I am really mad about the elementary school shooting that occurred today in Connecticut. I am mostly mad at the man who committed this senseless, incomprehensibly evil act. But there is nothing I can do about him or say to him.
I am also mad at the people who cry foul as soon as anyone tries to discuss gun control after incidents like this. Many say it's not the right time, and that the focus should be on the victims of today's tragedy. Well, I don't know of a better way to honor those victims and others like them than to contribute to a rational, long overdue discussion about the roots of the violence in this nation.
Policy makers should have been trying to understand and discuss the roots of America's murder culture for... well, forever. When a news outlet posted online today, asking when the Obama administration should discuss gun laws, my immediate response was, "four years ago."
The rate of death from violent crime in the United States is astronomical compared to other developed nations. Guns are not necessarily to blame. Other countries have gun ownership rates at least as high as the U.S.'s without even a fraction of the gun crime. However, there is evidence that American states with stricter gun control laws experience less gun crime than other states.
Does this necessarily mean that gun control directly lowers gun crime? No. Am I saying gun control will necessarily prevent mass murders? No. But it has to be a part of the conversation.
There is information available to us about a correlation between gun control in the U.S. and lower gun crime rates. That is a fact. To immediately refuse to consider that information in discussing how to combat America's culture of murder is, in a word, insane. In another, ignorant. In another, myopic.
What I really wrote this to say is this:
All information is valuable, even if it has the potential to conflict with YOUR particular world view. In contrast, NO information is valuable unless is it used to seek WISDOM. In order to seek wisdom, all of the facts must be considered. In this case, facts about gun control must be discussed. To refuse to even entertain the thought of exploring the potential for safer gun laws in the wake of the year we just experienced is, in another word, asinine. And it is making me angry.
That is all.
About Me
- Julia P.
- New Orleans, La, United States
- I like to write about the things in this world that excite, anger, and inspire me.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
My No-Bake To-Die-For Dessert Secret
Those of you who know me know that I'm a bit of a bakeaholic, but I'm aware that not everyone is as fond of baking as I am. With the holidays coming up, everyone probably has all kinds of family and company events to attend, and many of these events are probably pot-lucks. I have a way for people who hate baking to call dessert duty and impress the pants off of everyone at the party.
I have been making this recipe for a few years, but I have been trying not to tell everyone how freakin' easy it is because I wanted to keep it for myself. Alas, I cannot keep up the charade any longer. There are a lot of these recipes on the internet, but the one I use is the easiest and best. So here it is, Three Ingredient No-Bake Oreo Truffles:
You need:
1 pack Oreos
1 8 oz package cream cheese (I prefer Philadelphia)
6 oz chocolate
(Optional) toppings
You can use whatever kind of chocolate you enjoy. I am partial to Baker's semisweet squares, but anything that melts smoothly is fine. Dark and white chocolate also suit this recipe.
The prep:
1. Blend the Oreos and cream cheese together. The easiest way to do this is in a food processor. I have a Cuisinart 14-Cup Food Processor (Google Affiliate Ad) that I adore. A blender also works. In a bind, throw those suckers in a big, sturdy ziplock bag and bash them with a mallet. In the end, you want the mixture to be smooth.
2. Roll the Oreo mixture into 1-2 inch balls
3. Refrigerate for half an hour. The balls should be sturdy enough to withstand being rolled in your palms
4. Melt chocolate over low heat until smooth.
5. Roll Oreo balls to desired roundness, and roll in chocolate until coated. Remove the coated balls to a plate or baking sheet and refrigerate until hardened.
*Optional: Before refrigerating chocolate-coated balls, sprinkle with desired toppings. Decorative sprinkles and toasted almonds work well. You can also put aside a few Oreos and crumble the chocolate part to be sprinkled on top. If you're feeling fancy, melt another kind of chocolate and pipe designs onto your truffles. (A plastic bag with a small part of the corner cut off works just as well as a professional piping bag.)
That's it. These things are seriously delicious. Everyone will be asking you for the recipe! Bon appetit.
I have been making this recipe for a few years, but I have been trying not to tell everyone how freakin' easy it is because I wanted to keep it for myself. Alas, I cannot keep up the charade any longer. There are a lot of these recipes on the internet, but the one I use is the easiest and best. So here it is, Three Ingredient No-Bake Oreo Truffles:
You need:
1 pack Oreos
1 8 oz package cream cheese (I prefer Philadelphia)
6 oz chocolate
(Optional) toppings
You can use whatever kind of chocolate you enjoy. I am partial to Baker's semisweet squares, but anything that melts smoothly is fine. Dark and white chocolate also suit this recipe.
The prep:
1. Blend the Oreos and cream cheese together. The easiest way to do this is in a food processor. I have a Cuisinart 14-Cup Food Processor (Google Affiliate Ad) that I adore. A blender also works. In a bind, throw those suckers in a big, sturdy ziplock bag and bash them with a mallet. In the end, you want the mixture to be smooth.
2. Roll the Oreo mixture into 1-2 inch balls
3. Refrigerate for half an hour. The balls should be sturdy enough to withstand being rolled in your palms
4. Melt chocolate over low heat until smooth.
5. Roll Oreo balls to desired roundness, and roll in chocolate until coated. Remove the coated balls to a plate or baking sheet and refrigerate until hardened.
*Optional: Before refrigerating chocolate-coated balls, sprinkle with desired toppings. Decorative sprinkles and toasted almonds work well. You can also put aside a few Oreos and crumble the chocolate part to be sprinkled on top. If you're feeling fancy, melt another kind of chocolate and pipe designs onto your truffles. (A plastic bag with a small part of the corner cut off works just as well as a professional piping bag.)
That's it. These things are seriously delicious. Everyone will be asking you for the recipe! Bon appetit.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
A Letter to my Almost-two-year-old Son
Dear Almost-two-year-old,
Everyone warned me that the terrible twos would start around this age, and they have. Lord, have they. I don't think they should be called "terrible", though, because I understand.
I understand that, when you wake up screaming bloody murder at 4:30 am after I managed to trick you into sleeping in your own bed for a few measly hours, and you are furious at being duped, it's because you like the Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and pillows and plushies and comforters that we bought you to try to cajole you into your own bed, you just don't like like them.
And when you crawl into bed with dad and me, I understand that you try to push my head away from you with all your might while clinging to my body like a genetically enhanced leech because you need the warmth and comfort of my body, just without the meddlesome presence of my face.
I get that, when you are crying and begging for something that you are already holding in your hand, it is because you need me to hide it behind my back for three seconds to fifteen minutes before presenting it to you in order to restore your sense of wonder.
