Hola friends. Let me start by saying that I'm not here to be a fear-monger or an alarmist, or create any more anxiety than needs to exist. There's plenty of that out there, and I've found that at most it paralyzes you into more inaction, and at the worst it just adds to that glazed-over layer of anomie or apathy that we already have.
That said, I believe we can take a reasoned approach to the situation at hand, and quite possibly do something to prevent catastrophic events from happening. Or, if they do happen, we can at least be prepared.
These are the facts as I have them. About 6 weeks-one month ago, the Army was running mysterious "training drills" with BlackHawk helicopters over downtown Denver. Every night around dusk- 8pm at the time, for 2 weeks. They were very loud, kind of scary, and most of all, unexplained. The local news sort of got to the bottom of it by talking to the chump in charge, who basically told the reporter/local populace to quit worryin' and let them take care of things. Ok, what he really said was they were training for some type of catastrophic event like a natural disaster, but social upheaval could produce the same results. He wouldn't say exactly if it was connected with the increased security for the Democratic National Convention in August, but this guy also wasn't a very good liar, and you definitely got the impression of "um, yeah, it is." Don't believe me? Google either 9news or 7news, Denver, and then search their sites for their stories on the matter.
2nd thing: Just last week, Homeland Security apparently got all up in Denver Water's grille, and forced them to close the dam road that goes over Dillon Dam because it was a "potential terrorist target." Denver Water immediately complied, without asking anyone in Summit County what they thought about it, and put up barriers on the dam road that very day. Two days later, the Summit County Sheriff's department got back in DW's grille, and said take those down or we'll shoot- or something. No, they'd sue them, but you get the picture. The closed road was adding about 4 hours onto their response time for emergency services.
If you're not from here- Lake Dillon/Reservoir is one of the main sources of water for the Denver Area. So sure, I guess it could be a terrorist target. But I think even the average Joe knows (in fact, Joe told me) that only a pretty darn superior air force, or someone with ICBMs, or perhaps a stolen nuclear bomb like in a Tom Clancy novel, would be capable of blowing up a huge, earthen dam like Dillon. So that narrows it down to basically....us. Seriously- who the hell else is going to get into our airspace as far as Colorado, or launch an ICBM targeted specifically at Dillon dam from...? India? Probably not.
The resulting flood, if the dam were destroyed, would be hugely destructive to the Summit County area (goodbye, Silverthorne factory outlet stores!) and downstream would certainly be a mess... and god forbid, all those folks in Highlands Ranch would have to quit watering their damn Kentucky Bluegrass lawns for a few months because of the temporary water shortage... but, wipeout Denver? I doubt it. So even if BushCo is planning something like this to coincide with the Democratic National Convention which starts on my birthday in August... yeah, not the best plan.
You follow me so far? Maybe I made a few leaps there without articulating all the in-between stuff. Another fact (or two): this current administration has already proven that they are capable of anything, including mass murder of their own people so they can stay in power. They've also stolen two elections, fabricated two wars out of whole cloth which are siphoning off our resources as a country and crippling our economy, once the strongest in the world (just 8 short years ago). They routinely smear or "out" anyone who investigates anything about them, and they are good friends with not only the Saudis and especially the Bin Laden family, but more importantly, with the heads of the corporate media. All of this has already made the population (which is sizable) vulnerable, weak, and prone to believing whatever crap comes out of the idiot box that promises to keep them "safe."
Prone, I say, but not necessarily so. If people are like me, all this crap upon crap upon crap, coupled with no healthcare and the high cost of gas and food, makes us cantankerous as all hell. There's what you see with your own eyes, and experience with your own broken back and tired heart, and then there's the utter shite, which is looking more shite-y every day, coming out of the TV. It adds up to cognitive dissonance on a grand scale, and it don't add up to complacency, which may be one of our saving graces.
So we got that goin' for us, which is nice. But these guys, these no-talent assclowns who've shat upon our country and pissed on the people, and laughed that evil laugh and call us "stupid" when we call them on their crap- those guys? Yeah, don't count on them leaving quietly. My basic point here is, we need to look at past behavior as an indicator of future behavior. We need to be calm and reasoned and determined about it, but make no mistake, if we ignore this shite and just assume "everything will be ok once Obama's elected.." we are heading for imminent disaster. These guys know they'd be in jail, for life, by this time next Tuesday if someone not in their cartel gets into power. Ask yourself, are they behaving at all like people who are just a wee bit nervous about that possibility?
Are they "making nice" and worrying about "legacy" projects?
So. Assuming that I'm right (and you know I am) and these schmucks try and pull another stunt like 9-11, or exploit some other national disaster for the sole purpose of declaring martial law, cancelling the elections and declaring W President-for-Life.... what are y'all prepared to do? I know for our part, we've got some emergency food stashed in the basement, along with 5-gallon water containers,and I've started growing some food outdoors in containers. Should the shite hit the fan for real, I have landscaping tools to help me tear up this stupid lawn and plant more food. (property owner be damned) One thing we don't have is a gun. I don't think I want one of my own, in the house because of the kiddo (and as I've joked before, someone of my temperament probably shouldn't have one close at hand), but I do want to learn to shoot one. This is where the redneck brother-in-law who hunts comes in handy.
Back to what we got goin' for us though. There's the cantankerous part- say what you want about Americans being fat and lazy and ill-informed, when push comes to shove, you don't want to piss us off. Even die-hard Republicans, who simultaneously believe government should be "small", and that you should shut the hell up and trust it implicitly if there's an "R" after someone's name- don't like being told what to do. There's also the fact that this so-called President has a disapproval rating of like 80%, on a good day. Which begs the question, if he and his henchmen try to attack us again, who the hell would be carrying out his orders, in good conscience? Seriously? Yes, there are the Blackwater and Khaki guys who've been getting all sorts of "crowd control" training in Iraq, and yes, New Orleans after Katrina. But the country is so broke now, there's no way we could pay them enough to turn their guns on mostly-unarmed American citizens. I think. I'm putting my faith in them having a conscience, and acting according to what they know is right, and not necessarily what they've been ordered to do.
There's also our geography, which is awesome. As a GIS professional, I can tell you what you already know with some authority: this country is big. Population wise and land-area wise, BIG. It's not Germany, it's not England, it's not even Serbia. Ah, you bring up example of former USSR, twice as big but under boot of Soviets for 50 years? Well, when the Soviets rolled in to remote villages with their tanks and guns, it was already a starving, illiterate,broken country. Their citizens, pobrecitas, did not have the internet, or infrastructure, or sometimes even a common religion/culture or language to unite them. So, nice try. Also the Russian people (et.al) were pretty used to authoritarian governments stomping all over them, whether it was the Tsar, or Lenin, or Stalin. They hadn't ever experienced true democracy and the possibilities it unfurls for the average person.
ok. That said, it's no reason to get complacent. I'm arguing for the opposite. Instead of stockpiling weapons and food (although, be my guest if you can do it) we should probably focus more on getting to know our neighbors. Because we are going to need to depend on each other even more in the coming months and years, and it's just a good idea. Don't like your neighbors? don't trust them? Now might be a good time to move. 7 months ago we were living in a place (which we still own) with a neighbor who, lets just say, would probably have thrown us under the bus or turned us in to the Gestapo for a pack of cigarettes. We moved into this rental, and now we love our neighbors in the quadplex, and also like the surrounding ones quite a bit. I'm pretty sure I could count on them to protect us should they need to, or at least help plant a garden. Better yet, I don't stay up nights fantasizing about killing them with that gun I don't own. Cooperation and involvement is going to be key to survival. Pretty much the opposite of what our society is right now, but it does have precedent- during World War II, when everyone was growing Victory Gardens, carpooling, holding neighborhood steel drives and buying food with ration books. It was the thing to do. You were un-American if you didn't do it. And guess what, people had a blast, banding together for a greater cause like that. To hear my parents tell it, it didn't even feel like a sacrifice. They were little kids at the time, so to them it was fun. And how did that story end? Oh, we WON? Sweeeet!!! I'm pretty sure we can do that again.
Most or some of you know I'm an archaeologist by trade. An anthropologist by birth (heh) surely, but an archaeologist because I needed a job and it seemed like a fun way to incorporate all the things I'm actually interested in. Namely, how the heck did us goofy humans survive thus far, and come to even DOMINATE the planet? Surely this is some kind of celestial accident, because there ain't no way our dominance is actually merit-based. Most of my colleagues will admit to coming to the field because of a lifelong disgust/revulsion with the human race and what "it" does, with a simultaneous fascination. ( I too had this attitude... when I was 23 years old. ) Anyway. As such, studying past cultures and how they came to their demise, OR how they miraculously survived to this day, much of the time we are asking basically the same question, or wondering the same thing. If these people had only KNOWN that the drought would last 30 years! That the volcano was going to erupt on August 24th! That those pale-faces were walking social diseases! That lead might make your ceramics prettier, but it kills your brain!!! See, there is a difference with us, because at no other time in human history have we had so much access to so much information, and it's literally at our fingertips. (well, if you live in the First world and have a computer). So there's no excuse.
