoldering look. He’s suave and debonair. I
don’t even know what debonair is, but he is definitely it.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Paul Newman:</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ul3SkkZKHZwSg8m31gt57veO4GlvKKDEH_aGbylo-rSY02QAWbUQPFZE1ZOY6gh8VuIl45m_zEpqpwOkTz9kOR6brwuMOhzIAY41DX3HN-y618ffjHLjRCr4x4dqbn154OgS3puwmQ4t/s1600/2011-08-09-11-12-06-8-paul-newman.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ul3SkkZKHZwSg8m31gt57veO4GlvKKDEH_aGbylo-rSY02QAWbUQPFZE1ZOY6gh8VuIl45m_zEpqpwOkTz9kOR6brwuMOhzIAY41DX3HN-y618ffjHLjRCr4x4dqbn154OgS3puwmQ4t/s320/2011-08-09-11-12-06-8-paul-newman.jpeg" width="244" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQOEmB0GCJUWj4i_xXblSRXkK4avq7l4aE3ZSn9l2qqd4e5DMA2EuRaAnUGzwaakRCW5oH5XmqcEQkbuI3kwXhFG9qyeNdfC6iZP6NvK29XOCU30AW8c_u7TBD5JlIQBBjW_zKgq5hIbP/s1600/Paul+Newman+%283%29.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQOEmB0GCJUWj4i_xXblSRXkK4avq7l4aE3ZSn9l2qqd4e5DMA2EuRaAnUGzwaakRCW5oH5XmqcEQkbuI3kwXhFG9qyeNdfC6iZP6NvK29XOCU30AW8c_u7TBD5JlIQBBjW_zKgq5hIbP/s320/Paul+Newman+%283%29.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I had a hard time picking a photos, because Holy Smokes, was that man ever sexy.
He was sexy at 20 and still sexy at 80. Roooowwrr!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><b>Gregory Peck:</b> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkjsScghxV6zwZYnHMjyP1Ba4iBMgF1g0ixjKiVzhCZidOb8pVtlvp84o-JgFXucN-5I-rFLO5yB8aRZHBc1DfbaWXa3BLx8AqT2LRCJklQfAPdDCpW2iGv_V9EK7Vt6jafuPWKEvw2MAx/s1600/936full-gregory-peck.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkjsScghxV6zwZYnHMjyP1Ba4iBMgF1g0ixjKiVzhCZidOb8pVtlvp84o-JgFXucN-5I-rFLO5yB8aRZHBc1DfbaWXa3BLx8AqT2LRCJklQfAPdDCpW2iGv_V9EK7Vt6jafuPWKEvw2MAx/s320/936full-gregory-peck.jpg" width="249" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Just look at those lips.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Jesus: </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwT3XotDJQCRX4-XC-D4qdZwgF35G5puZwtuwoRJ8hF3zpZgsGgnWyYepylbBqWKV1kPVaLA9i3Q2DZjlML166L5IjoAXPilWq6nZFBCTuzoEp8yrpsirdZQLWgXWq1GzD44-qyexJrQ2/s1600/jesus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwT3XotDJQCRX4-XC-D4qdZwgF35G5puZwtuwoRJ8hF3zpZgsGgnWyYepylbBqWKV1kPVaLA9i3Q2DZjlML166L5IjoAXPilWq6nZFBCTuzoEp8yrpsirdZQLWgXWq1GzD44-qyexJrQ2/s1600/jesus.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I
<i>know</i>! This is the Heathen! Blasphemy! Part. But if he looks
like the traditional renderings, then he’s right up my ally with the sexy
hippie look. I’m sorry!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><b>Marlon
Brando. </b>This one:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIrADUjuTJZsIjw7b6zX_1Dk3Frl7IUsSvbbBdGeaIO4cbHqG0pMedcWssA-uEszRfa2671xQQxM1SrPQ8SmAMQob8kohJgEeJjmhICO-c78n07uQNNhAwuhziZRxp8RwXEwWqRkJ2Tz9/s1600/marlon2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIrADUjuTJZsIjw7b6zX_1Dk3Frl7IUsSvbbBdGeaIO4cbHqG0pMedcWssA-uEszRfa2671xQQxM1SrPQ8SmAMQob8kohJgEeJjmhICO-c78n07uQNNhAwuhziZRxp8RwXEwWqRkJ2Tz9/s320/marlon2.jpg" width="241" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyuxIxMN2KoLLqIE3pasMxD4KgKhPK-d8QQKS8MXcy5IHM9aqFvrJyqE-kb4Jya419ltj4TGOcLO_07r5CWxAJfZhbr6dFvU96KkfPtuGDl4zqTAsCrn6yQ0_nDYRNmXV_w9Du9PYO14g5/s1600/marlon4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyuxIxMN2KoLLqIE3pasMxD4KgKhPK-d8QQKS8MXcy5IHM9aqFvrJyqE-kb4Jya419ltj4TGOcLO_07r5CWxAJfZhbr6dFvU96KkfPtuGDl4zqTAsCrn6yQ0_nDYRNmXV_w9Du9PYO14g5/s320/marlon4.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Not this one:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2l-7KljQIXlomTpwUxTDv3jWPNljZbn_hsYhHfb7ZSPLHCilPveuinbLPso8hUtHEj3l2XoJmrD-yVCGSZbbwLEF7De5DuwzBswn-nj6IYzpQUS2eRdDpcO9yTiMp0vBITrtBIcMMzmk/s1600/Marlon_Brando.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2l-7KljQIXlomTpwUxTDv3jWPNljZbn_hsYhHfb7ZSPLHCilPveuinbLPso8hUtHEj3l2XoJmrD-yVCGSZbbwLEF7De5DuwzBswn-nj6IYzpQUS2eRdDpcO9yTiMp0vBITrtBIcMMzmk/s320/Marlon_Brando.jpg" width="248" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKf4B-oPIUOtS_7sOFDTohJARS7iEepcGq71z20Dn8IbjOZS5pm00sgSMg1tiYMW6Vt6A_adr8EN_XL9_hd3VhIZa1qCh28xRbwp8HPmS-YmrzJB6GX3RFSvld2tRba3kTe8YQw6B8sYC4/s1600/marlon-brando.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKf4B-oPIUOtS_7sOFDTohJARS7iEepcGq71z20Dn8IbjOZS5pm00sgSMg1tiYMW6Vt6A_adr8EN_XL9_hd3VhIZa1qCh28xRbwp8HPmS-YmrzJB6GX3RFSvld2tRba3kTe8YQw6B8sYC4/s320/marlon-brando.jpg" width="315" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Honorable mention:</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQOEmB0GCJUWj4i_xXblSRXkK4avq7l4aE3ZSn9l2qqd4e5DMA2EuRaAnUGzwaakRCW5oH5XmqcEQkbuI3kwXhFG9qyeNdfC6iZP6NvK29XOCU30AW8c_u7TBD5JlIQBBjW_zKgq5hIbP/s1600/Paul+Newman+%283%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Clark Gable: </span></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilY3mEFKJZT39VnNZyDkh3OL7K-cvlkSP5tIOlQUuMxeUS6PW7ia4ZlD95Ia05eRw-AKe7yTDJBWRZU0N0c9sJRXMWwO1wfksPstMA0Ao8ue7dq3ihpIXfdX5z3JgMiM4W-gXzR_rDk9OZ/s1600/Clark-Gable.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilY3mEFKJZT39VnNZyDkh3OL7K-cvlkSP5tIOlQUuMxeUS6PW7ia4ZlD95Ia05eRw-AKe7yTDJBWRZU0N0c9sJRXMWwO1wfksPstMA0Ao8ue7dq3ihpIXfdX5z3JgMiM4W-gXzR_rDk9OZ/s320/Clark-Gable.jpg" width="228" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94EYXqluUolK9pfYAwBWstQSK8fHdqUIpm8SXwPkYUYfsw2BQRcXvsVs6ygaGv3jtFfpf5sfHG7rESTXhN48G1ojMrOrCA3pblKFXGiKd2gm-s46MBe0JpKXrLw1AFkf1joIUdhFT4raE/s1600/Clark_Gable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I can’t <i>officially</i> put him on the list, because at first I see his photo and
think “How YOU doin?” but if I look at it for more than a few seconds, I see
how much he looks like my grandfather, and ewwwwww.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Jim Morrison: </span></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfrd1PgTyFwkfbap4EIDquTwq6vtojWlsVqUt85vQtUzHYbWaGQPNmgDlnCpgJrgp0fd90vzuSsVi9ZZnUshDQtbZggiw6Du7MlnF-eK49FdLRHWjh5NM8Pv33VC3QMJyn-bYy7WVPrOn/s1600/morrison.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfrd1PgTyFwkfbap4EIDquTwq6vtojWlsVqUt85vQtUzHYbWaGQPNmgDlnCpgJrgp0fd90vzuSsVi9ZZnUshDQtbZggiw6Du7MlnF-eK49FdLRHWjh5NM8Pv33VC3QMJyn-bYy7WVPrOn/s320/morrison.jpg" width="265" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">He exudes sexiness, but I also think he’d smell.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">James Dean:<span id="goog_1373541856"></span><span id="goog_1373541857"></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlCQ0gJ47a1qOroBle0RElVJWvooQxP2M3Wwjo6750-mXucofJ1cu3h1KPIzMi6DCoxlaj01hkdZA_W_5tfdnEnjiu_WJ6SShPH6fYXEWCWdOGaqzAZyHCXz3AwYFyQRboBwe2QKPfCol/s1600/james-dean_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlCQ0gJ47a1qOroBle0RElVJWvooQxP2M3Wwjo6750-mXucofJ1cu3h1KPIzMi6DCoxlaj01hkdZA_W_5tfdnEnjiu_WJ6SShPH6fYXEWCWdOGaqzAZyHCXz3AwYFyQRboBwe2QKPfCol/s320/james-dean_3.jpg" width="234" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Sexy, but maybe a little bit too wee and pretty for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">So, tell me - who is on <i>your</i> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Five Dead Guys I’d Do
List? You know you have one.</span></div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-18809736115410003042012-04-21T07:59:00.005-04:002012-04-27T16:09:22.984-04:00I Made It! Market Giveaway WINNER!OK, so I drew a winner and gave her a week to get in contact, but she hasn't, so it;s time to draw a new one!<br />
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once again, I asked random.org to to pick a winner for the <a href="http://myverylastnerve.blogspot.com/2012/04/giveaway-i-made-it-market-and-very.html">adorable glass turtle nightlight</a> and this time it gave me this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-HdDBN4j6VdYU8Qtl_o6-dqvh_-4KGaWCFRyQpy9d7ZmEojDiY_lnxQYLyIHoZYM1__AjxfXomwBVEEDbHigPO3mpLRlTSPtRu3g0hY8nseyroxIbbEPyNhmOlirusM2VUEc4jQPUNf6/s1600/new+winner.bmp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-HdDBN4j6VdYU8Qtl_o6-dqvh_-4KGaWCFRyQpy9d7ZmEojDiY_lnxQYLyIHoZYM1__AjxfXomwBVEEDbHigPO3mpLRlTSPtRu3g0hY8nseyroxIbbEPyNhmOlirusM2VUEc4jQPUNf6/s1600/new+winner.bmp" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfadFP-0jyfTPiN0tjGCbnD_rMR_FU0ayIeYSnByVw5OfyRqd1gLajBca8fk1H_BMWn1a7NnPF_m_O0n5vPPhJLns9FnSiYBRCeaaMnNtBtkLJZxEwisukQkTv8-r9TlY5E1H4SZpID1C8/s1600/random.JPG"><br /></a><br />
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Comment #2 was <span style="font-weight: bold;">Allison!</span><br />
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Allison, I'll be contacting you to get your info!<br />