I understand that, when you are lying on the floor, kicking and screaming simply, "Again! Agaaaaain!" it is because you want to have or see something you have had or seen before in your lifetime, and you are too distraught to specify what exactly that might be.
I get that the absence of trains is unacceptable.
I know that sometimes you like to pull the dogs' tails for no reason because it just feels good be a straight-up jerk from time to time.
More than anything, I understand that you are completely overwhelmed by the grown-up emotions you are sprouting.
I think the terrible twos should be called the "question-why-you-wanted-to-be-a-parent-in-the-first-place twos." Trust me, I have, but I have an answer; I can see past the towering mountain of "TWO", to the slightly less-craggy peak of "three", all the way to the sloping foothills of "four", and beyond. And I know that you will come out on the other side a real, functioning little person, and I will feel privileged to have loved you all along; mind, body, and face.
Love,
Mommy
If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy my slightly-more-serious Letter to the Grown Up Version of My One Year Old Son
Friday, October 12, 2012
Why I Cried a Little When The O's Lost Game 5
I cried a little bit when the Orioles lost game 5 of the ALDS to the Yankees tonight, and it had very little to do with baseball. I don't care very much about baseball. I find the season to be too long to give any kind of gravity to games in general. Baseball is my husband's game. He loves it.
That said, I followed, at least in some abstract way, the Orioles' "magical" season this year. Baltimore was fired up. Maryland was fired up. My HOME was fired up.
A lot of people move away from home to live their adult lives, and there is nothing tragic, or pitiful, or particularly interesting about it. I don't ask, in the day-to-day, for people to recognize me as a non-Orleanian. I've no problem with embracing at least the superficial culture of this place I have adopted.
At the same time, I'm not sure there is anywhere else in this country that is as outside-culture-sucking as New Orleans. New Orleanians, and particularly New Orleans transplants with a hard-on for the culture down here, are eager to discredit the uniqueness or flavor or, goddam it, validity of other American cities. Of regions. Of other countries, for godssake. I wish I could count on my fingers the number of times someone from New Orleans has explicitly said that Nola is the only American city with any culture. I cannot.
So, Growing weary of people telling me that Marylanders can't cook or are a bunch of yanks (SOUTH of the Mason Dixon line, motherfucker, though I'm not sure it's something to be proud of), I feel just a tad attached to Maryland phenomena that unite my home people. Particularly in an election year full of just the most annoying shit, The Orioles, with their miraculous extra innings wins were a bright spot.
I recall the last time I watched Orioles playoff games. I was an awkward moody little thing. I remember home. I remember my mother being there fixing me an after school snack while I guess Mike Mussina pitched? I don't know, I remember cheering Moooooose. Like I said, this isn't about baseball.
This is about seeing people I love from home uniting over a sports thing, and it's about feeling valid and normal and human for missing the people I grew up with, and the hills, and my family, and the culture, the real, valid, actual culture that informed my childhood and that still informs me today.
I was sad to see that O's season end, because it had equated to all those feelings for me for a while, and, you know, baseball is pretty great, too, when it matters.
That said, I followed, at least in some abstract way, the Orioles' "magical" season this year. Baltimore was fired up. Maryland was fired up. My HOME was fired up.
A lot of people move away from home to live their adult lives, and there is nothing tragic, or pitiful, or particularly interesting about it. I don't ask, in the day-to-day, for people to recognize me as a non-Orleanian. I've no problem with embracing at least the superficial culture of this place I have adopted.
At the same time, I'm not sure there is anywhere else in this country that is as outside-culture-sucking as New Orleans. New Orleanians, and particularly New Orleans transplants with a hard-on for the culture down here, are eager to discredit the uniqueness or flavor or, goddam it, validity of other American cities. Of regions. Of other countries, for godssake. I wish I could count on my fingers the number of times someone from New Orleans has explicitly said that Nola is the only American city with any culture. I cannot.
So, Growing weary of people telling me that Marylanders can't cook or are a bunch of yanks (SOUTH of the Mason Dixon line, motherfucker, though I'm not sure it's something to be proud of), I feel just a tad attached to Maryland phenomena that unite my home people. Particularly in an election year full of just the most annoying shit, The Orioles, with their miraculous extra innings wins were a bright spot.
I recall the last time I watched Orioles playoff games. I was an awkward moody little thing. I remember home. I remember my mother being there fixing me an after school snack while I guess Mike Mussina pitched? I don't know, I remember cheering Moooooose. Like I said, this isn't about baseball.
This is about seeing people I love from home uniting over a sports thing, and it's about feeling valid and normal and human for missing the people I grew up with, and the hills, and my family, and the culture, the real, valid, actual culture that informed my childhood and that still informs me today.
I was sad to see that O's season end, because it had equated to all those feelings for me for a while, and, you know, baseball is pretty great, too, when it matters.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Quiet Moments Before a Storm
Today was one of those uniquely New Orleans days where much of the city was glued to television sets and radios while the rest planned parties and binges. With the approach of Tropical Storm (and soon to be Hurricane) Isaac, everyone had some choices to make. As of now, most residents seem to be planning to stay, which is not unusual for a category one or two hurricane. Unless the city issues an evacuation order, many people will probably remain and ride out the storm with cases of booze and bottles of water.
I will most likely leave. The prospect of being without power for any extended period of time with a 20 month old is not one I relish. Assuming old Ike reaches hurricane strength and continues on his path towards the Big Easy, I will flee to the safety of my in laws' house on the North Shore tomorrow morning. Tony will not be coming with Charlie and me, at least not at first, which is a stressful concept.
This storm is relatively weak at the moment and probably poses little threat beyond some wind damage and potential power outages. Still, splitting up my family during the approach of a hurricane, particularly on the anniversary of Katrina and with certain Katrina parallels being batted around, is not my favorite thing. All in all, it has been a less than comforting day.
All of this made the cuddly, serene moments before Charlie's bed time tonight all the more precious. Every night when I put him to bed, we sing perhaps a dozen rounds of Old McDonald before really snuggling in deep and singing our nightly lullabye, "Hush, Little Baby." It is an extremely outdated and quite bizarre-to-begin-with little song, but my mother sang it to me, and I sing it to my baby.
While I sing, Charlie wraps his arms around my neck and nuzzles my cheek. Sometimes he lifts his head to kiss me on the mouth right in the middle of lyrics. He is extraordinarily affectionate when he is tired. Normally, when the song is over, I cradle him in my arms and walk to his crib, where I lay him down and tuck him in. Tonight, as the song approached the end, he began to pout and whimper. When I stopped singing, he pleaded, "Again, again."And so we sang "Hush, Little Baby," again, and again, and again, four times, until finally he would relent and allow me to say goodnight.