What I'm trying to do is use my training, of assembling all this data from the past to form a coherent view of what exactly is going on... and apply it to the present day. In my field we try to be as scientifically reasoned, objective and non-judgmental as possible. However, as a human, and maybe more importantly as a parent now, I find it nearly impossible to apply my scientific objectivity and detachment to the current situation. And now especially, a sense of urgency is bearing down on me like an 18-wheeler on a wet rainy highway at night. Many of my colleagues have mentally divorced themselves from the human race, placed themselves intellectually above the fray, and in effect "outside" of present events. This is unfortunate. Some of us however, feel duty-bound to be the "participant-observers" we were trained to be, and we are speaking out.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Rage management/ weight loss plan
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22): "Dear Rob 'Fat-Burner' Brezsny: I used the
Sweet and Sassy Toner video and lost only two pounds in five weeks. I
tried the No More Love Handles program and actually gained weight. The
only thing that really worked was your column. Reading your horoscopes
has, I'm convinced, been responsible for bringing me much closer to
having my dream body. You've helped me jettison a ton of psychic fat,
not to mention a wad of guilt, a load of concern about what other people
think of me, and a mass of remorse about the past. I never realized how
much of my extra weight had to do with psychological burdens I was
carrying. This is the lightest I've ever been! Grateful Virgo." Dear Grateful:
Give yourself credit, too. It has been courageous of you to get rid of your
unnecessary buffers. By the way, this week will be the climax of the
shedding process. Celebrate your success by emptying out even more.
Awesome!!! Update on the CTJ I'm phat thing too- I've decided that my body was also trying to tell me to cut out wheat, and i'd be mostly fine. That's alotta psychic garbage from oh, probably close to 37 years now. About 10 years a naturopathic doctor told me to cut out yeast, especially, because that's what was causing my seasonal allergies to go ballistic, but she also said, "eh, yer young, you probably have 10 more years until this really becomes a problem." Guess what??? It's 2 weeks from my birthday, and I feel like shit. Notably, whenever I look at a bagel, especially a whole wheat one, I can feel my intestines scrunch up inside me and produce pre-emptive gas, as if to warn me. So. I've also got that bloating and random gut pain that complainers of wheat allergies claim to have. Brucey baby is going to get tested for celiac disease soon, since almost his entire family has it, and I have a feeling my time has come too. We'd have to do this as a family anyway, there's no friggin way to isolate the breadcrumbs in a given household. I'll probably drop 12 pounds in a month, just with this (that's my hope.) Unlike 10 years ago, there isn't exactly a gallon of snot pouring out of my head every minute because of mold, dust, and juniper pollen, but I'm still feeling slightly snotty, bloated, tired all the time, bloated, fat, and bloated. We'll see if this works. I'll keep you posted.
Sweet and Sassy Toner video and lost only two pounds in five weeks. I
tried the No More Love Handles program and actually gained weight. The
only thing that really worked was your column. Reading your horoscopes
has, I'm convinced, been responsible for bringing me much closer to
having my dream body. You've helped me jettison a ton of psychic fat,
not to mention a wad of guilt, a load of concern about what other people
think of me, and a mass of remorse about the past. I never realized how
much of my extra weight had to do with psychological burdens I was
carrying. This is the lightest I've ever been! Grateful Virgo." Dear Grateful:
Give yourself credit, too. It has been courageous of you to get rid of your
unnecessary buffers. By the way, this week will be the climax of the
shedding process. Celebrate your success by emptying out even more.
Awesome!!! Update on the CTJ I'm phat thing too- I've decided that my body was also trying to tell me to cut out wheat, and i'd be mostly fine. That's alotta psychic garbage from oh, probably close to 37 years now. About 10 years a naturopathic doctor told me to cut out yeast, especially, because that's what was causing my seasonal allergies to go ballistic, but she also said, "eh, yer young, you probably have 10 more years until this really becomes a problem." Guess what??? It's 2 weeks from my birthday, and I feel like shit. Notably, whenever I look at a bagel, especially a whole wheat one, I can feel my intestines scrunch up inside me and produce pre-emptive gas, as if to warn me. So. I've also got that bloating and random gut pain that complainers of wheat allergies claim to have. Brucey baby is going to get tested for celiac disease soon, since almost his entire family has it, and I have a feeling my time has come too. We'd have to do this as a family anyway, there's no friggin way to isolate the breadcrumbs in a given household. I'll probably drop 12 pounds in a month, just with this (that's my hope.) Unlike 10 years ago, there isn't exactly a gallon of snot pouring out of my head every minute because of mold, dust, and juniper pollen, but I'm still feeling slightly snotty, bloated, tired all the time, bloated, fat, and bloated. We'll see if this works. I'll keep you posted.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Entitlement Schema, on your Right
Or maybe I should call this another SOAS/CTJ. It's really a combo platter. Hmmm.
The bike shop we go to most frequently because MacMookie does massage-trade with the owner (the place is called "Cycle-Analyst" and Macmookie is in training to be a licensed psychoanalyst.. can ya beat that?) has the most awesome selection of bike horns and bells you ever did see. Squishy horns shaped like dinosaur heads or dog butts, tinkly asian-style bells that practically whisper, zen-like, "let me pass beside you on your left, grasshopper," classic ringa-ringa-ringa bicycle bells what look like they're straight out of the 1923 Sears & Roebuck's catalog, and airhorns. Lately, I'm leaning towards the airhorn, even though I've had my eye on this cute little number with a picture of a bear on it for a mere $4.50... but really what I need? Lately? Is a horn that blares out, "Get OUT OF THE BIKE LANE, YOU OVER-ENTITLED YUPPIE BITCHES." Seriously. That sound harsh? Let me 'splain. Here in Denver we have designated bike routes, like most cities with over 50,000 people- and some of those bike routes go along regular ol' city streets what aren't the busiest streets or main arteries, but also aren't dinky little residential side streets. In those streets, width permitting, are painted lines which designate actual bike lanes,complete with arrow markers pointing the direction bike traffic should go (along with the flow of other traffic, duh) and a symbol inside of that arrow depicting a unisex, helmeted cyclist. Should I repeat that? The symbol depicts a CYCLIST only, not a jogger, or a walker, and not, most importantly, a trio of trophy wives walking 3 abreast, with at least 2 strollers and 2 dogs on leash between them. No. It's a cyclist.
The route I take to work follows a designated bike route with one segment of it containing the precious bike lanes. It's a beautiful ride, for the city, the whole length, but this segment with the actual bike lanes is really somethin' else. A wide parkway, with a gorgeous, shady green median separating the lanes of traffic going in opposite directions. Enough space on each side for one lane of car traffic, the bike lane, and then a parking lane that abuts the curb. On the other side of those curbs, as you might guess, are these things called sidewalks. They are broad and commodious compared to the skinny, aborted things in my neighborhood. There is probably enough room on them for two portly people to walk side by side, with a dog, or for two people to pass each other, single file. If I lived over there, I would walk down the footpath on the grassy median, but I'm just that kinda Nature Gal. I much prefer dirt and grass under my feet than pavement. Plus, it's probably the safest place to be, and I'm also a paranoid safety freak. I will bike or walk MILES out of the way just to take the safest route. Especially if my bambina is with me.
**Which brings me to another point- yes, I am also a mom. Yes, we own a jogging stroller (which we will be selling, since we just got a bike trailer/stroller- woohoo!). Yes, we frequently put b. girl in said stroller and walk around the neighborhood, to the park, the store, etc. But there is NO WAY IN HELL I would take that thing, with her in it, in the middle of the f'in street when other, safer options were available. My neighborhood has those aforementioned skinny sidewalks though, so frequently we do have to walk in the street. But I never walk in the MIDDLE of the street, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't expect people to get the hell out of MY way because I'm entitled to be there, as a pedestrian or whatever (even though technically, pedestrian rights are supreme in such cases.) The area with the bike lane is different. Here comes the judgmental bitch part, hold to your armrests- what kind of shitty parent are you if you put your own spoiled-ass convenience and entitlements ahead of your CHILD's safety??? Huh? Is it really that much of a BOTHER to negotiate curbs and the occasional untrimmed hedge? Or god forbid, get some actual dirt on your $150 tennies? Maybe next time I'm out there, instead of flipping them off, I'll call Social Services. Right after I call Traffic Right-of-Way enforcement.
Do me a favor and read those paragraphs again. My point is that most of 7th Avenue has plenty of room, and plenty of pleasant options, for the average pedestrian, without ever stepping foot in the bike lane. And yet.
Also, as you might guess, the people lucky enough to live along or near this gorgeous street are uh... shall we say.. rich. I'm not gonna say wealthy, because that dresses up a condition that doesn't need to be. They're rich. If you asked them, they might say "well-to-do," or you might even get a "yes, we've been very blessed" from the Catholics, but most of them are heavily invested in the notion, or false premise that 1) they earned what they have through some combination of hard work, brains and talent, and 2)they deserve it, they're entitled, so shut up, all you poor-ass whiny minorities and half-breed peasants that actually have to work for a living- obviously you're just not SMART enough to be rich and live in this gorgeous neighborhood.
That's the sense I get, anyway, when I'm trying to get to this thing called a job I have, Monday thru Friday, 8-5, after dropping off my wee one at daycare. Now, this may be a big ol' wild-ass guess on my part, but the women with their $700 baby strollers and designer doggies walking in the bike lane 3 across, DO NOT, by contrast, have anywhere they really need to be at 8am. Which is why I feel pretty damn free to honk my bike horn, and failing to dislodge them with that, yell. I try not to be rude. I just try to be very clear, so they can hear me, and understand what I'm saying. "GET...OUT...OF...THE...BIKE...LANE" is usually what I say, and start to say it when I'm least 50 feet behind them, so they have time to comply. But do they comply? Hardly ever. I'm usually met with over-entitled attitude in response. Yes, these people, though clearly in the wrong, try to argue with me. That's when I flip them off.