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Thanks for entering, everyone!Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-89158236090809925132012-04-17T14:36:00.012-04:002012-04-17T15:35:11.806-04:00And then my head explodedI have a facebook friend who – wait, let me back up. I have a person who is a facebook “friend” – the quotes are necessary because this person isn’t my friend. I’m not really sure how I even connected with this guy, but I do know it was a long time ago, before I caught on to the fact that I don’t have to accept every friend request that comes my way. Anyway, this “friend” couldn’t be more different from me. I knew from his own status updates that he had very different views on just about every topic that is meaningful to me, but I never let it bother me because people are different – we don’t all have to be cookie-cutter mold of each other. I can appreciate – or maybe sometimes simply <i>tolerate</i> other people’s views as long as they aren’t hurting anyone. I appreciate that people tolerate mine – I know I am radically left compared to a lot of people I know. He can have his opinions, I can have mine, we can talk about the weather instead, and done.<br /><br />Except suddenly I am seeing that some of his opinions aren’t simply different from mine – they are the exact opposite of everything I strive to be and teach my children. They are pure, unmitigated ignorance and hate.<br /><br />I posted a link to a story about a speaker at a tea party gathering who responded to LGBT protesters by screaming “‘We Will Not Be Silenced By F***ots!’” and commented on how it’s hard to teach kindness and acceptance to children when adults say those kind of things. And then he pulled out an old favorite of the ignorant bigot and associated homosexuality with child molestation. And then my blood pressure shot up, blew the top of my head off, and got brains all over my office, the end.<br /><br />OK, not really – instead, my blood pressure shot up, I got an instant headache, and I came here to vent.<br /><br />Take a look at the comments in question (click to view a larger version):<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcIrhJS9vc6SB12wrqIlVmSpEUUZKD9lBdKoI3EUTglseeAskWFxFNIj43GgwI5HxEbm-CR2vW0avrXmif6BfPVD6-TGhRK7L3oWMyCxkSHc1v19Znsj7JKmyorlCnZZS-0n_aX3hyphenhyphenM5P/s1600/fb+comments.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 273px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcIrhJS9vc6SB12wrqIlVmSpEUUZKD9lBdKoI3EUTglseeAskWFxFNIj43GgwI5HxEbm-CR2vW0avrXmif6BfPVD6-TGhRK7L3oWMyCxkSHc1v19Znsj7JKmyorlCnZZS-0n_aX3hyphenhyphenM5P/s400/fb+comments.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732442389137486994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I particularly like how the best thing he can come up with to insult me with is “bleeding heart liberal democrat.” I <i>am</i> a bleeding heart liberal democrat. I’m about as far left as you can get and I’ve never tried to hide that fact. And not only am I proud, I certainly don’t take offense when you call me that, regardless of whether you meant it as an insult. But not everyone who believes in kindness and acceptance of others <i>is</i> a bleeding heart liberal democrat and it’s an insult to them to assume as much.<br /><br />And in 2012, I am damned sick and tired to this non-existent link between homosexuality and pedophilia. It’s bullshit and the only people who don’t know it seem to be this bigot and the members of the Westboro Baptist Church. But I think the part that pisses me off the most (and I see this a LOT when someone leaves a bigoted or otherwise ridiculous comment on someone’s opposing viewpoint) is the claim that I “introduced the subject.” I don’t know about you, but I am a little unclear on how I introduced the subject. I <i>did</i> introduce the subject of kindness and acceptance, but <i>he</i> brought the crazy.<br /><br />And it IS crazy, to take a statement about kindness and turn it into this. You don’t have to know me from Adam, but I think it’s a pretty safe bet to assume that if I am talking about things like kindness and acceptance (especially in the context of a story about gay bashing) of people who are gay. Or a different race. Or a different religion. Or a million other things that do not include child molesters.<br /><br />Because if it is true that I actually <i>did</i> leave it open by not specifically saying “acceptance of those who are not child molesters” then I clearly have a new hobby. And that hobby is responding to everything that people like him say with a question about child molesters. Kind of like this:<br /><br /><br /><br />Bigot: Good morning.<br />Me: Even the CHILD MOLESTERS?<br /><br />or<br /><br />Bigot: Merry Christmas!<br />Me: Even the CHILD MOLESTERS?<br /><br />or<br /><br />Bigot: Welcome to Walmart!<br />Me: Even the CHILD MOLESTERS?<br /><br /><br />See – fun!<br /><br />Come <i>on</i>. If you want to debate a topic – fine. If you want to believe your hateful bullshit – fine (just keep it away from me), but don’t try pointing your tiny little finger back at me and telling me I asked for it. I imagine if you truly believe that, then “she asked for it” is a valid defense on a rape trial, too, isn’t it?<br /><br />It’s pretty much a given that when people talk in broad strokes about kindness and acceptance and even basic tolerance, that there are some groups that they aren’t specifically including – child molesters being at the top of the list. I tend to assume (perhaps naively) that most people are not pro-molester, but that’s just me. Maybe it’s just the bleeding heart liberal democrat talking, but if it is, I wouldn’t want to be any other way.Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-78427658048833467632012-04-10T10:35:00.024-04:002012-04-18T15:18:24.204-04:00Giveaway: I Made It! Market and Very Merry GlassHave you heard about <span class="ecxil">I</span> <span class="ecxil">Made</span> <span class="ecxil">It</span>! Market? If not, don't feel bad - I hadn't either until somewhat recently myself. But I am so glad I did. <span class="ecxil">Because it's a pretty cool concept. </span><span class="ecxil">On their <a href="http://imadeitmarket.com/about/">website</a>, I</span> <span class="ecxil">Made</span> <span class="ecxil">It</span>! Market describes itself as "a fantastical, nomadic, pop up handmade shopping place," which is pretty accurate. but for those of you who want to know a little more about what that means, <span class="ecxil">I</span> <span class="ecxil">Made</span> <span class="ecxil">It</span>! Market is a nomadic indie crafts marketplace provides opportunities for artists to bring their wares to market and we partner with community, arts and non-profit organizations to raise funds and awareness to assist them in improving our communities. Basically, a pretty awesome concept - crafters and artists get an opportunity to sell their products, shoppers get a chance to buy locally made, interesting, and beautiful things, local communities and organizations benefit, and everyone gets a chance to enjoy a fun day out and meet some great people. What's not to love?<br /><br />While the whole family can enjoy I Made It! Market any time, on Saturday, April 21th, they are having an event that is aimed at families with children, called I Made It! Market Jr. More than 30 artists will offer handmade wares geared especially to kids and parents. Plus, there will be fun music, handmade gifts made just for your favorite kiddo, face painting, a photo booth, and family fun activities.<br /><br />One of those artists is allowing me to host a giveaway here. The very talented <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/verymerryglass">Mary</a> makes delightful stained glass nightlights. I have always wanted to learn to do stained glass, but lets be honest here - I am 1) impatient, 2) easily distracted, and 3) clumsy as all get-out. None of these attributes work well with such an art - I would be surrounded by broken glass, probably bleeding, and definitely crying. So I leave it to the truly talented. Take a look at some of her designs (Head over to her <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/verymerryglass">Etsy shop</a>, Very Merry Glass, and see all her designs):<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfIVlayS5bxcClQScWlIkYr269iPwIUhVPAzYUu7K1kiV4yU1yk4sqD4PJf7GB7fIBjIyiwq1GAzFjkXkWVtAKp68gFJgnjIHSniUTmTSJYJRQkATfH2aUWTwvQbmiDhKwW0Zr_sVG7r9/s1600/bird.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfIVlayS5bxcClQScWlIkYr269iPwIUhVPAzYUu7K1kiV4yU1yk4sqD4PJf7GB7fIBjIyiwq1GAzFjkXkWVtAKp68gFJgnjIHSniUTmTSJYJRQkATfH2aUWTwvQbmiDhKwW0Zr_sVG7r9/s400/bird.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729788187099067042" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEcL70InoX9yRtOvfHtoXKFq98yy8XHQF-Q-tl5IQjpC9__yTYPuFdo11GX0n-4YHkM_-0PRtv-aHRY0DEza82ZIOtmCqFROKGZ0Y9IFdb1NaLSLbhfBTtTyznQZubH5ExOJCf0wfWpoQ6/s1600/elephantlight.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEcL70InoX9yRtOvfHtoXKFq98yy8XHQF-Q-tl5IQjpC9__yTYPuFdo11GX0n-4YHkM_-0PRtv-aHRY0DEza82ZIOtmCqFROKGZ0Y9IFdb1NaLSLbhfBTtTyznQZubH5ExOJCf0wfWpoQ6/s400/elephantlight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729788173231892482" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhteVSs6Ok-ak_Obi31UFQkKiyhki3bwl4hCgHACmcknX3jcVvtIHxT4Q49UGWiP7R5EoGvLqfqB58yJfCxfXINixAUWZXQre__EXRCN14ySUniBsP4mijcUVcE9BQ42tpd2dlutKdsrsl/s1600/crown.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhteVSs6Ok-ak_Obi31UFQkKiyhki3bwl4hCgHACmcknX3jcVvtIHxT4Q49UGWiP7R5EoGvLqfqB58yJfCxfXINixAUWZXQre__EXRCN14ySUniBsP4mijcUVcE9BQ42tpd2dlutKdsrsl/s400/crown.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729788169285724242" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One lucky reader will be getting this adorable turtle nightlight:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-gS2tSbgBxCA2l7pW_WCGEXw_4dlwosRDY1vTHvpdpw-9tsgDsaUaKMrmaeVj3hWAETj0G2-s3akpJAYfp6fE7MFfCaaegMB5wXtkhQGe1JMHN9LI8O24OIJIu9jBjtaq2yUumIYyoWkb/s1600/turtle.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-gS2tSbgBxCA2l7pW_WCGEXw_4dlwosRDY1vTHvpdpw-9tsgDsaUaKMrmaeVj3hWAETj0G2-s3akpJAYfp6fE7MFfCaaegMB5wXtkhQGe1JMHN9LI8O24OIJIu9jBjtaq2yUumIYyoWkb/s400/turtle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729788194956672418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Adorable! (seriously - I should keep it for myself)<br /><br /><br /><br />All you have to do is leave me a comment - any comment. Tell me if you're crafty and if so, what you like to make. Of not, what you would like to be crafty at. Or tell me anything at all and you're entered. Tweet it & let me know you did and you'll get an extra entry. You don't have to be local and you don't have to attend the event (though it sounds like a lot of fun).<br /><br />I will pick a winner on Friday, April 20th, so enter now.