When I carried him into his room to put him to bed, I had a million things on my mind. I needed to pack a bag for our potential evacuation, I needed to take the trash out, and I needed to check the weather just one... more... time! Our extra rounds of lullabyes gave me time to put all that aside. Sitting in a gliding chair with my child's arms around my neck and his breath on my cheek melted my stress away.
I know these are the moments I am going to look back on with teary eyes when my baby is all grown up and off to college or another state or some lady's marriage bed. Even more than that, they are the moments that keep me sane now. Thank goodness for tiny people!
Be safe, y'all.
I will most likely leave. The prospect of being without power for any extended period of time with a 20 month old is not one I relish. Assuming old Ike reaches hurricane strength and continues on his path towards the Big Easy, I will flee to the safety of my in laws' house on the North Shore tomorrow morning. Tony will not be coming with Charlie and me, at least not at first, which is a stressful concept.
This storm is relatively weak at the moment and probably poses little threat beyond some wind damage and potential power outages. Still, splitting up my family during the approach of a hurricane, particularly on the anniversary of Katrina and with certain Katrina parallels being batted around, is not my favorite thing. All in all, it has been a less than comforting day.
All of this made the cuddly, serene moments before Charlie's bed time tonight all the more precious. Every night when I put him to bed, we sing perhaps a dozen rounds of Old McDonald before really snuggling in deep and singing our nightly lullabye, "Hush, Little Baby." It is an extremely outdated and quite bizarre-to-begin-with little song, but my mother sang it to me, and I sing it to my baby.
While I sing, Charlie wraps his arms around my neck and nuzzles my cheek. Sometimes he lifts his head to kiss me on the mouth right in the middle of lyrics. He is extraordinarily affectionate when he is tired. Normally, when the song is over, I cradle him in my arms and walk to his crib, where I lay him down and tuck him in. Tonight, as the song approached the end, he began to pout and whimper. When I stopped singing, he pleaded, "Again, again."And so we sang "Hush, Little Baby," again, and again, and again, four times, until finally he would relent and allow me to say goodnight.
When I carried him into his room to put him to bed, I had a million things on my mind. I needed to pack a bag for our potential evacuation, I needed to take the trash out, and I needed to check the weather just one... more... time! Our extra rounds of lullabyes gave me time to put all that aside. Sitting in a gliding chair with my child's arms around my neck and his breath on my cheek melted my stress away.
I know these are the moments I am going to look back on with teary eyes when my baby is all grown up and off to college or another state or some lady's marriage bed. Even more than that, they are the moments that keep me sane now. Thank goodness for tiny people!
Be safe, y'all.
Friday, August 17, 2012
A true/false thing
We picked M up on the side of the road on our way into Ocean City, because when you're 17 everyone is your friend. She was on dope of some kind, but we didn't dig deep, we asked her for coke, and she provided. In parking lot traffic leading up to the bridge, we cut lines on someone's AP history binder and held them to the driver's face while he kept his eyes on the road. The summer safety seminar had not been lost on us.
When we finally made it to the hotel, M said she was gonna split, but somehow she was still there in an hour and she had mixed drinks from someone's stash, and she was sitting cross legged on the bed and telling us about her step brother who had fucked her mom's mom. She told us about her first step father's brother who had told her when she was just a baby that penises worked like baby bottles. She laughed. She cut lines. We inhaled.
We had to cross the street to get to the boardwalk, and we had to get to the boardwalk because that is where things happened. We ran into some of M's friends on the wrong side of the road. They invited us up to their condo to take a break, and we went. We peed with the door open with guys in their 20's watching. They fed us drugs and we repaid them with door open peeing, and M slipped me some tongue. She was gentle and sad and more full of longing then anyone I had ever been intimate with before. I suddenly wanted to take her home and scrub her face and maybe share my boyfriend with her. Then she laughed and took a swig of tequila from the bottle. "This bitch is hot," she laughed, and she fell onto a couch with her tongue down a 25 year old's throat.
I left her alone there. I had known her for 6 hours when I heard that she had been murdered. She had acted expendable, boys whispered, but she had been soft and moist and sweet when you got close enough.
We were on the boardwalk when I heard, and I was momentarily shaken because it could have been me, in a way, but could have been me only lasts so long when you're in a place where everything can be yours. I got another hole punched in my right ear's cartilage and paid with a kiss, and we laughed and danced on the dusty planks by the beach.
I heard she died naked and fighting, which makes it worse, somehow. One of the guys she was with was hospitalized for a few weeks with a nasty stab wound. Another turned up dead the next season. They say he tried to jump from a hotel balcony into the pool, but other people who know people who know people said he landed on concrete on purpose. Everyone agrees he was deep in a horse hole anyway and wasn't likely to come back. His sister blames that girl who had to go and get herself murdered in his hotel room.
I dedicated close to none of myself to thoughts of the sad girl we had picked up for an evening during that week. I got drunk with my friends and flirted with men and took showers with strangers. I accepted pills and hugs and swam in the ocean. But when I got home at the end of the week and sat in the dark with just my computer's light shining on me, I could see every line in my fingers, and they looked older than they should be, and I could smell that girl somehow, and I wept.
When we finally made it to the hotel, M said she was gonna split, but somehow she was still there in an hour and she had mixed drinks from someone's stash, and she was sitting cross legged on the bed and telling us about her step brother who had fucked her mom's mom. She told us about her first step father's brother who had told her when she was just a baby that penises worked like baby bottles. She laughed. She cut lines. We inhaled.
We had to cross the street to get to the boardwalk, and we had to get to the boardwalk because that is where things happened. We ran into some of M's friends on the wrong side of the road. They invited us up to their condo to take a break, and we went. We peed with the door open with guys in their 20's watching. They fed us drugs and we repaid them with door open peeing, and M slipped me some tongue. She was gentle and sad and more full of longing then anyone I had ever been intimate with before. I suddenly wanted to take her home and scrub her face and maybe share my boyfriend with her. Then she laughed and took a swig of tequila from the bottle. "This bitch is hot," she laughed, and she fell onto a couch with her tongue down a 25 year old's throat.
I left her alone there. I had known her for 6 hours when I heard that she had been murdered. She had acted expendable, boys whispered, but she had been soft and moist and sweet when you got close enough.
We were on the boardwalk when I heard, and I was momentarily shaken because it could have been me, in a way, but could have been me only lasts so long when you're in a place where everything can be yours. I got another hole punched in my right ear's cartilage and paid with a kiss, and we laughed and danced on the dusty planks by the beach.