You might think this is a little thing to get all worked up about, in the grand scheme of things- big deal? Why not just go around them? Who died and made me the Bike Police, as well as the Entitlement Police? I certainly don't want to be like the over-entitled jackass that Peeps pedaled past this morning, who was tail-gating another cyclist on the multi-use bike path, and then had a frickin' cow when the cyclist he was tailgating slowed down for a homeless man with a huge shopping cart. According to Peeps, Jack-ety hollered, "oh my GAWD! I can't believe this!" as if the ignominy of applying his brakes for a hazard completed his "trifecta of human atrocities- First there was slavery, then the horrors of WWII, and now THIS!" I have to quote Peeps and give him full props because that is just too frickin hilarious.
So back to me- if you've read any of my past blogs, you'll know that over-entitled assholes of any stripe tick me off to no end. And I firmly believe that if you don't confront these "little things" you encounter in your daily life, and right the wrongs that you see, no matter how tiny they are, nothing will ever change. The power structure will remain as it is, with rich, white males at the top and everyone else in the world crushed under their immense bulk- except when it collapses (soon), everyone, and I mean everyone, will be utterly destroyed along with them. There's a way to dismantle the current patriarchy and inherently corrupt power structure without killing everyone and destroying the planet- but it takes a mountain's worth of these little things to incrementally add up and turn the tide. You have to do it. I have to do it. No one else will do it. Especially people who don't even realize what assholes they are, who were brought up to believe that if you're rich, and white, you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want. You think they're just going to wake up one day and wail, "oh my goodness gracious, I've been SO wrong, for SO long!" ???
Nah. I'm still not advocating violence, so put your guns away you buncha trigger-happy rednecks. But verbal bitch-smacking is an art, a type of martial art, and like any artform, it takes practice. And now you might be thinking, "well Queenie, don't WE feel a wee bit over-entitled to our self-righteous anger, hmm?"
Well yup, I'm aware of that. As a woman who LOOKS white, I have all the privileges and entitlements that most white women in America do. It matters not one flea foot to passersby that I'm 1/16th Mohawk, 1/8th Basque (does that qualify as Latina?), and come from an abusive family where I was treated like a 2nd class citizen and raised to believe that I was a complete piece of shit. People can't SEE that when I bike past them, flipping them off. To them I look like just another angry-about-nothin', over-entitled white woman. Even though I grew up feeling more like a minority, and all my friends tended to be either minorities or social outcasts of some kind (please don't be offended, friends:) e.g. the overweight kids, the poor kids, the kids who were plenty smart but had learning disabilities or wacky senses of humour that no one else got... I also realize at the same time, that I have no earthly idea what it's like to walk around on earth as a black woman, or even a Latina, or a full-blooded Ind'n, with people making all sorts of assumptions and judgments about you (mostly negative) based on unreliable visual cues.
{Perhaps I should do a whole CTJ on that fact, entitled: um, hello, we are visual animals, and prejudice is largely based on visual cues, rather than the whole reality of a person. Think back to high school. Ok, that's for another time.}
So there's always been quite a bit of cognitive dissonance in my life, but for other people, there's also visual dissonance. E.g. "you don't LOOK like you've had a hard life... therefore I'm going to assume that everything has come easily for you, and feel justified in being nasty to you." Same goes for me. Maybe these yuppie women have husbands who beat them, or are such complete assholes that they only respite they get from their posh misery is walking down the bikelane with their girlfriends once a day and acting like they have real power in their lives for oh, about an hour. But I doubt it.
I'll own up to the partial source of my righteous indignation being plain old, garden variety jealousy. More accurately, envy. Because I would cut off my left breast for the chance to stay home with my kiddo, go for strolls with the girls, and have my biggest worry be what to plant in the flower garden this year. That's probably what they say to themselves too, watching my figure recede in the distant foreground- middle finger silouetted against the morning sky- "She's just jealous." Yep.
For all I know they are nice people despite their arrogant stupidity and bad parenting, and under different circumstances we would get along swimmingly.
But I doubt it.
However I'm going to try to keep an open heart, an open mind, and yes, an open hand, all the better to deliver bitch -smacks with.
The bike shop we go to most frequently because MacMookie does massage-trade with the owner (the place is called "Cycle-Analyst" and Macmookie is in training to be a licensed psychoanalyst.. can ya beat that?) has the most awesome selection of bike horns and bells you ever did see. Squishy horns shaped like dinosaur heads or dog butts, tinkly asian-style bells that practically whisper, zen-like, "let me pass beside you on your left, grasshopper," classic ringa-ringa-ringa bicycle bells what look like they're straight out of the 1923 Sears & Roebuck's catalog, and airhorns. Lately, I'm leaning towards the airhorn, even though I've had my eye on this cute little number with a picture of a bear on it for a mere $4.50... but really what I need? Lately? Is a horn that blares out, "Get OUT OF THE BIKE LANE, YOU OVER-ENTITLED YUPPIE BITCHES." Seriously. That sound harsh? Let me 'splain. Here in Denver we have designated bike routes, like most cities with over 50,000 people- and some of those bike routes go along regular ol' city streets what aren't the busiest streets or main arteries, but also aren't dinky little residential side streets. In those streets, width permitting, are painted lines which designate actual bike lanes,complete with arrow markers pointing the direction bike traffic should go (along with the flow of other traffic, duh) and a symbol inside of that arrow depicting a unisex, helmeted cyclist. Should I repeat that? The symbol depicts a CYCLIST only, not a jogger, or a walker, and not, most importantly, a trio of trophy wives walking 3 abreast, with at least 2 strollers and 2 dogs on leash between them. No. It's a cyclist.
The route I take to work follows a designated bike route with one segment of it containing the precious bike lanes. It's a beautiful ride, for the city, the whole length, but this segment with the actual bike lanes is really somethin' else. A wide parkway, with a gorgeous, shady green median separating the lanes of traffic going in opposite directions. Enough space on each side for one lane of car traffic, the bike lane, and then a parking lane that abuts the curb. On the other side of those curbs, as you might guess, are these things called sidewalks. They are broad and commodious compared to the skinny, aborted things in my neighborhood. There is probably enough room on them for two portly people to walk side by side, with a dog, or for two people to pass each other, single file. If I lived over there, I would walk down the footpath on the grassy median, but I'm just that kinda Nature Gal. I much prefer dirt and grass under my feet than pavement. Plus, it's probably the safest place to be, and I'm also a paranoid safety freak. I will bike or walk MILES out of the way just to take the safest route. Especially if my bambina is with me.
**Which brings me to another point- yes, I am also a mom. Yes, we own a jogging stroller (which we will be selling, since we just got a bike trailer/stroller- woohoo!). Yes, we frequently put b. girl in said stroller and walk around the neighborhood, to the park, the store, etc. But there is NO WAY IN HELL I would take that thing, with her in it, in the middle of the f'in street when other, safer options were available. My neighborhood has those aforementioned skinny sidewalks though, so frequently we do have to walk in the street. But I never walk in the MIDDLE of the street, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't expect people to get the hell out of MY way because I'm entitled to be there, as a pedestrian or whatever (even though technically, pedestrian rights are supreme in such cases.) The area with the bike lane is different. Here comes the judgmental bitch part, hold to your armrests- what kind of shitty parent are you if you put your own spoiled-ass convenience and entitlements ahead of your CHILD's safety??? Huh? Is it really that much of a BOTHER to negotiate curbs and the occasional untrimmed hedge? Or god forbid, get some actual dirt on your $150 tennies? Maybe next time I'm out there, instead of flipping them off, I'll call Social Services. Right after I call Traffic Right-of-Way enforcement.
Do me a favor and read those paragraphs again. My point is that most of 7th Avenue has plenty of room, and plenty of pleasant options, for the average pedestrian, without ever stepping foot in the bike lane. And yet.
Also, as you might guess, the people lucky enough to live along or near this gorgeous street are uh... shall we say.. rich. I'm not gonna say wealthy, because that dresses up a condition that doesn't need to be. They're rich. If you asked them, they might say "well-to-do," or you might even get a "yes, we've been very blessed" from the Catholics, but most of them are heavily invested in the notion, or false premise that 1) they earned what they have through some combination of hard work, brains and talent, and 2)they deserve it, they're entitled, so shut up, all you poor-ass whiny minorities and half-breed peasants that actually have to work for a living- obviously you're just not SMART enough to be rich and live in this gorgeous neighborhood.
That's the sense I get, anyway, when I'm trying to get to this thing called a job I have, Monday thru Friday, 8-5, after dropping off my wee one at daycare. Now, this may be a big ol' wild-ass guess on my part, but the women with their $700 baby strollers and designer doggies walking in the bike lane 3 across, DO NOT, by contrast, have anywhere they really need to be at 8am. Which is why I feel pretty damn free to honk my bike horn, and failing to dislodge them with that, yell. I try not to be rude. I just try to be very clear, so they can hear me, and understand what I'm saying. "GET...OUT...OF...THE...BIKE...LANE" is usually what I say, and start to say it when I'm least 50 feet behind them, so they have time to comply. But do they comply? Hardly ever. I'm usually met with over-entitled attitude in response. Yes, these people, though clearly in the wrong, try to argue with me. That's when I flip them off.