<br /><br /><br /><br />Here's more information about the event:<br /><br /><div><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ecxil">I</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ecxil">Made</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="ecxil">It</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">! Market and Bakery Square present Family Fun in the Square:</span><span><span class="ecxil"> I</span> <span class="ecxil">Made</span> <span class="ecxil">It</span>! Market presents a pop up marketplace featuring handmade items for babies and bigger kids. <span class="ecxil">I</span> <span class="ecxil">Made</span> <span class="ecxil">It</span>! Jr. will take place as a part of Bakery Square’s Family Fun in the Square on Saturday, April 21st from 12 - 4pm offering unique items hand crafted by 30 local artisans. Come and dance to fun music, get your picture taken with friends in a photo booth, have your face painted and more! For more information, or to learn about our artists, visit <a href="http://www.imadeitmarket.com/" target="_blank"><span>www.imadeitmarket.com</span></a>. </span><div> <p><span></span></p> <p><span>Facebook Event: </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/173648286081628/" target="_blank">http://www.facebook.com/events/173648286081628/</a></p><p><a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/173648286081628/" target="_blank"><br /></a></p><p style="font-weight: bold;">Update: I will adding links to other I Made It! Jr giveaways here:</p><p style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://redpenmamapgh.com/">Dawn</a> is giving away a personalized set of a onesie, a blanket, and four burp cloths from <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/GraceInAbundance">Grace in Abundance</a>. To enter, go <a href="http://redpenmamapgh.com/2012/04/11/and-now-for-something-completely-different-2/">here</a>.<br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://friesontop.blogspot.com/">Dina</a> is giving away </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">roll-up crayon case from <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/GillieBeansBoutique">Gillie Beans Boutique</a>. To enter, go <a href="http://friesontop.blogspot.com/2012/04/giceaway-i-made-it-jr-and-gillie-beans.html">here</a>.<br /></span></p><p><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);" class=" down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Link" class="gl_link" border="0" /></span></span><a href="http://lilburghers.wordpress.com/">Mrs. Burgher</a> is giving away an adorable set of felt play food. To enter, go <a href="http://lilburghers.wordpress.com/2012/04/14/felt-play-food-giveaway-i-made-it-market-jr/">here</a>.</p><p><a href="http://www.theburghbaby.com/">Burghbaby</a> is giving away a photography session, one 8x10 and one 5x7 from <a href="http://www.blogger.com/AnneLopezPhotography.com">Anne Lopez Photography</a>. To enter, go <a href="http://www.theburghbaby.com/reviews/">here</a>.<br /><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);" class=" down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link"></span></span></p></div></div>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-22688346100288688532012-04-06T10:24:00.001-04:002012-04-06T10:26:16.626-04:00Ridiculous Things That Piss Me OffSunday night, I tweeted that every Sunday about 7:30, I start getting pissed off because my weekend is over. Then, on the way home from work, I found myself getting pissed about some other insignificant thing and I realized that I get pissed about quite a few ridiculous things. Not irritated or disgusted or sad – but mad – pissed off.<br /><br />Sunday nights: As I said, I get pissed on Sunday evenings because my weekend is over. I don’t mean that I’m bummed or sad – I mean pissed. I actually get <i>mad</i> at Sunday night. For existing. I imagine I am a delight to live with.<br /><br />Dole Whip being the wrong flavor: OK, I am a big, HUGE Dole Whip addict. Dole Whip is non-dairy soft-serve in fruit flavors. I love it because it is delicious and also non-dairy. And it’s sold in Walt Disney World, so I associate it with my happy place. But I only like the pineapple. Well, that’s not true, exactly – I <i>like</i> all the flavors (mango, strawberry, raspberry, etc) well enough, but I don’t really care about them one way or another – I only have eyes for the pineapple. And when I stop at one of the only two places around that carry it and they are serving any flavor other than pineapple, I get pissed. I get indignant that anyone would even consider having a flavor other than pineapple.<br /><br />Internet Explorer: It makes me crazy when I see someone using IE. Actual, pissed off crazy.<br /><br /> Toilet Paper being the wrong way: Yes there is a right way and it is OVER, nut under. And if I find it under (even outside my own home), it pisses me off and I can’t believe that anyone could be so heinous as to have their toilet paper installed incorrectly.<br /><br />Lent: I <i>know</i> - why would lent make me mad? The answer to that would be: Have you forgotten I am crazy? Because that’s the only explanation. But lent pisses me off. I grew up in a church where we didn’t give things up for lent or forgo meat on Fridays, so it’s understandable that it’s not my “thing.” But it pisses me off anyway. Not the people who do it – they’re great. But the mere concept of it pisses me off. Probably because I have so many other things to go to hell for (being pissed off at lent, perhaps?), and I don’t believe that giving something up or not eating meat means a damned thing.<br /><br />Grammar over-correction: OK – we all hate when people use your instead of you’re or there instead of their, etc. but the one that pisses me off the very most is when people misuse me and I. Not in the way you would suspect, though. I don’t love it when someone uses me when they should use I (“John and me went to the store” vs “John and I went to the store”), but what REALLY pisses me off is when someone makes the opposite mistake (“She brought a gift for John and I” vs the correct “She brought a gift for John and me”). While the first one irritates me, I understand that it is based in either a simple mistake (which I sometimes make myself) or lack of knowledge. But what pisses me off about the second is that it stems from people <i>trying to look smart</i>. They think that it is ALWAYS correct to use I rather than we. And I know (or my crazy mind makes me think) that when they hear <i>me</i> speak CORRECTLY and say “for John and me” that they are thinking that I am wrong and dumb and they are right and smart and better than me. And that sends me into fits of rage and frustration. And what aggravates me the most is that I learned this in 3rd grade and it’s the easiest thing to remember: Remove the other person from the sentence and it will be clear which to use. You would say “Me is going to the store” or “She brought a gift for I.” See – easy!<br /><br />Did you try: It pisses me off when I express a problem I am having and someone replies with “Did you try (insert some very basic fix here)?” I know that people are trying to help, but when I talk about years of problems with my mother and you respond with “Did you try talking to her about it?” I will punch you in the face. Because if I am so stupid that after 43 years, it never occurred to me to try that, then I am too stupid to be alive. Take that rage and multiply it by approximately 10 hojillion and that will give you an idea of how pissed off I get when I am having computer problems and someone says, “Did you try restarting it?”<br /><br />I'm crazy and I know it.Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-58991998897198050372012-04-03T11:03:00.011-04:002012-04-03T13:41:25.110-04:00AmusedEvery time I feel like I am back on the regular blogging wagon, something distracts me and I'm all "what blog?" It's not that I don't have anything to say - everyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I <i>always</i> have something to say. I just get to where I have 3 or 4 blog posts in my head and then they get all jumbled and then suddenly, what I thought was funny or interesting sounds stupid and then I don't write anything at all. Not that I'm crazy or anything.<br /><br />Let's see - what is up with me these days?<br /><br />Oooh - I know! The girl and I joined some <a href="http://burghbaby.com/">friends</a> for a day at an indoor amusement park. Not an amusement park, exactly, but traveling fair of sorts, that set up shop in Cleveland's convention center. The day started with us meeting up at Michelle's house and that's when the noise started. We walked in the door and spent the next 13 hours listening to this AT FULL VOLUME: CHATTER CHATTER BLAH BLAH SQUEEEE! YAY! WOO! AAAAAAAAAA!!! CHATTER SQUEAL SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM BLAH BLAH CHATTER CHATTER CHATTER.<br /><br />So, no peaceful napping in the car.<br /><br />Before we went, I expected it to be mostly kiddie rides, but I was pleasantly surprised to see lots of thrill rides, too. Of course, the girl isn't big on thrill rides, so I had my work cut out for me. Bribery was involved. I know - bribery is wrong, but I don't care. It got her on a roller coaster, and she LIKED IT. Liked it so much, in fact, that she and Alexis dragged us back on it approximately 2,346 times. And every time, Michelle and I were convinced that <i>this</i> was the time that the safety measures would fail and we go plunging to our deaths. In Cleveland. But luckily it didn't and we came away unscathed. Well, except for our eardrumns. In addition to the aforementioned chatter, the noise in the convention center was sort of a dull roar - not painful, just a continuous drone that blocks out most voices, so all day, you and everyone around you are screaming at each other. Pretty much like being home when my husband has control of the remote.<br /><br />All in all it was a fun day. The game people weren't too annoying, so we only dropped about 17 thousand at the booths, vs the 25 we would have at the county fair (and the employees had WAY more teeth). The funhouses were an extra charge of a dollar, which was total bullshit, given that they weren't funhouses, but more NotParticularlyFunTinySpacesBehindAFacade. Actually, I take that back. There was one that was all black light, 3D which was fun. Especially the part where I INSISTED that the room was moving and Michelle didn't believe me. Because she knows nothing about movement. Or science. Or the universe. IT WAS MOVING.