I heard she died naked and fighting, which makes it worse, somehow. One of the guys she was with was hospitalized for a few weeks with a nasty stab wound. Another turned up dead the next season. They say he tried to jump from a hotel balcony into the pool, but other people who know people who know people said he landed on concrete on purpose. Everyone agrees he was deep in a horse hole anyway and wasn't likely to come back. His sister blames that girl who had to go and get herself murdered in his hotel room.
I dedicated close to none of myself to thoughts of the sad girl we had picked up for an evening during that week. I got drunk with my friends and flirted with men and took showers with strangers. I accepted pills and hugs and swam in the ocean. But when I got home at the end of the week and sat in the dark with just my computer's light shining on me, I could see every line in my fingers, and they looked older than they should be, and I could smell that girl somehow, and I wept.
Friday, August 10, 2012
The death of authors
Someone I've never met who feels to me
Like an oldest friend
who saw me naked
And touched me in places that aren't ok
Reading words black on white
when He can't say them anymore
And bleeding red on cream
Deprive myself of food until
I am nothing but skeletons and hatred
and a longing for someone
I never knew
But who knew me
Like an oldest friend
who saw me naked
And touched me in places that aren't ok
Reading words black on white
when He can't say them anymore
And bleeding red on cream
Deprive myself of food until
I am nothing but skeletons and hatred
and a longing for someone
I never knew
But who knew me
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
What Were They Thinking? (Stars Earn Stripes Edition)
NBC is a network that I try to avoid bashing due exclusively to my love for their Thursday night comedy line up. I mostly held my tongue during impressively bad moments of their Olympics coverage. I have even been willing to overlook Grimm. I cannot, however, give them a pass on this miscarriage they are calling Stars Earn Stripes.
Mind you, I have not seen this show. It is possible they have stumbled upon something breathtaking and cathartic that will change the way we look at war. But I doubt it.
The concept of the show is that a host of "celebrities" are assisted by special operatives from various military branches in executing tasks based on actual combat missions. The celebrities include Peekaboo Street, Nick Lachey, and Todd Palin. None of the contestants is anything to get excited about, in my opinion.
I expect that, throughout the episodes on this show, the contestants will repeatedly and emphatically state how difficult war is and how they have gained new found respect for actual servicemen. I know those comments will be coming from a good place, but it seems to me that they are insulting. To imply that playing games on TV is anything like actual war is insulting to us as a general population that has largely been complacent during the over-a-decade-long conflict in the Middle East, and to servicemen and women especially.
The veterans and current military men and women I have asked about this show seem to feel the same way. Trivializing the physical and emotional demands that war entails by comparing celebrity war games to the real thing makes them angry.
I am surprised that General Wesley Clark agreed to host this show. As someone who spent a career serving with men and women like the ones I spoke to, I can't imagine that he wouldn't anticipate the reactions I discussed above.
The one redeeming quality that this show has, as far as I can tell from previews alone, mind you, is that the contestants are playing for a sum of money to be donated to a veterans' charity of their choice. Still, NBC, maybe next time just give the money and keep the D-List celebs to yourselves.
Mind you, I have not seen this show. It is possible they have stumbled upon something breathtaking and cathartic that will change the way we look at war. But I doubt it.
The concept of the show is that a host of "celebrities" are assisted by special operatives from various military branches in executing tasks based on actual combat missions. The celebrities include Peekaboo Street, Nick Lachey, and Todd Palin. None of the contestants is anything to get excited about, in my opinion.
I expect that, throughout the episodes on this show, the contestants will repeatedly and emphatically state how difficult war is and how they have gained new found respect for actual servicemen. I know those comments will be coming from a good place, but it seems to me that they are insulting. To imply that playing games on TV is anything like actual war is insulting to us as a general population that has largely been complacent during the over-a-decade-long conflict in the Middle East, and to servicemen and women especially.
The veterans and current military men and women I have asked about this show seem to feel the same way. Trivializing the physical and emotional demands that war entails by comparing celebrity war games to the real thing makes them angry.
I am surprised that General Wesley Clark agreed to host this show. As someone who spent a career serving with men and women like the ones I spoke to, I can't imagine that he wouldn't anticipate the reactions I discussed above.
The one redeeming quality that this show has, as far as I can tell from previews alone, mind you, is that the contestants are playing for a sum of money to be donated to a veterans' charity of their choice. Still, NBC, maybe next time just give the money and keep the D-List celebs to yourselves.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Adam Carolla and Unfunny Women
The internet is abuzz right now over some comments that Adam Carolla (a man I don't find to be particularly funny) made regarding women's senses of humor, and I would like to briefly respond. Basically all he said was that women don't tend to be the funniest people in the writing room. While he admitted that some very funny women exist, citing Sarah Silverman and Tina Fey, he said that if you are playing the odds, you don't pick women out as funny people.
Other comedians like Doug Stanhope went on to defend him on twitter, claiming that men develop better senses of humor because they need to be funny in order to get laid. While this is true, it's not the whole story AT ALL.
Girls are funny TO EACH OTHER. We don't have to make men laugh in order to get to touch their dicks. They don't even have to like us to let us touch their dicks. However, we do have to use humor to disarm eachother, because women in our social structure are naturally aggressive and resistant towards each other. So, while we may laugh real hard at guys' jokes, we get each other's humor more, typically. Also, any time you see a girl claiming that women aren't funny, she is doing it for bullshit guys' benefit, i.e., "Look how much of a guys' girl I am! I like strip clubs and video games and don't think women are funny." These also tend to be the girls who will blow your boyfriend for a meal or a bottle of whipped cream vodka, or for fun.
Where was I... ok, guys feel threatened by the idea of funny women, because they view their own senses of humor as this super unique development they have achieved in order to get laid. Funny women threaten that. I guess they are scared we are all just gonna scissor if we become funnier than them, idk. So ladies, next time a guy tells you women aren't funny, just touch his penis and don't engage in the argument, because what's the fuckin point?
Other comedians like Doug Stanhope went on to defend him on twitter, claiming that men develop better senses of humor because they need to be funny in order to get laid. While this is true, it's not the whole story AT ALL.
Girls are funny TO EACH OTHER. We don't have to make men laugh in order to get to touch their dicks. They don't even have to like us to let us touch their dicks. However, we do have to use humor to disarm eachother, because women in our social structure are naturally aggressive and resistant towards each other. So, while we may laugh real hard at guys' jokes, we get each other's humor more, typically. Also, any time you see a girl claiming that women aren't funny, she is doing it for bullshit guys' benefit, i.e., "Look how much of a guys' girl I am! I like strip clubs and video games and don't think women are funny." These also tend to be the girls who will blow your boyfriend for a meal or a bottle of whipped cream vodka, or for fun.