You might think this is a little thing to get all worked up about, in the grand scheme of things- big deal? Why not just go around them? Who died and made me the Bike Police, as well as the Entitlement Police? I certainly don't want to be like the over-entitled jackass that Peeps pedaled past this morning, who was tail-gating another cyclist on the multi-use bike path, and then had a frickin' cow when the cyclist he was tailgating slowed down for a homeless man with a huge shopping cart. According to Peeps, Jack-ety hollered, "oh my GAWD! I can't believe this!" as if the ignominy of applying his brakes for a hazard completed his "trifecta of human atrocities- First there was slavery, then the horrors of WWII, and now THIS!" I have to quote Peeps and give him full props because that is just too frickin hilarious.
So back to me- if you've read any of my past blogs, you'll know that over-entitled assholes of any stripe tick me off to no end. And I firmly believe that if you don't confront these "little things" you encounter in your daily life, and right the wrongs that you see, no matter how tiny they are, nothing will ever change. The power structure will remain as it is, with rich, white males at the top and everyone else in the world crushed under their immense bulk- except when it collapses (soon), everyone, and I mean everyone, will be utterly destroyed along with them. There's a way to dismantle the current patriarchy and inherently corrupt power structure without killing everyone and destroying the planet- but it takes a mountain's worth of these little things to incrementally add up and turn the tide. You have to do it. I have to do it. No one else will do it. Especially people who don't even realize what assholes they are, who were brought up to believe that if you're rich, and white, you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want. You think they're just going to wake up one day and wail, "oh my goodness gracious, I've been SO wrong, for SO long!" ???
Nah. I'm still not advocating violence, so put your guns away you buncha trigger-happy rednecks. But verbal bitch-smacking is an art, a type of martial art, and like any artform, it takes practice. And now you might be thinking, "well Queenie, don't WE feel a wee bit over-entitled to our self-righteous anger, hmm?"
Well yup, I'm aware of that. As a woman who LOOKS white, I have all the privileges and entitlements that most white women in America do. It matters not one flea foot to passersby that I'm 1/16th Mohawk, 1/8th Basque (does that qualify as Latina?), and come from an abusive family where I was treated like a 2nd class citizen and raised to believe that I was a complete piece of shit. People can't SEE that when I bike past them, flipping them off. To them I look like just another angry-about-nothin', over-entitled white woman. Even though I grew up feeling more like a minority, and all my friends tended to be either minorities or social outcasts of some kind (please don't be offended, friends:) e.g. the overweight kids, the poor kids, the kids who were plenty smart but had learning disabilities or wacky senses of humour that no one else got... I also realize at the same time, that I have no earthly idea what it's like to walk around on earth as a black woman, or even a Latina, or a full-blooded Ind'n, with people making all sorts of assumptions and judgments about you (mostly negative) based on unreliable visual cues.
{Perhaps I should do a whole CTJ on that fact, entitled: um, hello, we are visual animals, and prejudice is largely based on visual cues, rather than the whole reality of a person. Think back to high school. Ok, that's for another time.}
So there's always been quite a bit of cognitive dissonance in my life, but for other people, there's also visual dissonance. E.g. "you don't LOOK like you've had a hard life... therefore I'm going to assume that everything has come easily for you, and feel justified in being nasty to you." Same goes for me. Maybe these yuppie women have husbands who beat them, or are such complete assholes that they only respite they get from their posh misery is walking down the bikelane with their girlfriends once a day and acting like they have real power in their lives for oh, about an hour. But I doubt it.
I'll own up to the partial source of my righteous indignation being plain old, garden variety jealousy. More accurately, envy. Because I would cut off my left breast for the chance to stay home with my kiddo, go for strolls with the girls, and have my biggest worry be what to plant in the flower garden this year. That's probably what they say to themselves too, watching my figure recede in the distant foreground- middle finger silouetted against the morning sky- "She's just jealous." Yep.
For all I know they are nice people despite their arrogant stupidity and bad parenting, and under different circumstances we would get along swimmingly.
But I doubt it.
However I'm going to try to keep an open heart, an open mind, and yes, an open hand, all the better to deliver bitch -smacks with.
Monday, June 23, 2008
The New and Improved Manifesto, with 50% More Swear Words!
The new manifesto:
Perhaps you've heard this before, in one way or another: where your wound is, that's also where your blessings come from. It may be the font of much pain, whatever your wound is, but turned around, expressed creatively in poetry, art, music, political essays... that's where your blessings will also come from. If you ignore your wound however, if you get too much attention for it that nurtures the pain and encourages festering rather than healthy expression- it will kill you. Not can, will. Put simply, another way- If I don’t write, and soon, my head will explode. Or, as I am more worried about, my heart. Now, I look forward to it all day actually, being able to sit down, alone, in this cool poorly lit rented basement, and write.
That never happened before.
Proof of the wounds killing powers: When I don’t write, all the rage and even cleverness inside me turns to bile and pus and hot blood that boils up and up- so when I DO write, it’s like popping that boil- not pretty.
On the bright side, For once I’m glad that one of my cock-and-bull rationalization theories came true, that having a kid would actually make something “click” as Bruce says, and the bullshit wars inside me would come to end, and I would stop procrastinating, and write.
Not a healthy pattern though. I did the “Artist’s Way” exercises ten years ago- I still remember them. Write every day, no matter what. Don’t think, just write.
This is how to unblock yourself. But what with moving, not being able to find my journals, working full-time, trying to make time with the kiddo quality, etc. etc. Yep, I got lost in all that. Getting lost is dangerous like this- it puts my marriage in trouble, actually, when I don’t take time for me. Hell, it puts ME in trouble- the depression threatens to come back, in a hurry.
To be totally up front, I have to tell you - this is rage management for me. This is not a mommy blog. Not even "anger" management-no, rage. Apparently a lot of us Adult-Children-of-Abusive-Parents-Who-Still-Totally-Suck have this phenomena, and many of us can't afford therapy, so we do other things.
If anyone has a problem with that, well, I don’t really give a shit so, quit reading I guess. I had a poetry teacher in college throw up his hands, sneer and snivel in disgust in the middle of a student’s reading of her poem, about how she’d been incested by her father, gotten pregnant as a result at age 13, gave birth to the baby on the bathroom floor, watched as her father immediately killed the baby, and buried it in the backyard- and the old professor’s reaction to her telling this story for the first time was “Jeeeeezus Christ! This is not your goddamned therapy session! Can we all STOP using poetry as an outlet for all this psychodrama!“ All of us were too shocked at his grotesque reaction to say anything at the time, but let me tell you, I’m beyond all that “Shock and Awe” we’re all supposed to be experiencing in the face of the crumbling patriarchy’s ugliness and hate (which we all know now is mere bluff and bluster, right?) and I’m still not above verbally emasculating or bitch-slapping stupid, insensitive people, in public.
So here I am, finally writing. I probably need to scribble in my journal as well, for there are some things which aren’t ready for prime time yet. See, I just want a manifesto that will allow me to post writings, essays, etc. without self-censoring too much. Without stifling my creativity before it even starts. Because this bottling up of everything, it is making me sick, and old, and tired, methinks. Either that, or I have a thyroid problem. (*I don't, darnit) See, I wrote that first manifesto because I didn’t want to turn into the leftist version of those right-wing hatemongering pieces of shit*******, who encourage readers to do their worst and pretty soon it’s just a big ol’ pissing contest . There’s so much hate out there, you hardly need to encourage it. Also I wanted it to be a safe place, where people could feel like they could post a comment or opinion without getting skewered by some numb nut in return.
But mostly I did it because the font of my wound turns me into a human volcano sometimes, and threatens to destroy me. To prevent that- even if just for the selfish reason of, if my rage overwhelms me, I’ll never get to do what I want to do, be who I want to be- gotta write. No way around it.
Put very simply, I will speak my mind. At the same time I realize there's a fine line to be walked between speaking my mind, and turning into a blowhard. My saving grace may be my total inability to tell lies very well. This blog aims to "walk the line" though, in defense of everything I love and hold dear, which ain't much. Thank you Johnny Cash, for giving us all permission to flip the double bird at the man, and to do it in an extremely public, extremely visible medium. I also aim to do it using lots of sarcasm, irony, and humour. Apparently this is a hallmark of Generation X, my generation, which of course I didn't really want to be a part of for a long time, because we don't like being a part of anything. At the ripe old age of 37 I've come to realize, I'm so Gen X I can't even see straight. Better to be self-aware than not aware at all, eh? :)
I’d like to encourage readers to do the same, (speak their minds) but still hold off on the ignorant hate parts. Or, if you do talk shit, you better be able to back it up. Same goes for me. I talked to my friend Betito, who was raised by mental health professionals ;) for 2 hours on Friday night, and as she put it with characteristic equanimity, “calling yourself a judgmental bitch is a bit harsh, but you are opinionated, and it’s good to realize these things so we can work on them.” Yes, as you may have realized, my friends are a helluva lot nicer than I am- who would put up with me but really nice people?
Issue Example: the health care crisis, widely varying viewpoints, one fueled by insurance companies and the corporatocracy in general, others by people who are just trying to make sense of their situation with some scrap of dignity left. As she also put it, so wisely, if you actually want people to change their minds, or just think a little bit, then telling Republicans who fear “socialized medicine” that they’re really just selfish greedhounds who want poor people to die is probably not the way to go about it.