<br /><br />And then there was the one that we let the girls go in by themselves, which was a mirror maze. We watched them from the outside as they walked directly into walls and windows (seriously - we heard the loud BONKs from outside. And we laughed like the terrible, cruel mothers that we are. And then we failed miserably as we missed out on the best photo op of the day, when both girls came out all smiling and giggly, with matching BONKmarks on their heads. I don't know why we didn't take photos. I think we were thinking about french fries or something.<br /><br />All in all it was a good day. I think we only had tears once - after we convinced the girls that the free-fall ride was fun (it was) (they disagreed). And the girls were well behaved (at least as far as we could hear in that place). There were very few lines, so we walked on most everything. No one puked (though we came close after a couple spinny rides). And then on the way home, we almost ran out of gas on a dark, scary road. Good times.<br /><br />They love each other:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBmLixViWAeDkFw_vChYHgcVBe8yrpAuuaZ9CBcCvs7p7dFl2XTgl0ijSgiliJX0GSSvli9325ud8Awl33z287ELoJnZyU2-LowxG1pyOY7DmN9WEeEJuqvqaPObzKmgWPmBBvcOZihMd/s1600/xi75.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyBmLixViWAeDkFw_vChYHgcVBe8yrpAuuaZ9CBcCvs7p7dFl2XTgl0ijSgiliJX0GSSvli9325ud8Awl33z287ELoJnZyU2-LowxG1pyOY7DmN9WEeEJuqvqaPObzKmgWPmBBvcOZihMd/s400/xi75.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727198164191975218" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />These guys were apparently ecstatic to have beaten two tiny girls in a slide race:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dOTOx5iRMgPrjRNBFXXwCcCC09ZWzI-6T47hRDZbmjKT76bC48WUjxFURXLLPcPFP1yUCJcbfknz_JqfLEEEjNy3OiUkfiM5ywMhXCZt4xa_yQY0lg8k8V6Kf8fQt0RanVwzq1FBaDkX/s1600/xi37.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2dOTOx5iRMgPrjRNBFXXwCcCC09ZWzI-6T47hRDZbmjKT76bC48WUjxFURXLLPcPFP1yUCJcbfknz_JqfLEEEjNy3OiUkfiM5ywMhXCZt4xa_yQY0lg8k8V6Kf8fQt0RanVwzq1FBaDkX/s400/xi37.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727198032847285650" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There was a petting zoo and it had a mini horse. And that mini horse had a MINI MINI HORSE!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxZNPDVGja2rnJOAH-VfIPY08jRvT1FYDRwfl2FN7HYsHETFcbSHM8b_IUx7MZt9vfweDM___1i4swKrm_FsBs4uKogC5rPaZfXZNR-_4rPwzcyCvHJc1NhU11hO2jJce-HBhg7S8xcWq/s1600/xi47.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSxZNPDVGja2rnJOAH-VfIPY08jRvT1FYDRwfl2FN7HYsHETFcbSHM8b_IUx7MZt9vfweDM___1i4swKrm_FsBs4uKogC5rPaZfXZNR-_4rPwzcyCvHJc1NhU11hO2jJce-HBhg7S8xcWq/s400/xi47.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727197045300618274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We payed a dollar for this shit:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ymUzpAC2fKYR3Gov9PXjaeC0q7eh5fj2r02KHT3PaNspIFbAvZ0_yxPOJ7RBMjMA3WSnmLiD5WGO5JCv07OxWFTlNP9r4jg98CBty-aZcSV4NZrPO68_RDcvN0cSEqfLWYwiBufWB5rh/s1600/xi15.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ymUzpAC2fKYR3Gov9PXjaeC0q7eh5fj2r02KHT3PaNspIFbAvZ0_yxPOJ7RBMjMA3WSnmLiD5WGO5JCv07OxWFTlNP9r4jg98CBty-aZcSV4NZrPO68_RDcvN0cSEqfLWYwiBufWB5rh/s400/xi15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727198026251453762" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Swings!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3g5tcE3W-xFnhGv7fWCSipQcH5YqY7ttaVx_LNAgHvimmhFMMjgDFn2-2ZkB6-l0SjqqOMwkTXlX3XPJR68nGi6ReB3gxQiY4Aq1RHd7buwRxotx9V5i8E59eyGgi3V32ASuMt_FXtEm/s1600/xi6.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3g5tcE3W-xFnhGv7fWCSipQcH5YqY7ttaVx_LNAgHvimmhFMMjgDFn2-2ZkB6-l0SjqqOMwkTXlX3XPJR68nGi6ReB3gxQiY4Aq1RHd7buwRxotx9V5i8E59eyGgi3V32ASuMt_FXtEm/s400/xi6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727198011111200786" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFhhRGbIpK1JhB-2sGhiMio8S3rncRX01xfqlM11Ifa1zNgq69rAQutlwGa1pnmgQ7atJ_4W7aH17xv7F0w6f4v9AYyGjpiltR7OkocKWqY9zz_HyOVssds4-RMz9Pq0Cf3sx06xrHmiu/s1600/xi10.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFhhRGbIpK1JhB-2sGhiMio8S3rncRX01xfqlM11Ifa1zNgq69rAQutlwGa1pnmgQ7atJ_4W7aH17xv7F0w6f4v9AYyGjpiltR7OkocKWqY9zz_HyOVssds4-RMz9Pq0Cf3sx06xrHmiu/s400/xi10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727198021103820066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Crazy circus guy:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhDYnht_q_Wucl8AHswKKXhGfLVpFqkaPp03l7re-eZ6t28eQVoYoptXLppJ3NnDrYBWvmqxJN6rRmJ3iBCEDyuQWWjJ83APKXGjKox-8gWISfnCFpMEYPXCcbFC7nMY02bwCTc0TX1gG/s1600/xi45.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhDYnht_q_Wucl8AHswKKXhGfLVpFqkaPp03l7re-eZ6t28eQVoYoptXLppJ3NnDrYBWvmqxJN6rRmJ3iBCEDyuQWWjJ83APKXGjKox-8gWISfnCFpMEYPXCcbFC7nMY02bwCTc0TX1gG/s400/xi45.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727197072976214466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />All around fun:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyfZM_3QSX1r6z9dliOdlJzo4lQlueyz8PlRZl-3mVtCbg1XEoSGrlT2sXO-SknxwAmNGNTE7zpwzM_aVS-F8gP9FWbvSkedVvmJPpg5T63rb5vCUpoewP75QY3SjTgQ9GXD_7puUAhBeK/s1600/xi69.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyfZM_3QSX1r6z9dliOdlJzo4lQlueyz8PlRZl-3mVtCbg1XEoSGrlT2sXO-SknxwAmNGNTE7zpwzM_aVS-F8gP9FWbvSkedVvmJPpg5T63rb5vCUpoewP75QY3SjTgQ9GXD_7puUAhBeK/s400/xi69.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727197039905818594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtwmJcgMvdQvdS5v8-zvnhysRcvEu5WKv_PpT21AogOnucCJb3KD0DGQ6GuQgz5Kyl9PgY2DN8iRs7nkOCrG-_oOiI6is04ZhaJV3cly3waVFLiECDieUWZkUacckqv1Hh8O-8SOy8x1p/s1600/xi56.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtwmJcgMvdQvdS5v8-zvnhysRcvEu5WKv_PpT21AogOnucCJb3KD0DGQ6GuQgz5Kyl9PgY2DN8iRs7nkOCrG-_oOiI6is04ZhaJV3cly3waVFLiECDieUWZkUacckqv1Hh8O-8SOy8x1p/s400/xi56.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727198040607326946" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxV0danWo1k7XZiu_ZbEUW_rFpvw91YRr4-h1fpdA5CP5jjw50v2v0x0sLMQ53T5SIHguv4UTKguuuQuOd426gO2NeT5yZ-VRFmek4zPqxMWCcV68RF9Ra6U3-fYS9NA_BsrW-ygZyWYX/s1600/xi57.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxV0danWo1k7XZiu_ZbEUW_rFpvw91YRr4-h1fpdA5CP5jjw50v2v0x0sLMQ53T5SIHguv4UTKguuuQuOd426gO2NeT5yZ-VRFmek4zPqxMWCcV68RF9Ra6U3-fYS9NA_BsrW-ygZyWYX/s400/xi57.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727197048364564978" border="0" /></a>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-29415772874948070422012-03-15T11:35:00.005-04:002012-03-15T11:39:28.670-04:00BullyI grew up a happy kid. I had a loving family and lots of friends. I loved school. And then junior high came along and knocked the wind out of me. I became a victim. A completely taken-off-guard victim of a group of boys who seemed to live for the express purpose of bullying me. I was lucky – I wasn’t thrust into the role of school pariah – there were others who held that role. I still had my friends, which is more than a lot of kids can claim. But it didn’t make the torment any easier to bear.<br /><br />I walked the halls of school with my head down, avoiding looking at anyone, praying that the bullies wouldn’t notice me. But they did. They always did. They called me a bitch. They said I was tight (which in those days meant you were a virgin, which is hilarious because each and every one of us – including them – was, by definition, “tight”). In the next breath, they called me a slut. They threw things at me. They egged my house. They left threatening notes. They turned my last name into a horrible insult that they screamed at me all day, every day. They spit on me. My friends supported me in private, but no one defended me publically – no one wanted to out themselves in the spotlight. The teachers, who witnessed at least some of it, never said more than a quick “knock it off.” I never told my parents, because I was embarrassed – as it if were my own shortcomings that were to blame for these boys’ behavior. Instead, I went home every day and hid in my room and sobbed. I thought about how I wanted to run away. I thought about how I’d be <i>better off dead</i>.<br /><br />Luckily, I never gave in to the horrible feelings. Luckily, it stopped eventually – it <i>did</i> get better. But for some kids it doesn’t get better.<br /><br />Ever since I saw the trailer for The Bully Project (now known as Bully) last year, I knew that it was an important film – one that all kids (and parents) should see and talk about. So as it neared the release date, I was disappointed to find out that the MPAA had given it an R rating, meaning that kids would not be able to see it without a parent or guardian present. And that it would not be able to be screened in schools, where it most <i>should</i> be seen.<br /><br />The reason for the rating is the language – the film contains footage of kids swearing, the word “fuck” in particular. And while I swear like a sailor, I do understand that not everyone wants their kids to be exposed to that kind of language. But there are exceptions to every rule and I think this is one of them. I know that the MPAA has rules about why a film is rated a particular way, but those rules are based on content alone. And sometimes I think that things other than content need to be considered – things like intended audience and message and possible effects of the film. And while content is obviously the easiest, most black & white way to make a determination, while the other things are essentially gray areas, life is not black & white. Ever.<br /><br />Life is filled with gray areas. The message and the potential benefits of this film far outweigh the possibility of someone being offended by the language. And the MPAA knows this – an R rating (that was given for the very same language) was overturned for Gunner Palace, because it was a film about the Iraq war & the language was real – and the MPAA agreed that it was important for young people to see what soldiers really go through. How is Bully any different?