Where was I... ok, guys feel threatened by the idea of funny women, because they view their own senses of humor as this super unique development they have achieved in order to get laid. Funny women threaten that. I guess they are scared we are all just gonna scissor if we become funnier than them, idk. So ladies, next time a guy tells you women aren't funny, just touch his penis and don't engage in the argument, because what's the fuckin point?
Sunday, June 10, 2012
A Quick Note About Lady Periods
I think "gender equality" issues are really tricky because some degree of inequality and mystique is necessary in our social structure. That said, I will try to keep this brief. Sometimes things that, on the surface, seem empowering for females backfire hard, and I've got a pretty swell example for you today.
I guess it seems like it's about damn time that men knew exactly how trying and taxing and goddamned annoying our periods are, right? Particularly in the wake of all this discussion about birth control, a faction of women has emerged that feels that it is necessary to shout to the world how bloated and crampy and grouchy and miserable they are when Aunt Flo comes around.
All this does is support the ridiculous notion that women are incapable of being productive, rational members of society literally a quarter of the time. Furthermore, it makes it ok for asinine guys to say things like, "Wow! She must be on the rag!" when we get upset about legitimate things. So quit it.
That is all.
I guess it seems like it's about damn time that men knew exactly how trying and taxing and goddamned annoying our periods are, right? Particularly in the wake of all this discussion about birth control, a faction of women has emerged that feels that it is necessary to shout to the world how bloated and crampy and grouchy and miserable they are when Aunt Flo comes around.
All this does is support the ridiculous notion that women are incapable of being productive, rational members of society literally a quarter of the time. Furthermore, it makes it ok for asinine guys to say things like, "Wow! She must be on the rag!" when we get upset about legitimate things. So quit it.
That is all.
Friday, June 8, 2012
An Open Letter to People Who Tell Me I'm Not Using My Brain Enough
Dear well-intentioned person telling me I'm not using my brain enough these days:
I know. First, let me compliment you on being the 75,000th person to tell me this. You've won this blog post.
I understand that what you are trying to say is that I am smart and I could do a lot with those smarts, so one one hand, thank you. In some alternate universe, I have a few degrees and I am advising some schmoozy Democratic candidate for a state-level office while feeling bad for his wife because she doesn't know about one shady thing or another.
In this universe, I have a kid. Kids require time. Someone has to watch them and make sure they don't run into traffic or fall off of a table or drown themselves in the bath tub. Someone has to read to them and hug them and teach them how to point at their nose when you ask and sing the itsy bitsy spider 100 times a day. That person is me.
I LOVE being a mom. I don't want strangers to raise my kid. I want to be the one to kiss his boo boos and teach him the ABCs. Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for working and student moms. It's not easy to balance children and other things, and I imagine it is emotionally complicated as well. All the supermoms out there deserve mad props. I am not that woman, though. The thought of trying to be a mom and work and go to school all at once gives me hives. I'm lazy.
This brings me to the "go back to school" crowd. Let me assure you that aside from in my family's presence, a classroom is the first place I want to be. I miss school. DESPERATELY at times. I plan to go back to school. My husband and I have discussed it. It is not going to pay for itself. When we figure out how to finance and schedule it, it will happen. Let's leave it at that.
While I understand that it is in a complimentary spirit that you are telling me these things, you are not telling me anything I don't already know. There is something profoundly frustrating about being told things you know by numerous people. It starts to make you feel like your flaws are more pronounced than they are. It makes you question things. I don't want to question things.
I have heard that happiness is less an emotion than an absence of other emotions. That if you can comment on how happy you are, you probably aren't all that happy, because true happiness is something you don't have to reflect on. Most days I don't have to reflect. I simply enjoy the day-to-day and laugh at little things like babies dancing and pugface. Would I change some things, looking back? Sure. But I am relatively content, and I'm optimistic about getting my brain back in the game at some point in the future. For now, my kid is my number one priority by a mile or two. So for now, chill out.
Deal? Deal.
Love, Julia
I know. First, let me compliment you on being the 75,000th person to tell me this. You've won this blog post.
I understand that what you are trying to say is that I am smart and I could do a lot with those smarts, so one one hand, thank you. In some alternate universe, I have a few degrees and I am advising some schmoozy Democratic candidate for a state-level office while feeling bad for his wife because she doesn't know about one shady thing or another.
In this universe, I have a kid. Kids require time. Someone has to watch them and make sure they don't run into traffic or fall off of a table or drown themselves in the bath tub. Someone has to read to them and hug them and teach them how to point at their nose when you ask and sing the itsy bitsy spider 100 times a day. That person is me.
I LOVE being a mom. I don't want strangers to raise my kid. I want to be the one to kiss his boo boos and teach him the ABCs. Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for working and student moms. It's not easy to balance children and other things, and I imagine it is emotionally complicated as well. All the supermoms out there deserve mad props. I am not that woman, though. The thought of trying to be a mom and work and go to school all at once gives me hives. I'm lazy.
This brings me to the "go back to school" crowd. Let me assure you that aside from in my family's presence, a classroom is the first place I want to be. I miss school. DESPERATELY at times. I plan to go back to school. My husband and I have discussed it. It is not going to pay for itself. When we figure out how to finance and schedule it, it will happen. Let's leave it at that.
While I understand that it is in a complimentary spirit that you are telling me these things, you are not telling me anything I don't already know. There is something profoundly frustrating about being told things you know by numerous people. It starts to make you feel like your flaws are more pronounced than they are. It makes you question things. I don't want to question things.
I have heard that happiness is less an emotion than an absence of other emotions. That if you can comment on how happy you are, you probably aren't all that happy, because true happiness is something you don't have to reflect on. Most days I don't have to reflect. I simply enjoy the day-to-day and laugh at little things like babies dancing and pugface. Would I change some things, looking back? Sure. But I am relatively content, and I'm optimistic about getting my brain back in the game at some point in the future. For now, my kid is my number one priority by a mile or two. So for now, chill out.
Deal? Deal.
Love, Julia
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
A Letter to the Adult Version of My One Year Old Son
Dear Charles,
As I write this, you are 17 months old, you have 12 teeth, and you are covered in bruises because you refuse to accept your physical limitations. I think you will have grown up to be a brave man, and that makes me glad.
I believe that some degree of bravery is necessary in any life. Everyone has to face challenges throughout his life that are much more easily overcome with a bit of tenacity and the unwillingness to back down. I hope that any obstacles you have encountered so far, you have stood face to face with and stared down. I further hope that you have done so with class, respect, and a bit of panache.
Every generation worries that their children will have it harder than they did while striving to make the opposite true. My generation is just now taking the reins on many issues all over the world, and I am hopeful that we can steer this crazy planet in the right direction. I will do my best to make sure we do not fail you, but I fear there is only so much I can do.