See, there’s a balance to be struck.
If you don't get the humour of Al Franken's book, "Rush Limbaugh Is A Big Fat Idiot: On the Decline of Civil Discourse in Modern America," and don't see why the title is hilariously ironic, then you probably won't get the humour of me telling people to "mind their fockin' manners for pete's sake," or similar. So this probably isn't the blog for you. If you don't get a giggle or glimmer of new-found self-awareness when I tell anyone advocating violence done on their supposed behalf but not directly by them, or affecting them, that they need to be smacked upside the head, this blog isn't for you.
***** like that, perfect example, calling them yada yada p.o.s’s. I do realize I’m not going to get anywhere by calling them names like that, but at the same I do believe that most of those pig-fuckers have never had a single piece of truth spoken to their faces, and I believe in calling people out on their ignorance, ignorant hatefulness, ignorant lemming attitude, ignorant attitudes, period, especially if they are racist or sexist or rank-ist or anything-ist, and seem to think that’s “just fine.” I’m not even going to single a gender out, much less a group (that would be hypocritical of me (cough) {yuppie men}) because this is all a result of living in a society where the totally insane has been normalized for about, oh, 50 years now. Maybe 150, depending on where you go. But we’re definitely all livin’ in this stanky, tepid soup of insanity and actin’ like it’s totally fockin’ normal. Welp, maybe it’s just because I grew up in a household that was basically a microcosm of everything wrong in our society, where seriously insane bullshit was normalized, ignored, swept under the rug, etc, but I’ve come to believe it’s a healing thing, calling people out on their shit. If you say nothing, you are just helping perpetuate it.
There’s also a TON of people out there these days, fueled by the asinine corporate media or god knows what, who apparently had no mamas to teach them to mind their fockin’ manners, or were raised by a goddam pack of hyenas- I’m not sure which- but if you have the opportunity to teach them manners, I believe you should.
This comes at a good time, because I’m also finally writing that letter to my parents that I should have started about 5 years ago, sent or not, for my own purposes. And it occurred to me this morning that if I take the same old angry, “accusatory” (their words) tone with them, they’ll just throw it away like they do everything else that hints at the truth of their wasted, miserable lives, and it will do more harm than good.
I need to take a different tack, to reframe this story of mine for my mental health if not theirs, and that tack is minus a helluva lotta anger. At least at first.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my story, Sacred Stories, and the story of America- how we can all reframe those, given enough practice, given the right tools, and gift-ing ourselves the time to do so. Because it’s important. Barack Obama’s on to something when he tries to engage the whole country in writing that story, being a part of it. Don’t discount him as just the new “rockstar” or “green meets brown” marketing trend that a bunch of sycophants and groupies are clinging onto. You do that, you discount humanity. For all my rage at the machine and the things humanity does, I won’t let you do that. We are better than that. For all my bitterness and unexpressed grief, jeezus gawd, I have so much in love in me for us silly humans, for this country, for this beautiful planet that I’ve only begun to explore.
I’m not saying my anger will go away, but what I’m trying to do is hone it into a warrior’s skills rather than flailing self-destruction. I’ve been watching lots of warrior movies lately, like “300” and “Apocalypto” - I think for some mental practice. Should also dig out Braveheart and watch it with mi esposo again- he’s a Scotsman, he understands the whole part about ancestral anger. Here’s to the journey, the practice, and yes, the “smackening.”
More later-
Perhaps you've heard this before, in one way or another: where your wound is, that's also where your blessings come from. It may be the font of much pain, whatever your wound is, but turned around, expressed creatively in poetry, art, music, political essays... that's where your blessings will also come from. If you ignore your wound however, if you get too much attention for it that nurtures the pain and encourages festering rather than healthy expression- it will kill you. Not can, will. Put simply, another way- If I don’t write, and soon, my head will explode. Or, as I am more worried about, my heart. Now, I look forward to it all day actually, being able to sit down, alone, in this cool poorly lit rented basement, and write.
That never happened before.
Proof of the wounds killing powers: When I don’t write, all the rage and even cleverness inside me turns to bile and pus and hot blood that boils up and up- so when I DO write, it’s like popping that boil- not pretty.
On the bright side, For once I’m glad that one of my cock-and-bull rationalization theories came true, that having a kid would actually make something “click” as Bruce says, and the bullshit wars inside me would come to end, and I would stop procrastinating, and write.
Not a healthy pattern though. I did the “Artist’s Way” exercises ten years ago- I still remember them. Write every day, no matter what. Don’t think, just write.
This is how to unblock yourself. But what with moving, not being able to find my journals, working full-time, trying to make time with the kiddo quality, etc. etc. Yep, I got lost in all that. Getting lost is dangerous like this- it puts my marriage in trouble, actually, when I don’t take time for me. Hell, it puts ME in trouble- the depression threatens to come back, in a hurry.
To be totally up front, I have to tell you - this is rage management for me. This is not a mommy blog. Not even "anger" management-no, rage. Apparently a lot of us Adult-Children-of-Abusive-Parents-Who-Still-Totally-Suck have this phenomena, and many of us can't afford therapy, so we do other things.
If anyone has a problem with that, well, I don’t really give a shit so, quit reading I guess. I had a poetry teacher in college throw up his hands, sneer and snivel in disgust in the middle of a student’s reading of her poem, about how she’d been incested by her father, gotten pregnant as a result at age 13, gave birth to the baby on the bathroom floor, watched as her father immediately killed the baby, and buried it in the backyard- and the old professor’s reaction to her telling this story for the first time was “Jeeeeezus Christ! This is not your goddamned therapy session! Can we all STOP using poetry as an outlet for all this psychodrama!“ All of us were too shocked at his grotesque reaction to say anything at the time, but let me tell you, I’m beyond all that “Shock and Awe” we’re all supposed to be experiencing in the face of the crumbling patriarchy’s ugliness and hate (which we all know now is mere bluff and bluster, right?) and I’m still not above verbally emasculating or bitch-slapping stupid, insensitive people, in public.
So here I am, finally writing. I probably need to scribble in my journal as well, for there are some things which aren’t ready for prime time yet. See, I just want a manifesto that will allow me to post writings, essays, etc. without self-censoring too much. Without stifling my creativity before it even starts. Because this bottling up of everything, it is making me sick, and old, and tired, methinks. Either that, or I have a thyroid problem. (*I don't, darnit) See, I wrote that first manifesto because I didn’t want to turn into the leftist version of those right-wing hatemongering pieces of shit*******, who encourage readers to do their worst and pretty soon it’s just a big ol’ pissing contest . There’s so much hate out there, you hardly need to encourage it. Also I wanted it to be a safe place, where people could feel like they could post a comment or opinion without getting skewered by some numb nut in return.
But mostly I did it because the font of my wound turns me into a human volcano sometimes, and threatens to destroy me. To prevent that- even if just for the selfish reason of, if my rage overwhelms me, I’ll never get to do what I want to do, be who I want to be- gotta write. No way around it.
Put very simply, I will speak my mind. At the same time I realize there's a fine line to be walked between speaking my mind, and turning into a blowhard. My saving grace may be my total inability to tell lies very well. This blog aims to "walk the line" though, in defense of everything I love and hold dear, which ain't much. Thank you Johnny Cash, for giving us all permission to flip the double bird at the man, and to do it in an extremely public, extremely visible medium. I also aim to do it using lots of sarcasm, irony, and humour. Apparently this is a hallmark of Generation X, my generation, which of course I didn't really want to be a part of for a long time, because we don't like being a part of anything. At the ripe old age of 37 I've come to realize, I'm so Gen X I can't even see straight. Better to be self-aware than not aware at all, eh? :)
I’d like to encourage readers to do the same, (speak their minds) but still hold off on the ignorant hate parts. Or, if you do talk shit, you better be able to back it up. Same goes for me. I talked to my friend Betito, who was raised by mental health professionals ;) for 2 hours on Friday night, and as she put it with characteristic equanimity, “calling yourself a judgmental bitch is a bit harsh, but you are opinionated, and it’s good to realize these things so we can work on them.” Yes, as you may have realized, my friends are a helluva lot nicer than I am- who would put up with me but really nice people?
Issue Example: the health care crisis, widely varying viewpoints, one fueled by insurance companies and the corporatocracy in general, others by people who are just trying to make sense of their situation with some scrap of dignity left. As she also put it, so wisely, if you actually want people to change their minds, or just think a little bit, then telling Republicans who fear “socialized medicine” that they’re really just selfish greedhounds who want poor people to die is probably not the way to go about it.
See, there’s a balance to be struck.
If you don't get the humour of Al Franken's book, "Rush Limbaugh Is A Big Fat Idiot: On the Decline of Civil Discourse in Modern America," and don't see why the title is hilariously ironic, then you probably won't get the humour of me telling people to "mind their fockin' manners for pete's sake," or similar. So this probably isn't the blog for you. If you don't get a giggle or glimmer of new-found self-awareness when I tell anyone advocating violence done on their supposed behalf but not directly by them, or affecting them, that they need to be smacked upside the head, this blog isn't for you.