<br /><br />It bothers me that a film can have racial slurs and be given a lesser rating than Bully. I’d rather my kids hearing swearing in this context than hear racial slurs any day – they are FAR more offensive. And let’s be honest here – the kids are <i>already</i> hearing this language – in school, on facebook, at the mall – everywhere. I sat at an elementary/middle school night at the skating rink last night and heard it 3 times from the mouths of babes. I didn’t like it, but it’s there. It’s life.<br /><br />This film is real life. Sure – the language is offensive to some, but that is exactly the point of the film. The language in question is being used by kids to hurt and taunt and humiliate other kids. It <i>should</i> offend viewers. It should offend them into standing up for other kids. It should offend them into doing something about bullying. Bullying has been a problem for many years, but it seems that it is getting worse as time goes on. More and more, we hear about a child committing suicide over being bullied. We all know about Matthew Shepard and how he was murdered because he was gay. Smart, kind, beautiful, amazing children are afraid to go to school and don’t achieve all that they are capable of because of the effects of bullying. So what’s worse – our kids’ tender ears hearing a bad word, or working together to try and change something?Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-74837821505093900862012-03-13T13:06:00.006-04:002012-03-13T13:14:01.913-04:00Sticker ShockLast week, I volunteered to work at the book fair at The Girl’s school. It was fun – helping kids pick out books is awesome (Yay, books) and watching them make their decisions was <i>highly</i> entertaining. I especially loved when little kids picked out longer, chapter books or when a tiny little princess girl surprised me and got books about Star Wars and the Titanic. I love that they provide a free book to every kid, so no one leaves empty-handed.<br /><br />What I didn’t love was something that was being sold. Up near the checkout, there is always a desk with pencils, erasers, sticker & bookmarks that the kids love, because there isn’t one of them who wants to come home with change – they NEED to spend it all. And in the collection of stickers, there was this:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqKUM-2lPMXMOsSO46ocivYaGiri5ipI7WkRqivFIE6GMl0nBnJtPgXf-85YXzBbarQsGBl2iWP8y77vuME1zE2kfhhkYWFg5y78JM-Z9f117aeEvaq8DBlwcsIKcuFvIkyzKnI9MnuFX/s1600/fat+sticker.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqKUM-2lPMXMOsSO46ocivYaGiri5ipI7WkRqivFIE6GMl0nBnJtPgXf-85YXzBbarQsGBl2iWP8y77vuME1zE2kfhhkYWFg5y78JM-Z9f117aeEvaq8DBlwcsIKcuFvIkyzKnI9MnuFX/s400/fat+sticker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719430033956944354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Dear Scholastic Books – usually I love you, but this? Really? REALLY? Don’t you think our girls have enough to worry about? I mean, I get that it isn’t talking about anyone’s <i>body</i>, but anyone who has lived on earth in the last…I don’t know…forever, knows this is a mainly used in the context of women and their weight. And while one can argue that nothing about this sticker is making a statement about anyone's weight, at the <i>very least</i>, it makes a mockery about people who <i>are</i> (needlessly or not) worried about their weight or struggle with poor body image. It’s like getting it from both sides: “Don’t be fat!” but “Don't let anyone think you care about being fat.”<br /><br />I guess you could argue that making fun of fat worries is a positive thing, but I don’t agree. For one thing, body-image is not always a rational thing – there are 24 million people suffering from eating disorders who can attest to that (20% of anorexics will <i>die</i> from their disease). And when someone feels bad about themselves, making fun of them is very much NOT helpful. And then, some people <i>do</i> have to worry about their weight – not because society tells them it’s prettier to be thin, but for health reasons. Making fun of <i>them</i> is very much not helpful.<br /><br />Scholastic’s corporate mission reads:<br /><br /><i>The corporate mission of Scholastic is to encourage the intellectual and personal growth of all children, beginning with literacy, the cornerstone of all learning. With more than 90 years of experience supporting the learning lives of children, today Scholastic remains committed to providing quality, engaging educational content in digital and print formats for the next generation of learners, and the families and educators who guide them.</i><br /><br />I’m not sure how this sticker fits in with “encourag(ing) intellectual and personal growth”. It might seem like a cute, funny statement to the folks that came up with it, and who knows – maybe I’m over-reacting – but I’d venture to say that the humor is most likely lost on 5 – 10 year olds, anyway. But maybe not the damage that insecurity and body-shaming can do. Having a sticker like this in school makes it OK – makes it normal to joke about weight issues. And I’m just not comfortable with that. Raising my daughter to be a strong, confident person is hard enough without something like this.<br /><br />And even if there is nothing at all wrong with this sticker – even if you don’t find it inappropriate or insulting, why not have <i>positive</i> messages available to kids? Sell stickers that proclaim how smart or strong or kind my daughter is – not how fat she (or her notebook) might look.<br />You can do better, Scholastic. See – it’s not that hard:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgum4JdAdNZqA9FMUn-ZXgulSV9PH0RF7aruVHh283Gi4dKhuB77vEaMoS2xre-8OJFFwLpPoExjpywWAV7LUYJjEqXmclIncqK5sbgMW_FXjhZi3ZJGuJGS7y9rNyy5AVN55q6pgGluZwS/s1600/stickers.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgum4JdAdNZqA9FMUn-ZXgulSV9PH0RF7aruVHh283Gi4dKhuB77vEaMoS2xre-8OJFFwLpPoExjpywWAV7LUYJjEqXmclIncqK5sbgMW_FXjhZi3ZJGuJGS7y9rNyy5AVN55q6pgGluZwS/s400/stickers.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719430038019961026" border="0" /></a>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-46676028742209035922012-02-28T13:34:00.002-05:002012-02-28T13:37:08.695-05:00Live Like Lou<i>Yet, today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth... I might have been given a bad break, but I've got an awful lot to live for.<br />-Lou Gehrig Farewell Speech, July 4, 1939</i><br /><br />Despite the fact that it was made twenty-six years before I was born, I can remember watching Pride of the Yankees when I was a kid and crying my eyes out at the end, when Lou Gehrig made his farewell speech to baseball. I didn’t understand exactly what was going on, or what Lou Gehrig’s disease was – I just knew it was sad. I learned later that what we Americans often think of as Lou Gehrig’s disease is officially amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS. And while the movie focuses more on the successes of a sports hero and the sadness around his getting sick, it could not begin to show the true devastation that ALS causes to the people affected by it.<br /><br />ALS is a neurological disorder characterized by progressive degeneration of motor neuron cells in the spinal cord and brain, which ultimately results in paralysis and death. Patients in the later stages of ALS are totally paralyzed yet, through it all, their minds remain unaffected. There is no meaningful treatment for ALS and there is no cure.<br /><br />Over 5,600 people in the U.S. are diagnosed with ALS each year (15 new cases every day). 60% of the people with ALS in the Database are men and 93% are Caucasian. Most people who develop ALS are between the ages of 40 and 70, with an average age of 55 at the time of diagnosis, but the disease can occur at a younger age.<br /><br /> I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to go through something like that. The terrifying feeling of losing everything and knowing it. The heart-wrenching sadness of watching a loved one trapped inside a body that is giving up on them. Upon diagnosis patients live 2 – 5 years on average, with approximately 10 percent living 10 years or more. 2-5 years is nothing. Even 10 years is nothing compared to a lifetime. Especially when those years are spent with ALS.<br /><br />Neil Alexander is a Pittsburgher who <i>does</i> know what it is like to live with ALS. He was diagnosed at the age of 46. And this active, fun-loving husband and father from Pittsburgh knows what is ahead for him and other with ALS. But he decided he wouldn’t just sit back and focus on the negative. Instead, he and his wife created a foundation called LiveLikeLou.org to honor the example Lou Gehrig set for all people living with ALS – determination, hard work and grace in the face of adversity. Their goal is to have a meaningful impact on the disease locally and nationally for years to come.<br /><br />Funds raised by LiveLikeLou.org will raise awareness of ALS, provide care and comfort to ALS families in Western Pennsylvania, and support scientific research targeted at finding a cure. In fact, LiveLikeLou.org made its first grant in January, 2012, purchasing two pieces of critical equipment (that are not covered by insurance) for the ALS Association Western Pennsylvania Chapter’s “Loan Closet”.<br /><br />Go check out LiveLikeLou.org and learn more about ALS, Lou and Neil. Think about donating, if you can spare it. If you do, your money will go to help people – and their families – deal with this terrible disease a little better. <a href="http://pittsburghfoundation.org/donation-livelikelou">Click here to donate</a>. But don’t take my word for it – let Neil himself tell you about it:<br /><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/34616695" webkitallowfullscreen="" mozallowfullscreen="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" width="400"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/34616695">Neil Alexander at The Pittsburgh Foundation Board Meeting</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user2159711">The Pittsburgh Foundation</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-86277906273733145442012-02-22T19:07:00.005-05:002012-02-22T19:18:11.386-05:00I'm Considering a New CareerI have an addiction to reading advice columns. I don't know why, since between the dumbass questions people send in and the often dumbass answers they get in return, I usually end up irritated. After reading today's Dear Prudence columns I tweeted this:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqB4FnK4BhXBrP_PJFRTG5p_MiwoWttbobHPHnQgegFzykhaVyyAar4JRbZWsHq5uqxxXdpPcH_wIHTUClOcSPq8LWcMGBuAMs_AkjIPl1OXGzYlxkpx4SzkRoXdf_R70IWBjfNMS6MlJd/s1600/tweet.bmp"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 445px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqB4FnK4BhXBrP_PJFRTG5p_MiwoWttbobHPHnQgegFzykhaVyyAar4JRbZWsHq5uqxxXdpPcH_wIHTUClOcSPq8LWcMGBuAMs_AkjIPl1OXGzYlxkpx4SzkRoXdf_R70IWBjfNMS6MlJd/s400/tweet.