You were born almost ten years after the largest terrorist attack in American History, an event that occurred on September 11, 2001, which is a day that changed everything and nothing at the same time. I still woke up the next day and attended tenth grade. I still rode my horses and fought with your Uncle Ben and giggled about the boys in high school. But the world had changed, and it continues to change today.
I am thinking about this on this particular day because today is the 68th Anniversary of D-Day. D-Day was a crucial turning point in a war that clearly pitted the forces of good and freedom against the forces of evil. It was a war that encompassed two continents and took millions of lives and broke an unfathomable number of hearts. Still, it was a war with clear moral purpose. Thus did the Greatest Generation save the Planet from Hitler and certain misery.
America is fighting a war now, too, but it is a more amorphous war than the one your great grandfathers fought. It is a war against anti-freedom ideology and theology. It has fuzzy lines and requires shaky alliances with questionable governments in the pursuit of sneaky, evil men who sometimes hide in caves. Even the smartest, bravest men and women in the world can't agree how to win this war, if it is winnable. A lot of good men have given their lives in pursuit of safety for Americans and their allies, and more will certainly do the same. We as free and good people do not have the advantage of a clearly defined enemy lining up in battlefields like those D-Day soldiers did. As I said, the world is changing.
I fear that it will continue to change and become more complicated in your lifetime. You are growing up at a time when computers are capable of serving as weapons, not in the sense of being physically harmful, but in many other senses. Information is exchanged in milliseconds these days, sometimes when the information is not meant to change hands. Hoards of money are susceptible to electronic attack. Privacy may become a thing of the past.
I have every confidence that your generation will adapt to these changes. You are growing up in a plugged-in world, and you will never remember a time when information was not immediately available and at the tip of your finger. Practically all of mankind (except North Korea, but I hope they have gotten it together by now) is only a button click away. It's remarkable. Still, I suspect it will create unique challenges, particularly as technology continues to march ever forward in the rest of your lifetime.
So be brave. I'm sure the world is more complicated than ever, but let your life be simple sometimes. Find love. Don't look forward to the next big thing without enjoying what you already have. Visit your mom a lot. More than anything, take advantage of the information and opinions that are available to you. Information is power, and power changes the world. Think critically, but speak kindly, and always, always look forward.
Best of luck.
Love,
Mommy
As I write this, you are 17 months old, you have 12 teeth, and you are covered in bruises because you refuse to accept your physical limitations. I think you will have grown up to be a brave man, and that makes me glad.
I believe that some degree of bravery is necessary in any life. Everyone has to face challenges throughout his life that are much more easily overcome with a bit of tenacity and the unwillingness to back down. I hope that any obstacles you have encountered so far, you have stood face to face with and stared down. I further hope that you have done so with class, respect, and a bit of panache.
Every generation worries that their children will have it harder than they did while striving to make the opposite true. My generation is just now taking the reins on many issues all over the world, and I am hopeful that we can steer this crazy planet in the right direction. I will do my best to make sure we do not fail you, but I fear there is only so much I can do.
You were born almost ten years after the largest terrorist attack in American History, an event that occurred on September 11, 2001, which is a day that changed everything and nothing at the same time. I still woke up the next day and attended tenth grade. I still rode my horses and fought with your Uncle Ben and giggled about the boys in high school. But the world had changed, and it continues to change today.
I am thinking about this on this particular day because today is the 68th Anniversary of D-Day. D-Day was a crucial turning point in a war that clearly pitted the forces of good and freedom against the forces of evil. It was a war that encompassed two continents and took millions of lives and broke an unfathomable number of hearts. Still, it was a war with clear moral purpose. Thus did the Greatest Generation save the Planet from Hitler and certain misery.
America is fighting a war now, too, but it is a more amorphous war than the one your great grandfathers fought. It is a war against anti-freedom ideology and theology. It has fuzzy lines and requires shaky alliances with questionable governments in the pursuit of sneaky, evil men who sometimes hide in caves. Even the smartest, bravest men and women in the world can't agree how to win this war, if it is winnable. A lot of good men have given their lives in pursuit of safety for Americans and their allies, and more will certainly do the same. We as free and good people do not have the advantage of a clearly defined enemy lining up in battlefields like those D-Day soldiers did. As I said, the world is changing.
I fear that it will continue to change and become more complicated in your lifetime. You are growing up at a time when computers are capable of serving as weapons, not in the sense of being physically harmful, but in many other senses. Information is exchanged in milliseconds these days, sometimes when the information is not meant to change hands. Hoards of money are susceptible to electronic attack. Privacy may become a thing of the past.
I have every confidence that your generation will adapt to these changes. You are growing up in a plugged-in world, and you will never remember a time when information was not immediately available and at the tip of your finger. Practically all of mankind (except North Korea, but I hope they have gotten it together by now) is only a button click away. It's remarkable. Still, I suspect it will create unique challenges, particularly as technology continues to march ever forward in the rest of your lifetime.
So be brave. I'm sure the world is more complicated than ever, but let your life be simple sometimes. Find love. Don't look forward to the next big thing without enjoying what you already have. Visit your mom a lot. More than anything, take advantage of the information and opinions that are available to you. Information is power, and power changes the world. Think critically, but speak kindly, and always, always look forward.
Best of luck.
Love,
Mommy
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Why Don't More Teens, like, omg LOVE Poetry?
I remember in high school when our English classes would begin poetry units, many of my classmates would groan in misery. Poetry was considered inaccessible, boring, and pointless. When my husband spent a year teaching Freshman and Senior English at his alma mater, he seemed to have a similar experience with his students.
I'm so confused by this phenomenon. These are the same humans who will listen to one song on repeat all day for a week because the lyrics, like, so sum up how they are feeling. I can probably summarize my emotional journey throughout my four years of high school using the lyrics of maybe twenty songs, all of which I listened to incessantly at some point between fall of 2000 and spring of 2004.
This explains the success of artists like Taylor Swift, who despite being a country artist, has massive trans-genre appeal. She captured this level of success not by being the best singer or songwriter in the world, but by telling teenagers' stories. Her songs are generally sweet and clever or sassy and vindictive, but they are always young and relevant. Teenagers love her.
Teenagers' emotions are amazing things. They are thinly walled, tremulously controlled, and passionately volatile. One could say the same thing for the emotions conveyed in basically any form of art. Like musical lyrics, though, poetry is one of the few forms of art that conveys these emotions through words. Many times English words. That you can read. Out loud if need be.
This is inaccessible how? I understand that some poetry is rife with complex metaphor or antiquated language and to a poetic beginner might as well be in a foreign language, but much of it is not. Many poems are just as straight forward and just as lovely, or vindictive, or sassy as a Taylor Swift song.