***** like that, perfect example, calling them yada yada p.o.s’s. I do realize I’m not going to get anywhere by calling them names like that, but at the same I do believe that most of those pig-fuckers have never had a single piece of truth spoken to their faces, and I believe in calling people out on their ignorance, ignorant hatefulness, ignorant lemming attitude, ignorant attitudes, period, especially if they are racist or sexist or rank-ist or anything-ist, and seem to think that’s “just fine.” I’m not even going to single a gender out, much less a group (that would be hypocritical of me (cough) {yuppie men}) because this is all a result of living in a society where the totally insane has been normalized for about, oh, 50 years now. Maybe 150, depending on where you go. But we’re definitely all livin’ in this stanky, tepid soup of insanity and actin’ like it’s totally fockin’ normal. Welp, maybe it’s just because I grew up in a household that was basically a microcosm of everything wrong in our society, where seriously insane bullshit was normalized, ignored, swept under the rug, etc, but I’ve come to believe it’s a healing thing, calling people out on their shit. If you say nothing, you are just helping perpetuate it.
There’s also a TON of people out there these days, fueled by the asinine corporate media or god knows what, who apparently had no mamas to teach them to mind their fockin’ manners, or were raised by a goddam pack of hyenas- I’m not sure which- but if you have the opportunity to teach them manners, I believe you should.
This comes at a good time, because I’m also finally writing that letter to my parents that I should have started about 5 years ago, sent or not, for my own purposes. And it occurred to me this morning that if I take the same old angry, “accusatory” (their words) tone with them, they’ll just throw it away like they do everything else that hints at the truth of their wasted, miserable lives, and it will do more harm than good.
I need to take a different tack, to reframe this story of mine for my mental health if not theirs, and that tack is minus a helluva lotta anger. At least at first.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my story, Sacred Stories, and the story of America- how we can all reframe those, given enough practice, given the right tools, and gift-ing ourselves the time to do so. Because it’s important. Barack Obama’s on to something when he tries to engage the whole country in writing that story, being a part of it. Don’t discount him as just the new “rockstar” or “green meets brown” marketing trend that a bunch of sycophants and groupies are clinging onto. You do that, you discount humanity. For all my rage at the machine and the things humanity does, I won’t let you do that. We are better than that. For all my bitterness and unexpressed grief, jeezus gawd, I have so much in love in me for us silly humans, for this country, for this beautiful planet that I’ve only begun to explore.
I’m not saying my anger will go away, but what I’m trying to do is hone it into a warrior’s skills rather than flailing self-destruction. I’ve been watching lots of warrior movies lately, like “300” and “Apocalypto” - I think for some mental practice. Should also dig out Braveheart and watch it with mi esposo again- he’s a Scotsman, he understands the whole part about ancestral anger. Here’s to the journey, the practice, and yes, the “smackening.”
More later-
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
10 REASONS MY BABY IS CUTER THAN YOURS
The whole "tagged" thing got me thinking, I really could brag on my baby way more than myself. And it's somewhat acceptable in American culture to brag about your children, so here goes;
1. She's nearly 2 and 1/2, but still gets the syllables in two-syllable words mixed up. My favorite is "chicken" for "kitchen." Now we've taken to calling the kitchen, the chicken. For some reason I don't have a problem with this adult infantalizing of our language, when I do indeed have problems with parents who talk to their kids constantly in baby-jabber e.g. "Does Emma-wee want to weah her wed waincoat today? Does she? Oh, mommy wuvs dat waincoat!" And then are surprised when, in preschool, their kids are diagnosed with speech impediments and need hours of expensive therapy to correct a problem that they have created. JUST SPEAK LIKE FRIGGIN' ADULTS PEOPLE! PLEASE! gads.
Actually the aforementioned problem makes me laugh my ass off because it usually happens to over-indulgent yuppie parents, and they get what they deserve. :)
As long as 'ella pronounces both "chicken" and "kitchen" correctly, we're fine.
2. Speaking of cute language things, she also came up with saying "Weeeee" in place what I think should be "very" or "way". We have also taken to using this, adverb, shall we say, in our own speech, especially around her. Example: 'ella and Daddy Bruce have a nighttime ritual, which helps her go night-night, where they walk around the house and turn all the lights off, and say "night-night kitchen/chicken" "night-night bathroom" etc. Once, she realized her sippy cup was still in the kitchen after they'd turned off the lights, so she ran to get it and immediately exclaimed, "ooo, it weee dark in the chicken!!" Still cracks me up. We imagine it is very dark, indeed, inside the chicken.
3. Have I mentioned 'ella goes to a Jewish temple preschool? Well, she does. We're not Jews, but one of my grandmothers was and we like the educational /enrichment aspects of it, plus the warm fuzzy care they give and the added bonus of having around 20 surrogate Jewish mothers, blah blah blah. Right now they're on Passover Break. Before Passover break, as you might imagine, they were gearing up with all sorts of songs, art projects featuring Baby Moses, etc. A couple mornings before vacation, she woke up and spontaneously told her father, "Let my people Go!" We think she wanted out of her crib. Again, we are still laughing about this.
4. As another sign of her brilliance, she already has imaginary friends. They are fairie-sized, near as we can tell, they like to hang out near lamps, and they are named Coco, Bobo, and Plunk-o, near as we can tell. She catches "Coco" in her hands like a firefly, gives him a smooch and sends him off to school. (this happens a lot at bedtime- so apparently her fairie-friends live in a different space-time-zone).
5. She tries to kiss our devil-cat Hazel on the butt, even though we've repeatedly advised against that.
6. The actual cuteness- well, I'm extremely paranoid about pedophiles and stalkers, for reasons I may elaborate on later, so I refuse to post photos of her- but suffice it to say, she's cuter than a bug's ear. She is just starting to get hair, so she still looks somewhat baby-like, and the hair she is getting in? That's right, it's a mullet.
7. Maybe it's because she's 2, but she wants everything in twos now. This is either really cute, or it drives me crazy. She has to have TWO sippies, not just one. One with juice, one with milk. Or both with milk. She doesn't care that it's the same substance in different bottles - she wants TWO. She's our two-fisted wonder.
8. She's also a dancing fool, and has been ever since she could move. Maybe I'm just a doting parent, but ever since she was TINY she's been able to pick out music from the general noise-stream going on around her- and soon as she hears it, she would either go stock-still, or start bopping around like she was on SoulTrain. One day she came home from daycare, heard some jingle music on the TV, and said "shake your booty mommy!" and stuck her butt out and started shakin' it. I did not teach her this. It's clearly natural talent.
9. This goes under the more disturbing traits- a little background- I haven't spoken to my parents in 8 years because they were abusive (unprintable). She has never met them and never will. My dad was a heavy-equipment broker and had "yellow-iron fever" as my mom put it. In short, Ella LOVES heavy equipment. Bulldozers, backhoes, D-10s, hot asphalt plants, huge earthmovers, whatever. To her, they all go by the beloved name, "Truck!" While I encourage the tomboy-ness of this, I know that God is laughing at me.
10. She puts pajamas on her stuffed Sneetch and calls him/her "Nietzsche!" At least that's what it sounds like. nuff said!
1. She's nearly 2 and 1/2, but still gets the syllables in two-syllable words mixed up. My favorite is "chicken" for "kitchen." Now we've taken to calling the kitchen, the chicken. For some reason I don't have a problem with this adult infantalizing of our language, when I do indeed have problems with parents who talk to their kids constantly in baby-jabber e.g. "Does Emma-wee want to weah her wed waincoat today? Does she? Oh, mommy wuvs dat waincoat!" And then are surprised when, in preschool, their kids are diagnosed with speech impediments and need hours of expensive therapy to correct a problem that they have created. JUST SPEAK LIKE FRIGGIN' ADULTS PEOPLE! PLEASE! gads.
Actually the aforementioned problem makes me laugh my ass off because it usually happens to over-indulgent yuppie parents, and they get what they deserve. :)
As long as 'ella pronounces both "chicken" and "kitchen" correctly, we're fine.
2. Speaking of cute language things, she also came up with saying "Weeeee" in place what I think should be "very" or "way". We have also taken to using this, adverb, shall we say, in our own speech, especially around her. Example: 'ella and Daddy Bruce have a nighttime ritual, which helps her go night-night, where they walk around the house and turn all the lights off, and say "night-night kitchen/chicken" "night-night bathroom" etc. Once, she realized her sippy cup was still in the kitchen after they'd turned off the lights, so she ran to get it and immediately exclaimed, "ooo, it weee dark in the chicken!!" Still cracks me up. We imagine it is very dark, indeed, inside the chicken.
3. Have I mentioned 'ella goes to a Jewish temple preschool? Well, she does. We're not Jews, but one of my grandmothers was and we like the educational /enrichment aspects of it, plus the warm fuzzy care they give and the added bonus of having around 20 surrogate Jewish mothers, blah blah blah. Right now they're on Passover Break. Before Passover break, as you might imagine, they were gearing up with all sorts of songs, art projects featuring Baby Moses, etc. A couple mornings before vacation, she woke up and spontaneously told her father, "Let my people Go!" We think she wanted out of her crib. Again, we are still laughing about this.
4. As another sign of her brilliance, she already has imaginary friends. They are fairie-sized, near as we can tell, they like to hang out near lamps, and they are named Coco, Bobo, and Plunk-o, near as we can tell. She catches "Coco" in her hands like a firefly, gives him a smooch and sends him off to school. (this happens a lot at bedtime- so apparently her fairie-friends live in a different space-time-zone).