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712118555035964946" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And I swear I'm right. Here is a sample of some of the letters, and <i>my</i> responses to them:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Stripper for a Daughter: I had been struggling to make a living at my job for a few years now and decided to apply as a bartender at a local strip club. After a few days of working there, the manager said he was low on girls for the night and asked if I would like to dance for the night. I was a little hesitant at first but decided it was just one night. I ended up loving it and made around $800 in a few hours! We talked, and I became a dancer overnight. This was about a year ago. The other night while doing a set, one of my parents’ friends comes up to the stage and asks for a VIP dance. The entire time he was telling me how he wants a cut of my earnings to stay quiet and not tell my parents what I am doing! I either have to come clean to my parents (who are VERY religious and would disown me), quit my job and get further in debt, or start paying this guy half of my nightly earnings.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A:</span> Let’s set aside the fact that A) what this guy is doing is possibly illegal, and B) You are an adult and can work wherever you want and focus on this: If you take a job that will make your parents DISOWN YOU if they find out, and do so close enough that a family friend can walk in and see you, then you, my dear, are a dumbass!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Gay Parents: My son is in second grade and a classmate of his has "two daddies." My son wants to go over to his friend's house to play, but we are nervous about this. I know my opinion is probably unpopular, but it is still my opinion: I do not know if this is a good environment for my son at his age. We do not talk about topics like homosexuality in our home. We do not want to field questions yet about these kinds of topics; we want him to be able to just be a kid instead of dealing with complex sexual issues. His friend plays at our house and he is a very nice boy, but eventually his "daddies" will want to know if my son can go to their house. How do we tactfully tell this couple that we would prefer if their son plays at our house? My sister thinks that I will just have to "get over it" and send my son over there. But isn't it my right to monitor environments and control influences for my children? I fear that children in modern society are exposed to far too much far too soon—what happened to letting kids just be kids?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A:</span> Really? You are a dumbass.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Grandchild's Baby Name: My son and daughter-in-law are expecting a girl in the next 10 weeks. They announced their baby name, and I find it rather distasteful. My daughter-in-law has been an avid Gone With the Wind fan and is using Scarlet as the middle name. The first name is a traditional girls’ name. I told my son, privately, that I think it is wrong to use a name like Scarlet as a middle name because her character in the book was not something a little girl should know about or aspire to be. My son told me that a middle name is hardly even used, usually just an initial is fine, and their daughter will be known by her traditional first name. Should I talk to my daughter-in-law about this?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A:</span> Are you for real? Because if you are, then you are a dumbass!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Losing My Self Respect: I got married and moved to the USA. I love my husband. I used to be independent, and used to always believe in equality. I believed that husbands and wives have equal rights. But my husband becomes abusive occasionally. I told his family and my family about it, and they keep telling me that I should find ways to avoid situations which cause him to get that way. The problem is I have to be careful giving my opinion now, because anything could lead to an argument and then could get physical. I don’t want to leave him, because most of the time he is a good person. But I'm torn between my principles, self-respect and dignity, and letting myself down to avoid him getting mad at me. What is the right way to tackle this?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A:</span> If you don’t stop listening to your dumbass family and leave this idiot, then you are a dumbass.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q. </span>Semi-Famous Blogger Crosses a Line?: My daughter is in second grade and is good friends with a girl whose mother writes a blog that has extensive readership. I read her blog and she is very careful to never mention any of her daughter's friends by name or post their photo. However, she posts her daughter's photo and writes blog posts about her frequently. In the past few weeks, my daughter and some of their other friends have started wanting their parents to write about them, too. I think these girls are at the age where female competition rears its ugly head and they are jealous that their friend is broadcasted on the Internet for lots of people to see when they are not. Is this something I should bring up with this girl’s mother? If I were her, I would want to know that my actions were causing some friction between young girls.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A:</span> WTF? Let me get this straight – this blogger respects the privacy of others and doesn’t do anything offensive or unkind? So basically, what you’re saying is that her success makes you feel inferior? Say it with me now: DUMBASS<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Daughter's Adoptive Baby: I have been reading you for ages. My daughter is a very successful businesswoman, a senior vice president at a company you would recognize. She is also 37 and single, sacrificing a personal life for a professional one. Lately she has been exploring the option of adopting a foreign baby and being a single mother. I tried to explain to her that celebrities make this look far more glamorous than it actually is. I told her that she chose a career over a family quite some time ago and trying to have both now is going to be extremely difficult. She got upset and told me that what she is doing is perfectly normal. My husband and I are divorced, and I know how hard being a single mom can be. How can I explain this to her differently?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A:</span> Hi – I just spoke with 1957 and they’d like their antiquated, dumbass attitude back. Dumbass.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Q.</span> Housekeeper: This is a problem I am sure a lot of people would love to have. My boyfriend and I are in our late 20s and we both have good salaries. We talked about moving in together and we are fairly compatible. But here is the thing: He has a housekeeper. (That sound you hear is all my girlfriends rolling their eyes.) I do not think we need a housekeeper. Two people keeping a two bedroom apartment clean should be manageable. He thinks that if he hates to clean and can afford to pay somebody else he should. While I can't see anything outright wrong with that, part of me feels like he is indulgent and immature. I don't like to do a lot of things, but I do them anyway. He told me that if we let the housekeeper go then I will be totally responsible for all the cleaning. I think that is also unreasonable. Why can't he just pick up after himself? What if we can't afford a housekeeper in the future? Will he have any idea how to be self-reliant? Is it so wrong that I think we should be responsible for keeping such a small space clean?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A:</span> The guy is willing to pay for a housekeeper and that’s a problem? I can find 35,624 women in the next ten minutes who would happily take this problem. You big dumbass.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">See? I should totally be an advice columnist! Send me a question - I'll solve all your problems. Or just call you a dumbass. One of those.</span>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-68582519084405225282012-02-21T10:26:00.005-05:002012-02-21T10:43:24.421-05:00Life with a Drama QueenSince she hit about 18 months, the girl has been a drama queen. Everything is either the best thing ever or the worst thing ever, her favorite or “EWWW – I hate it!” Everyone she knows is her best friend or she doesn’t know them at all (you might have thought I was going to say her worst enemy, but no - she loves everyone, except maybe bigots and mean people, all of whom she will try to reform). So needless to say, when she claims to be sick or injured, I tend to take it with a grain of salt.<br /><br />One of my big parenting fears is becoming one of “those parents.” You know the ones – they call the doctor over every little thing and when the doctor tells them everything is fine, they rush off to the ER or find <i>another</i> doctor (I personally know a set of parents like this and they are a constant, crazy reminder to calm the fuck down, mama). When it comes to illness, I can usually tell when it’s real or…well…not fake, but…I don’t know…dramatitized (That doesn’t seem to be a word, but some people coughwordswithfriendscough don’t think dementors is a word, either, so fuck it). When she is sick, she gets lethargic (something she has way to much energy to fake), and pale and sleepy. But injuries are a little harder to judge.