Just as I still have songs that I fell emotionally in love with during high school, I still have many favorite poems that grabbed me at that age. I am not saying this to make myself sound better or smarter or more versatile or worldly or arty than anyone else. I'm saying this because I wish more young people could have the kind of relationship with poetry that I had at that age.
There are poems out there that can mend hearts, inspire boldness, and save lives. (There are also many, many, many poems to break a heart, but no matter.) There are poems to fill the massive, seething voids that teenagers sometimes find in themselves. Given recent news full of bullying and teen suicide, it seems that some void filling is in order. So if you are a teenager, please give poetry a chance. If you know some teenagers, buy them a simple volume or two for their birthdays. You never know when a stanza or two might fix someone.
This is a poem-a-day website run by the Library of Congress and specifically aimed at teenagers: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/
I'm so confused by this phenomenon. These are the same humans who will listen to one song on repeat all day for a week because the lyrics, like, so sum up how they are feeling. I can probably summarize my emotional journey throughout my four years of high school using the lyrics of maybe twenty songs, all of which I listened to incessantly at some point between fall of 2000 and spring of 2004.
This explains the success of artists like Taylor Swift, who despite being a country artist, has massive trans-genre appeal. She captured this level of success not by being the best singer or songwriter in the world, but by telling teenagers' stories. Her songs are generally sweet and clever or sassy and vindictive, but they are always young and relevant. Teenagers love her.
Teenagers' emotions are amazing things. They are thinly walled, tremulously controlled, and passionately volatile. One could say the same thing for the emotions conveyed in basically any form of art. Like musical lyrics, though, poetry is one of the few forms of art that conveys these emotions through words. Many times English words. That you can read. Out loud if need be.
This is inaccessible how? I understand that some poetry is rife with complex metaphor or antiquated language and to a poetic beginner might as well be in a foreign language, but much of it is not. Many poems are just as straight forward and just as lovely, or vindictive, or sassy as a Taylor Swift song.
Just as I still have songs that I fell emotionally in love with during high school, I still have many favorite poems that grabbed me at that age. I am not saying this to make myself sound better or smarter or more versatile or worldly or arty than anyone else. I'm saying this because I wish more young people could have the kind of relationship with poetry that I had at that age.
There are poems out there that can mend hearts, inspire boldness, and save lives. (There are also many, many, many poems to break a heart, but no matter.) There are poems to fill the massive, seething voids that teenagers sometimes find in themselves. Given recent news full of bullying and teen suicide, it seems that some void filling is in order. So if you are a teenager, please give poetry a chance. If you know some teenagers, buy them a simple volume or two for their birthdays. You never know when a stanza or two might fix someone.
This is a poem-a-day website run by the Library of Congress and specifically aimed at teenagers: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/
Thursday, May 24, 2012
A love story for someone's parents' 30th anniversary
I once had a fever so severe that no one could say with any certainty whether I would live or die. My father was an anthropology man, and we were living in a place with lovely people who did not speak a word of my language, and a pack of gangly dogs who begged for scraps, and far too many mosquitoes. I was nine years old.
A woman in a brightly colored shawl came to see me during one of my bouts of foggy consciousness, and she lay hands on me and spoke in a mumbling, lilting tongue that made me feel as if she were a sorcerer from a Disney film. Afterwards, I heard my parents arguing loudly outside of our 3 room shack. My mother was accusing my father of witchcraft and false hopes while my father rebuked her, gently, humbly, but with a vague threat of limited tolerance.
The shack was charming in its own way, full of mosquito nets and clay pots. It suited us fine, with my parents sleeping on a pair of cots in one room while I slept in the room that acted as whatever it needed to be to suit our moods. There was a fairly inviting outhouse, as far as outhouses go, and a spacious kitchen with a wood stove and an oven. An ice box kept the limited meat we could find cold. We often ate with the locals who dined on bizarre things like insects and frogs, but sometimes my father would drive to town in his 1961 Jeep and come back with a leg of lamb or even some steaks.
I lay on my living room cot and stared at a mosquito net, sweating so profusely that I could feel the liquid pooling in the small of my back. It had been days since I could draw a clear distinction between wakefulness and sleep, but my parents' voices, moving in and out of earshot, were sucking me into a very clear reality.
"--never been here in the first place!" my mother snarled.
"No one asked you-- couldn't stay-- good for her anyway," my father replied in an even tone brimming with unreleased viciousness.
"--Tommorow!" my mother finished before her angry footsteps faded away.
"Good luck getting her on a plane in this state," mumbled my father to himself as he entered the shack. He spotted my open eyes and came to sit beside my cot. He folded his legs under himself and brushed my hair from my eyes.
"You're awake," he said. "How do you feel?"
"Better, a little, I think," I responded. My father wiped hair from my forehead again, and his hand came away dripping.
"I can tell what's real now," I told him.
"I guess you heard your mom and me out there, huh?" my father said.
"I don't want to leave," I said. "I can't go home without you."
"You won't need to," my father told me. "Your mom is scared, that's all."
"Scared of what?" I asked.
"Of losing you," he said, simply, while wrapping a coil of my long, blond hair around his wrist. "She couldn't live without you."
"She loves me a lot," I said.
"She does, and so do I."
"You could live without me, though," I insisted.
"I couldn't," my father replied. "I couldn't even when your mom asked me to. That's why you're here. I couldn't leave you, so I convinced your mom to come here with you, and oh god--" He was sobbing now. He buried his face in my hair and cried. "I'm sorry," he heaved. "I'm so, so sorry."
"Dad?" I said. He sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"What baby?" he asked, his voice sounding all weird and wobbly from crying.
"Go tell mom," I said.
And he did.
A woman in a brightly colored shawl came to see me during one of my bouts of foggy consciousness, and she lay hands on me and spoke in a mumbling, lilting tongue that made me feel as if she were a sorcerer from a Disney film. Afterwards, I heard my parents arguing loudly outside of our 3 room shack. My mother was accusing my father of witchcraft and false hopes while my father rebuked her, gently, humbly, but with a vague threat of limited tolerance.
The shack was charming in its own way, full of mosquito nets and clay pots. It suited us fine, with my parents sleeping on a pair of cots in one room while I slept in the room that acted as whatever it needed to be to suit our moods. There was a fairly inviting outhouse, as far as outhouses go, and a spacious kitchen with a wood stove and an oven. An ice box kept the limited meat we could find cold. We often ate with the locals who dined on bizarre things like insects and frogs, but sometimes my father would drive to town in his 1961 Jeep and come back with a leg of lamb or even some steaks.