5. She tries to kiss our devil-cat Hazel on the butt, even though we've repeatedly advised against that.
6. The actual cuteness- well, I'm extremely paranoid about pedophiles and stalkers, for reasons I may elaborate on later, so I refuse to post photos of her- but suffice it to say, she's cuter than a bug's ear. She is just starting to get hair, so she still looks somewhat baby-like, and the hair she is getting in? That's right, it's a mullet.
7. Maybe it's because she's 2, but she wants everything in twos now. This is either really cute, or it drives me crazy. She has to have TWO sippies, not just one. One with juice, one with milk. Or both with milk. She doesn't care that it's the same substance in different bottles - she wants TWO. She's our two-fisted wonder.
8. She's also a dancing fool, and has been ever since she could move. Maybe I'm just a doting parent, but ever since she was TINY she's been able to pick out music from the general noise-stream going on around her- and soon as she hears it, she would either go stock-still, or start bopping around like she was on SoulTrain. One day she came home from daycare, heard some jingle music on the TV, and said "shake your booty mommy!" and stuck her butt out and started shakin' it. I did not teach her this. It's clearly natural talent.
9. This goes under the more disturbing traits- a little background- I haven't spoken to my parents in 8 years because they were abusive (unprintable). She has never met them and never will. My dad was a heavy-equipment broker and had "yellow-iron fever" as my mom put it. In short, Ella LOVES heavy equipment. Bulldozers, backhoes, D-10s, hot asphalt plants, huge earthmovers, whatever. To her, they all go by the beloved name, "Truck!" While I encourage the tomboy-ness of this, I know that God is laughing at me.
10. She puts pajamas on her stuffed Sneetch and calls him/her "Nietzsche!" At least that's what it sounds like. nuff said!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
SYSTEM OF A SMACKDOWN
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MYSPACE, AUGUST 2007:
There's a sign on the hostess stand of one of my favorite breakfast restaurants in Denver, where they do an extremely popular "Petticoat Bruncheon" on weekends, (wherein all the waiters are dressed in drag- yes, it's hysterical, especially when you're hungover or just plain tired and in need of some strong coffee and belly laughs) that reads, in happy, hand-lettered Crayola prose, "Don't Seat Yourself or You Might Get Bitch-Slapped by Some Drag Queen."
After a few months of careful thought, teeth gnashing, stewing and brewing, I've decided I need a similar sign. This blog post right here will be that sign. Now, I'm no drag queen (que lastima), but I can deliver a bitch-slap to the legions of the over-entitled who routinely tromp over posted boundaries, like nobody's bidness. If that makes me a self-righteous bitch, so be it. Sue me. Whatevah, at this ripe old age of 37, I seriously don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me personally. Plus, and this is the crucial point, I do feel entitled to my righteous anger because as one of my heroines Margaret Cho put it, I've been through it, whereas the person who pissed me off royally most recently HAS NOT. At least, not that I'm aware of- but I think if he had, he wouldn't be writing the sexist bullshit that he is.
And what is that, you may well arsk? OY VEY. At the risk of generating more buzz or god forbid, "fame" for this clown, I'll tell you quickly. It's this guy I went to high school with, in the class one year ahead of me, given name: Nate Warren. However, his nome de blog is (gag) Colonel Hector Bravado, and he spews every so often for this rather amusing website based here in Denver called Elitist Hipster Snob. (Oh yes, they drip with irony. Most of the time they are mildly entertaining without being outright offensive, but apparently they are self-edited or rather their editing policy is somewhere along the lines of "oh, you wanna write for us? Can you spell? Cool.") In high school he wrote roughly the same quality of crapola, but he had shades of brilliance occasionally, if he would just give up on the "angry white male" thing which we all fully expected he would grow out of in due time….. but, alas. The blog in question is a 17-years too-late "album review" of sorts for a gangsta rap group that I had never heard of, but it matters little, cuz our friend the over-privileged white boy was basically celebrating the "message" of their music which was is in a nutshell, smack down the bitches, kill the bitches, your gun is an extension of your penis, your gang is only family you need, etc. etc. woohoo! Drink some brews and you better(direct quote here) "hide your little sisters from me after I listen to this album, or they'll wake up with a lil' Colonel in they bellies, and the rest of me dried up on they faces."
As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.
Now, you may say I'm overreacting and by doing so, giving him too much power. But the only woman I know who would put up with dried cum on her face is either dead, or a totally whacked out crack whore. AND, may I remind everyone that the writer of this tripe is white, male, and grew up in the suburbs. Yes, he was raised by a single mom, but I KNEW his mom, and she was a little nutty, but a total feminist. Plus, most mens I know who was raised by the single mommies (including my husband) are MORE sensitive to woman's plight in this world, not LESS. I was actually looking for his mom when I found him- she was a noted columnist for the Denver Post for many years, Jill Jacobs Scott. You'd think she'd raise her kids up not to spew this hateful shite, que no? And aside from that, I don't think his dad was a deadbeat so… at any rate, didn't we all agree like 15 years ago that there's no excuse for this shit, not even among the so-called gangsta rappers who have supposedly "had it hard?" None! Nope, sorry, 'hijito, take your punk-ass little baby whining somewhere else. No, in fact, shut up altogether. No one needs to hear that shit, except the other crazy-ass voices in your head where an internal censor or critic should be. Don't even try off-loading your toxic waste that passes for writing in this day and age on some sorry-ass 3rd World Country- I can't think of a country sorry enough to accept it- not even illiterate rice farmers in Bangladesh. ESPECIALLY not them.
Now, if I were one of our mutual teachers from 20 years ago, who would no doubt be as profoundly disappointed in him as I am, I might just sigh, shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose while muttering, "Nate, nate, nate… we had such high hopes for you. Didn't you go to Colorado College? Didn't I write you a goddamned letter of recommendation????" Whereas, my immediate response to this drivel was admittedly knee-jerk. I ripped him a new asshole on his blog page, and bluntly asked him why he thinks that spewing sexist, misogynist bullshit is any better than the racist bullshit that was routinely spewed, oh a generation ago, by the likes of the KKK and most members of all-white country clubs.
E.g. Biff: "Hey Thad, I was thinking of organizing a little nigger hunt this weekend. You in?"
Thad: "Capital idea! I'll get the shotguns and the Vaseline!"
Sadly, our homeboy doesn't see the comparison as relevant at all- oh no, he thinks an ocean of impenetrable "cool" lies between him and the ugly, racist ravings of insecure white men half a century ago (or, now).
So, I've put off writing, reacting, or responding to this particular issue for almost 3 months now for several reasons (chief among them, I have a life/better shit to do) Now, instead of just a teething toddler gnawing on my breasts all night, I've got this damned subject gnawing at me. It won't go away by focusing on the positive. It doesn't go away even when I go to my happy place (fyi, it's Joann's Rancho Casados in Espanola, NM). It comes with. It orders the enchiladas and leers at me from across the room. Yes, in that most sacred of spaces, JOANN'S it dares to trespass!!
So here's my sign: IF YOU SPEW RACIST, SEXIST BULLSHIT ANYWHERE, ANYTIME, IN ANY FORM NEAR ME, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
IF YOU WILLFULLY AND ROUTINELY DENY YOUR PRIVILEGE AND ENTITLEMENTS WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY DRAPING YOURSELF IN THE "COOL" CACHET OF THE ARTFORMS OR LIFESTYLES OF THE UNDERPRIVILEGED, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
Other reasons for getting the smackdown will be posted here as I see fit.
What's the smackdown? Let's just say I'm skilled in the arts of verbal emasculation. And the other kind too. I grew up with older brothers, and lived to tell about it. Nuff said?
Think of it as a forced Come to Jesus. Jesus whips out the Smackdown. Jesus wins.
* oh, and in case you think I should be duly punished for "flaming" someone on the internets, I already have. My creepy, psychotic old prom date who was a good friend of Nate's in high school sent me a message because he saw my message on Nate's blog. Friggin great. This is the guy, speaking of rape, who very nearly forced me to have sex with him after the prom because, as he so charmingly put it, "It's expected." Niiiccce…….
There's a sign on the hostess stand of one of my favorite breakfast restaurants in Denver, where they do an extremely popular "Petticoat Bruncheon" on weekends, (wherein all the waiters are dressed in drag- yes, it's hysterical, especially when you're hungover or just plain tired and in need of some strong coffee and belly laughs) that reads, in happy, hand-lettered Crayola prose, "Don't Seat Yourself or You Might Get Bitch-Slapped by Some Drag Queen."
After a few months of careful thought, teeth gnashing, stewing and brewing, I've decided I need a similar sign. This blog post right here will be that sign. Now, I'm no drag queen (que lastima), but I can deliver a bitch-slap to the legions of the over-entitled who routinely tromp over posted boundaries, like nobody's bidness. If that makes me a self-righteous bitch, so be it. Sue me. Whatevah, at this ripe old age of 37, I seriously don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me personally. Plus, and this is the crucial point, I do feel entitled to my righteous anger because as one of my heroines Margaret Cho put it, I've been through it, whereas the person who pissed me off royally most recently HAS NOT. At least, not that I'm aware of- but I think if he had, he wouldn't be writing the sexist bullshit that he is.