<br /><br />So when she was complaining of knee pain, I figured it was more theatrics. It was evening and there was no way I was taking her to the ER for long waits, and germs, and billing problems and nonsense. As the night went on, I started to become slightly more convinced that she was really hurting, though. I slept with her that night and she whimpered in pain in her sleep. And in the morning, before she fully awake, she did the same thing. So I took her into the doctor’s office to be seen. The doctor said that she had definitely done <i>something</i> to it, but she didn’t know what and that we needed to wait for the swelling to go down to really tell. SO in the meantime – crutches.<br /><br />Now, I remember being a kid and thinking crutches were cool (until I had to hobble around on them for months, that is), and the girl was no exception – she was <i>dying</i> to go to school on crutches – oh the drama she’d squeeze out of that one – being on crutches in second grade is the absolute <i>height</i> of celebrity. But the doctor’s office didn’t have any in her peanut size. Neither did any of the local medical supply places (my kid is tiny). So the last option was Apria, who would deliver them to our house right away. I carried her to check out and was informed that Apria had suddenly amended “right away” to “first thing tomorrow.” OK – no big deal – I could handle carrying her for a little longer. But it <i>was</i> a big deal to her – she wanted to go to school and bask in her crutch-filled glory. She was NOT happy. But I told her that as soon as the crutches came I would take her to school.<br /><br />Friday morning, the first thing out of her mouth was “Are my crutches here?” She was not amused by my answer of “no.” A few hours went by while she bemoaned the pain in her knee (by which she meant “the pain of not being able to be the Second Grade Queen of Crutches”). And then I got a call. A horrible, terrible, no good, very bad call. Apria was calling to get my credit card number (because I have a deductible and god forbid they bill me), and to let me know that the crutches were on their way – they’d be there…dun dunh DUNNNNNNHHHH…<i>Saturday!</i><br /><br />Oh, the horror!<br /><br />Needless to say, I had an unhappy Drama Queen on my hands. I was pissed at Apria, because WTF? She was pissed at the entire world, because see: drama queen. I explained to her that she couldn’t go to school since I obviously couldn’t carry her around all day. Eventually, she got over it and a funny thing happened. She started being able to out weight on her knee. Don’t get me wrong – it was clearly still a little “off” and she was walking funny, but suddenly – since she wasn’t going to be able to be Second Grade Queen of Crutches – sitting around and waiting for me to carry her from place to place was slightly less appealing. By evening, she was walking pretty normally. By Saturday morning, she was running and jumping and dancing and leaping.<br /><br />Clearly, she was completely recovered.<br /><br />Until early Saturday afternoon when the crutches came and she suddenly was in pain and thought she should use the crutches to go to the birthday party she was invited to that afternoon. Forget it, kid. I’m onto you.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWNPcSAQMux9cu-viDJmJq5ihNjCJOiK1WUfEn-wQt_gpt9-mMOzIQ5FJFvAEFCifPlKco0-i2S68j0hBNvYgmoImCGBmlG5Ju_IFQJntBeSkSIwchpJx8-NnpZVicJyHnWcRH6wTQh_z/s1600/emflower.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYWNPcSAQMux9cu-viDJmJq5ihNjCJOiK1WUfEn-wQt_gpt9-mMOzIQ5FJFvAEFCifPlKco0-i2S68j0hBNvYgmoImCGBmlG5Ju_IFQJntBeSkSIwchpJx8-NnpZVicJyHnWcRH6wTQh_z/s400/emflower.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711614631980778674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLrjIxw9LE7w4mK6DHZNhIOeyaBM61mYDdUa_NiIX_zBWINAAbPHwDt79cszjzjlT5oqFA1PJCEogZjUE6-hEvmm8nymmH0CXzRtKDMN1q6uNkgTU7p36B5DUalqFaBX9ZrWlNpK_7cTf/s1600/emsing.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLrjIxw9LE7w4mK6DHZNhIOeyaBM61mYDdUa_NiIX_zBWINAAbPHwDt79cszjzjlT5oqFA1PJCEogZjUE6-hEvmm8nymmH0CXzRtKDMN1q6uNkgTU7p36B5DUalqFaBX9ZrWlNpK_7cTf/s400/emsing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711614630445519202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />See - not dramatic at all, right?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNVUGV-1n8XSasGCEE9hgwcLwnUhPd8oWypue4CXQ8Kxg5-H1X1C_0B9jxxTv3vI6dSYLPa8YH6DZ6jgtnuKS6b3GxSWkVqlXooG1QkU0MzphEOSRBhBOZDrInLTYELBA0XFMFU5pmy9w/s1600/emhat.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNVUGV-1n8XSasGCEE9hgwcLwnUhPd8oWypue4CXQ8Kxg5-H1X1C_0B9jxxTv3vI6dSYLPa8YH6DZ6jgtnuKS6b3GxSWkVqlXooG1QkU0MzphEOSRBhBOZDrInLTYELBA0XFMFU5pmy9w/s400/emhat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711614647133403554" border="0" /></a>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-8040651561349039302012-02-19T21:53:00.003-05:002012-02-21T11:03:12.533-05:00Not that there's anything wrong with that<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> 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mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif][if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1026"> </xml><![endif][if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">I have been in a real funk lately – just feeling depressed & to use the scientific term: yucky. But my oldest friend Hedge came up last night for a drunkover and what medicine that was – she’s the yuckiness antidote. We don’t see each other nearly enough, but when we do, we just <i>get</i> each other. We have a way of making each other feel better without the need to have deep meaningful conversations & cry-fests. We support each other in an unspoken sort of way. Like she says “Poop” and what she really means is “I’m here for you” and then I say “Boobs” and I mean “I love you, too.” And then we laugh our asses off. Last night was no exception.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: I think I told the boy’s friend’s mom I was gay</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: What?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me (louder): I think I told the boy’s friend’s mom I was gay</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: I heard you, jackass, but what the hell are you talking about?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: Well, we were talking about being gay, and I said something that I think came out the wrong way so I think she thinks I was saying I am gay.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: Did you correct yourself?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: Well, no, because I don’t care. Also, because I didn’t want to come off like it was an issue in any way.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: Yeah, you don’t want to be all Seinfeld, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: Exactly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: Well, how is it that you were talking about being gay anyway?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: We were talking about that weird homophobic facebook person.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: Oh…<i>her</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: Yeah</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: You know what would be awesome? If her kid turned out to be gay.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: Not just gay, STAGE GAY.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: JAZZ HANDS!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: By the way, right after I implied I was gay, I mentioned you were staying over tonight, so…</p> <p class="MsoNormal">H: YES!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Me: Not that there’s anything wrong with that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>I love you, Hedge!</i></p>Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-36614705973711165702012-02-14T16:06:00.002-05:002012-02-14T16:09:09.322-05:00Valentine Movie MemeOK, so for Valentine’s Day, I’m jumping on the Valentine Movie Meme bandwagon. Mostly because I have nothing mushy to profess and because my other option was to share my worst date ever. So even though I am not really a movie person (I like movies, but they don’t stick with me like books do), here I go…<br /><br /><br style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. What is your favorite romantic comedy?</span><br /><br />I’d say either When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless in Seattle<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. What is your favorite romantic drama?</span><br /><br />I’m not one to rush to romantic movies in general – romantic comedies are a little more likely because of the comedy part, so I can’t really pick one.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Worst romance film you've seen?</span><br /><br />I don’t know – maybe that one with the asteroid & Ben Affleck? I kind of dislike Ben Affleck. And world-is-going-to-end movies just piss me off.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. How do you feel about the majority of romantic films being labeled "chick flicks"?</span><br /><br />I don’t care what you call them – if I like them, I like them. Call them Harold for all I care.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5. Favorite on-screen couple?</span><br /><br />Meg Ryan & Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle. No – Ron & Hermione!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6. Favorite off-screen couple?</span><br /><br />Jessica Tandy & Hume Cronyn – they were lovely.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">7. Best kiss in a movie?