And what is that, you may well arsk? OY VEY. At the risk of generating more buzz or god forbid, "fame" for this clown, I'll tell you quickly. It's this guy I went to high school with, in the class one year ahead of me, given name: Nate Warren. However, his nome de blog is (gag) Colonel Hector Bravado, and he spews every so often for this rather amusing website based here in Denver called Elitist Hipster Snob. (Oh yes, they drip with irony. Most of the time they are mildly entertaining without being outright offensive, but apparently they are self-edited or rather their editing policy is somewhere along the lines of "oh, you wanna write for us? Can you spell? Cool.") In high school he wrote roughly the same quality of crapola, but he had shades of brilliance occasionally, if he would just give up on the "angry white male" thing which we all fully expected he would grow out of in due time….. but, alas. The blog in question is a 17-years too-late "album review" of sorts for a gangsta rap group that I had never heard of, but it matters little, cuz our friend the over-privileged white boy was basically celebrating the "message" of their music which was is in a nutshell, smack down the bitches, kill the bitches, your gun is an extension of your penis, your gang is only family you need, etc. etc. woohoo! Drink some brews and you better(direct quote here) "hide your little sisters from me after I listen to this album, or they'll wake up with a lil' Colonel in they bellies, and the rest of me dried up on they faces."
As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.
Now, you may say I'm overreacting and by doing so, giving him too much power. But the only woman I know who would put up with dried cum on her face is either dead, or a totally whacked out crack whore. AND, may I remind everyone that the writer of this tripe is white, male, and grew up in the suburbs. Yes, he was raised by a single mom, but I KNEW his mom, and she was a little nutty, but a total feminist. Plus, most mens I know who was raised by the single mommies (including my husband) are MORE sensitive to woman's plight in this world, not LESS. I was actually looking for his mom when I found him- she was a noted columnist for the Denver Post for many years, Jill Jacobs Scott. You'd think she'd raise her kids up not to spew this hateful shite, que no? And aside from that, I don't think his dad was a deadbeat so… at any rate, didn't we all agree like 15 years ago that there's no excuse for this shit, not even among the so-called gangsta rappers who have supposedly "had it hard?" None! Nope, sorry, 'hijito, take your punk-ass little baby whining somewhere else. No, in fact, shut up altogether. No one needs to hear that shit, except the other crazy-ass voices in your head where an internal censor or critic should be. Don't even try off-loading your toxic waste that passes for writing in this day and age on some sorry-ass 3rd World Country- I can't think of a country sorry enough to accept it- not even illiterate rice farmers in Bangladesh. ESPECIALLY not them.
Now, if I were one of our mutual teachers from 20 years ago, who would no doubt be as profoundly disappointed in him as I am, I might just sigh, shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose while muttering, "Nate, nate, nate… we had such high hopes for you. Didn't you go to Colorado College? Didn't I write you a goddamned letter of recommendation????" Whereas, my immediate response to this drivel was admittedly knee-jerk. I ripped him a new asshole on his blog page, and bluntly asked him why he thinks that spewing sexist, misogynist bullshit is any better than the racist bullshit that was routinely spewed, oh a generation ago, by the likes of the KKK and most members of all-white country clubs.
E.g. Biff: "Hey Thad, I was thinking of organizing a little nigger hunt this weekend. You in?"
Thad: "Capital idea! I'll get the shotguns and the Vaseline!"
Sadly, our homeboy doesn't see the comparison as relevant at all- oh no, he thinks an ocean of impenetrable "cool" lies between him and the ugly, racist ravings of insecure white men half a century ago (or, now).
So, I've put off writing, reacting, or responding to this particular issue for almost 3 months now for several reasons (chief among them, I have a life/better shit to do) Now, instead of just a teething toddler gnawing on my breasts all night, I've got this damned subject gnawing at me. It won't go away by focusing on the positive. It doesn't go away even when I go to my happy place (fyi, it's Joann's Rancho Casados in Espanola, NM). It comes with. It orders the enchiladas and leers at me from across the room. Yes, in that most sacred of spaces, JOANN'S it dares to trespass!!
So here's my sign: IF YOU SPEW RACIST, SEXIST BULLSHIT ANYWHERE, ANYTIME, IN ANY FORM NEAR ME, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
IF YOU WILLFULLY AND ROUTINELY DENY YOUR PRIVILEGE AND ENTITLEMENTS WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY DRAPING YOURSELF IN THE "COOL" CACHET OF THE ARTFORMS OR LIFESTYLES OF THE UNDERPRIVILEGED, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
Other reasons for getting the smackdown will be posted here as I see fit.
What's the smackdown? Let's just say I'm skilled in the arts of verbal emasculation. And the other kind too. I grew up with older brothers, and lived to tell about it. Nuff said?
Think of it as a forced Come to Jesus. Jesus whips out the Smackdown. Jesus wins.
* oh, and in case you think I should be duly punished for "flaming" someone on the internets, I already have. My creepy, psychotic old prom date who was a good friend of Nate's in high school sent me a message because he saw my message on Nate's blog. Friggin great. This is the guy, speaking of rape, who very nearly forced me to have sex with him after the prom because, as he so charmingly put it, "It's expected." Niiiccce…….
Monday, February 25, 2008
THERE'S ABOUT TO BE A DORA-CIDE
Lord knows I don't want to turn into one of those dreaded "mommy-bloggers" but my brain is about to explode and I'm afraid i'm going to throw a sharp knife at my spouse as soon as he walks thru the door rather than greet him with a sweet kiss after leaving me alone for 3 days straight with a sick toddler, if I dont' write. Said Toddler is so cranky, and understandably so, from her fever, diarrhea, runny nose and cough that ALL she wants to do is watch the Dora portion of this Nick Jr. videotape we got from a friend/babysitter whose VCR broke. I don't know whether to thank her or throttle her. Normally little girl loves Blues Clues, which follows Dora on the tape, but lately she's decided it's "scary" - her new favorite word.
So I'm subjected not only to horrendously stinky poopy diapers, crankiness, non-napping, and worrying about her fever, but in addition, I have to watch this goddamned video apparently, 25 or so times today alone. Nothing else will do. This episode involves Dora and freaky monkey friend saving their stupid bull friend by patching his leaky hot-air balloon with the magical "STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE!" Repite por favor, boys and girls. "STICKY TAPE!!!" it's highly likely that this is what I will scream at Bruce right before I throw the kitchen knife at his head when he walks in that door. There will be drool coming out of my mouth and my clothes and hair, as usual, will be in disarray. The difference between me and the other homicidal, drooling, driven mad with too-much-kidshit-overload "mommy bloggers" is that i'm not some whiny stay-at-home mom who just needs a break but other than that has no real stress, because hello, if you can afford to stay at home, than obviously you can pay the heating bill and buy groceries without taking a calculator with you to the store. Nope, I gots me a full-time job just like 90% of my sisthren, and though spouse has also just started a full-time job, he doesn't accrue any PTO til like 2 months from now, which blows. However, since one or all of us has been sick since November, it seems like, I am now totally out of sick time and making a pretty big dent in my vacation.
My point is, the spousal unit is staying home with little girl tomorrow if she's still running a temperature, not me. Given my current mental state, I think this is fair. We're also in the Final Stage of the BIg Project I was hired to complete at work, code red, damn the torpedoes until March 30th, and every second counts. And since I've had so many sick days, needless to ssay I'm behind. Stressed? me?
The other point of this venting blog is that clearly, somehow, someway, I've got to find a way to write more regularly and turn this into something real, or my brain will REALLY explode, and not even the magical sticky tape will be able to fix it. (Come to think of it, i need some of that stuff. Dora fixed her backpack strap, a bird's nest that had fallen out of a tree, made her shoes sticky enough to get over Slippery Rock, some rips in a sailboat, and yes, that accursed hotair balloon with their dumb friend in it. I needs me some of that.
So I'm subjected not only to horrendously stinky poopy diapers, crankiness, non-napping, and worrying about her fever, but in addition, I have to watch this goddamned video apparently, 25 or so times today alone. Nothing else will do. This episode involves Dora and freaky monkey friend saving their stupid bull friend by patching his leaky hot-air balloon with the magical "STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE!" Repite por favor, boys and girls. "STICKY TAPE!!!" it's highly likely that this is what I will scream at Bruce right before I throw the kitchen knife at his head when he walks in that door. There will be drool coming out of my mouth and my clothes and hair, as usual, will be in disarray. The difference between me and the other homicidal, drooling, driven mad with too-much-kidshit-overload "mommy bloggers" is that i'm not some whiny stay-at-home mom who just needs a break but other than that has no real stress, because hello, if you can afford to stay at home, than obviously you can pay the heating bill and buy groceries without taking a calculator with you to the store. Nope, I gots me a full-time job just like 90% of my sisthren, and though spouse has also just started a full-time job, he doesn't accrue any PTO til like 2 months from now, which blows. However, since one or all of us has been sick since November, it seems like, I am now totally out of sick time and making a pretty big dent in my vacation.
My point is, the spousal unit is staying home with little girl tomorrow if she's still running a temperature, not me. Given my current mental state, I think this is fair. We're also in the Final Stage of the BIg Project I was hired to complete at work, code red, damn the torpedoes until March 30th, and every second counts. And since I've had so many sick days, needless to ssay I'm behind. Stressed? me?
The other point of this venting blog is that clearly, somehow, someway, I've got to find a way to write more regularly and turn this into something real, or my brain will REALLY explode, and not even the magical sticky tape will be able to fix it. (Come to think of it, i need some of that stuff. Dora fixed her backpack strap, a bird's nest that had fallen out of a tree, made her shoes sticky enough to get over Slippery Rock, some rips in a sailboat, and yes, that accursed hotair balloon with their dumb friend in it. I needs me some of that.
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