</span><br /><br />Rhett & Scarlett in Gone With the Wind. Or Ron & Hermoine in Deathly Hallows. Or Westley & Buttercup in The Princess Bride. Or Milton & Karen in From Here to Eternity. NO! LADY & THE TRAMP!!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8. Favorite romantic scene?</span><br /><br />Oh man – this would be the scene in The Horse Whisperer when Robert Redford and Kristin Scott Thomas were dancing. They were in love, but she was married. And her husband was sitting across the room. For some reason, that scene – though kind of sad, and not particularly sexy – is one of the most gut-wrenching, yet romantic and sensual scenes ever to me.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">9. Who are 2 film characters you wished had gotten together, but never did?</span><br /><br />I don’t know – I tend to accept whatever the movie is, without becoming particularly invested. Maybe Brad Pitt & Julia Ormond from Legends of the Fall, but I liked him with Karina Lombard, too, so…<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">10. Two actors you think would have great chemistry, but have never done a film together?</span><br /><br />Me and Tom Selleck. Except for the part where he’d start talking his right wing crap and I’d be forced to silence him using magic. Or a sword. Fine - I'm not an actor. Whatever.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">11. Favorite romantic song in a film (doesn't have to be from a musical)?</span><br /><br />Either To Make You Feel My Love, from Hope Floats or A Soft Place to Fall from The Horse Whisperer (the scene I mentioned previously)<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">12. Best score from a romance film?</span><br /><br />Beauty and the Beast. Shut up.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">13. Most romantic film quote?</span><br /><br />My second favorite would be the one from When Harry Met Sally:<br /><br />“I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle in your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”<br /><br /><br />But my all-time favorite would be from The Jerk:<br /><br />“The first day seemed like a week. And the second day seemed like five days. And the third day seemed like a week again. And the fourth day seemed like eight days. But the fifth day you went to see your mother, and that seemed just like a day. But then you came back, and later on the sixth day, in the evening, when we saw each other, that started seeming like two days. So in the evening, it seemed like two days spilling into the next day and that started seeming like four days. So, at the end of the sixth day on into the seventh day, it seemed like a total of five days. And the sixth day seemed like a week and a half. I have it written down, but I can show it to you tomorrow if you want to see it. Anyway, I've decided that tomorrow when the time is right, I'm going to ask you to marry me. If that's okay with you, just don't say anything.”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">14. A film you'd recommend to watch on Valentine's Day?</span><br /><br />Any of the above.Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111064072849484956.post-62583209823577327342012-02-06T16:08:00.013-05:002012-02-06T21:49:11.769-05:00Driving Me CrazyDriving with my husband can be described in two words: "Absolutely" and "Terrifying." Or, actually, I should probably clarify that - what I am referring to is <i>riding</i> with my husband while <i>he</i> is driving. Because "driving with my husband" could refer to the times when <i>I</i> am driving and he is in the car. That isn't terrifying at all. That is nice, since if I am driving, we are most likely on our way to a vacation, since he is completely incapable to staying awake while driving to vacation.<br /><br />I don't know why driving to vacation is so exhausting for him, but I suppose it has to do with a few different things: 1) the length of the drive - we generally go somewhere at takes 7-12 hours and his attention span is not that great (as evidenced by my houseful of unfinished projects and his penchant for daily afternoon short power naps, which are neither short or powerful), 2) the fact that we often drive at night, because I am crazy and I want my vacation to start as early as possible, rather than spend half of my first day driving rather than enjoying my vacation (by enjoying my vacation, I mean drinking and pounding advil while my kids loudly harass me to to take them down to the beach/spend $783 to get into an amusement park/go shopping (???)/fight over who gets what room because <i>that bathroom has yellow and yellow is my favorite color and HE ALWAYS GETS WHAT HE WANTS!!!!</i>. (you can see why I'd be anxious to get <i>that</i> started, cant you?), and 3) I have an ego-stroking hypnosis routine I use on him while we pack the car & start the drive with him at the wheel, so I can get him out from <i>behind</i> the wheel as soon as possible, because have I mentioned how terrifying his driving is?<br /><br />Why is his driving so terrifying, you ask? OK, fine, you didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway. There are multiple reasons:<br /><br />1. His goal in life, as far as I can tell, is to get from Point A to Point B without using his brakes. It doesn't matter if Point A is 10 feet or 10 billion miles from Point B - he wants to get there without braking. This results in him not hitting the brakes until he is 100% certain that the light is not going to change to green and that the giant backup of cars in front of him is not going to miraculously clear out of his way before he closes the 20 feet between us, thus slamming them on at the last minute and scaring the poop out of me. Even an 8 year old knows this is terrifying - Recently, The Girl - after one of the many near-whiplash, gasping in fear moments, piped up from the backseat: "Should we let Mom drive?" Yes, honey, <i>we should</i>.<br /><br />2. He drives like he is on a tour. When that man gets behind the wheel, suddenly his surroundings are beautiful and he can't take his eyes off them - houses, cars, businesses, trees, people standing in their front yards, the sky, stray dogs, road kill, rocks, yard flamingos, you name it - he wants to look at it all. What isn't at all interesting to him and not worth looking at while he is driving? The road.<br /><br />3. He fancies himself a comedian: He likes to joke and make faces and act goofy and dance around. Unfortunately, as he dances and goofs off, his entire body goes goofy with him. So while he shimmies to the right, so does the car. To the left? Yep - so does the car. I know firsthand that this is not a good idea - I once wrecked a car that way. Also - he's not particularly funny in the car - though it may be that I can't appreciate the humor through my terror.<br /><br />4. Suddenly eye-contact is important to him. The same man who in the house, will barely look up from his phone or computer or hockey game when the kids and I try to get his attention, suddenly becomes Stuart Smiley when he is behind the wheel - turning to talk to me, or turning around to talk to the kids in the back seat.<br /><br />5. Outside the car I'm lucky if I can get him to do <i>one</i> thing. Inside the car, he's suddenly the world champion multi-tasker - he's driving and trying to find a cd somewhere in the car and adjusting things and looking for his phone charger.<br /><br />6. His shortcuts. If you are ever in the car with my husband and he says the word "shortcut," be prepared to settle in for the long haul, because his shortcuts are never, <i>ever</i> actually short.<br /><br />7. He doesn't use the windshield wipers or high beams when he should. We can be barreling down a curvy, unlit road in the dead of night when there is no moonlight in the pouring rain (all the while trying not to use his brakes), and he won't turn on the high beams or wipers until I beg him to (because if I can't see, I know damned well he can't either).<br /><br />8. He gets <i>furious</i> when the person behind him is tailgating him (as do I), but he has no problem climbing up the ass of the person in front of him. I suspect this has less to do with his opinion of how fast the person in front is traveling and more to do with the aforementioned refusal to use his brakes.<br /><br />9. At the risk of sounding like my mother when I was a teen driver ("Both hands on the wheel, Gina!"), the man never has more than one hand on the wheel. I will admit that my hands are not always at 10 and 2, but most of the time, they are both <i>somewhere</i> on the damned thing. Not only are his not both on the wheel, his left hand will be sagging over the top of the wheel, while his right hand is as far from the wheel as it can get - under his leg, in his pocket, searching for a cd between the seats, reaching into the back seat to do something goofy for the kids. It doesn't matter if the roads are wet or snowy, or if we're driving a winding, switchback, narrow road through the mountains - ONE HAND ONLY!<br /><br />And my own personal favorite:<br /><br />10. He thinks that lane markers are merely suggestions.<br /><br />So is it any wonder that I would prefer the less terrifying option of being the driver? Notice I didn't say "less peaceful" option, since when he is riding, he generally falls asleep and starts snoring. And his snoring? EPIC. The only reason he survives these in-car snorestravaganzas is that I wont take my eyes off the road long enough to find a pillow and my hands off the wheel to shove it over his face.<br /><br />Sadly, on the long drive home from a family visit this weekend, I discovered a new downside to him being the driver: The angle of one's (fat, middle-aged) reflection in the side view mirror. It prompted me to consider putting and ad in the classifieds (perhaps the trade/swap section):<br /><br /><i>Wanted: One neck. Willing to trade several chins.</i><br /><br />If only his driving would shave off pounds instead of years. I'd let him drive all the time, lane-markers be damned.Ginahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00684328990767140199noreply@blogger.com2