I lay on my living room cot and stared at a mosquito net, sweating so profusely that I could feel the liquid pooling in the small of my back. It had been days since I could draw a clear distinction between wakefulness and sleep, but my parents' voices, moving in and out of earshot, were sucking me into a very clear reality.
"--never been here in the first place!" my mother snarled.
"No one asked you-- couldn't stay-- good for her anyway," my father replied in an even tone brimming with unreleased viciousness.
"--Tommorow!" my mother finished before her angry footsteps faded away.
"Good luck getting her on a plane in this state," mumbled my father to himself as he entered the shack. He spotted my open eyes and came to sit beside my cot. He folded his legs under himself and brushed my hair from my eyes.
"You're awake," he said. "How do you feel?"
"Better, a little, I think," I responded. My father wiped hair from my forehead again, and his hand came away dripping.
"I can tell what's real now," I told him.
"I guess you heard your mom and me out there, huh?" my father said.
"I don't want to leave," I said. "I can't go home without you."
"You won't need to," my father told me. "Your mom is scared, that's all."
"Scared of what?" I asked.
"Of losing you," he said, simply, while wrapping a coil of my long, blond hair around his wrist. "She couldn't live without you."
"She loves me a lot," I said.
"She does, and so do I."
"You could live without me, though," I insisted.
"I couldn't," my father replied. "I couldn't even when your mom asked me to. That's why you're here. I couldn't leave you, so I convinced your mom to come here with you, and oh god--" He was sobbing now. He buried his face in my hair and cried. "I'm sorry," he heaved. "I'm so, so sorry."
"Dad?" I said. He sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"What baby?" he asked, his voice sounding all weird and wobbly from crying.
"Go tell mom," I said.
And he did.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Your Face Is Ripply: A Short Story About Youth
I am slinking along my neighbor's fence humming to myself. The night is warm, crisp, and dark with just a sliver of moon hanging over the treetops. On cloudless nights like this, you can almost see the Milky Way. The stars steal my breath.
By going this way, I can get to Matthew's house in about five minutes. Leaving from my front door and sticking to roads, it would take me twice as long. When it's late and everyone's asleep, I sneak out the basement window, climb over the fence in the back of our property, cut through the neighbor's yard, and find myself in Matthew's development in no time. My heart is thumping in my throat. If my parents know I sneak out this way, they haven't mentioned it to me.
All of the windows in Matthew's house are dark. I sidle up to his, having to squeeze between two fastidiously maintained hedge bushes, and tap as quietly as can be. I press my ear to the window to listen for Matthew's stirring. The glass is cool. When I pull my ear away, the faintest ring of condensation is left behind. Tap, tap, tap. I am emboldened by the silence in the house, and this time I awaken Matthew. His face appears at the window, scrunched and half awake. He holds up one finger and moments later emerges from the front door.
He is wearing pajama bottoms and a thin, worn hoodie. We embrace. He smells faintly of sweat and toothpaste. "I missed you," I breathe into his neck. "You didn't tell me you were coming," he responds.
We walk hand in hand through his back yard and sit on the bank of Sherman's Creek, which runs between his property and a for-sale lot behind it. We have spent hours sitting on the bank of this creek, holding hands, arguing, smoking joints, and laughing. Yelling and making love. The water has carried away all of our secrets.
In the middle of July, Maryland plays home to a symphony. The peepers and bullfrogs are out in full force tonight, accompanied by a world of crickets and grasshoppers. Occasionally a katydid screeches her two cents into the night. The babbling water keeps time. Matthew and I just sit and listen for a while.
We split an eighth of mediocre mushrooms; enough for both of us to feel the effects, but not enough for things to get crazy. We sit and listen some more. "I missed you," I repeat. Matthew leans over and kisses my neck, once, then twice. "You, too," he whispers in my ear. My toes tingle.
He has been in South Carolina, where he spent the first 13 years of his life, for two weeks. When his plane landed this afternoon, he did not call, but he knew I would come to him. I always have. We are always drawn to each other without ever having to ask; it is not dramatic but the simplest thing in the world. His hand is electric in mine.
The frogs don't sound like frogs anymore as the psilocybin goes to work on our brains. A bullfrog bellows out just feet down the bank from us. "Steam boat," Matthew says softly, and he is right. I whistle a few bars of the song from Steamboat Willie. He chuckles. "South Carolina was bad," he says. I squeeze his hand more tightly and lean against his shoulder.
"How was he?" I whisper. Matthew only ever goes to South Carolina to see his dad, who is bad off in a drunken way and who never seems to have time for his kids. I have never met him, but rage followed shortly by pity grabs my gut every time I think about him. I am in love with a man who can never love enough because of a mean old drunk in a shitty house in Lugoff, South Carolina.
"It was shit, what do you think? It's always been shit, and it always will be shit," Matthew answers. I lift my face from his shoulder to look him in the eye, but he averts his gaze. "Your face is getting all ripply," he says,"Stay down there.You're freaking me out."
I lean back on his shoulder and watch the dancing, iridescent crowns on the ripples in the creek. They weave in and out of one another, forming faces and animals and so many dragons. Matthew sniffs. I pick up a rock and toss it into the creek, and Matthew follows suit. We develop a rhythm; plop in front of me; plop in front of him. The frogs near us have grown silent, trying to discover what new threat this is that has invaded their lives on such a serene, dark night.
Matthew is standing now, hurling his rocks downstream with all his might. He wobbles sometimes on the release, but the rocks fly straight and true downstream and land with satisfying splashes. He has removed his hoodie and is sweating through his white undershirt. His eyes are gleaming, wet in the faint moonlight. I watch him, enthralled with the tracers following his arm as he hurls rock after rock after rock. His energy flows through me and I stand, too. I begin to swing my arms along with his, and they fly through the air and they feel like wild things and I laugh.
Matthew is not laughing. Matthew is growling. Matthew is an animal, and he is in the creek up to his shins now, and he is beating a large rock with a fist-sized one and he is screaming, "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" into the night. A katydid answers hysterically. I sit down again on the bank of the creek and I watch Matthew slay the big island rock. I do not know if the sparks flying every time stone strikes stone are real or a product of my drug-enhanced imagination. I feel oddly satisfied watching a man beat the shit out of something immovable.
After a few minutes he stops screaming and shortly after that, he stops beating. He sits on the island rock with his head in his hands, heaving with labored breaths. At first I think he is sobbing, but when he stands, his eyes are dry and monstrous. He is a gladiator. Fire ripples through his slightly-too-long hair, and emanates from his finger tips. "I'm sorry," he says.
I run to him and leap into his arms, knocking him against the big rock and forcing him to sit. My lips are on his face and in his hair, on his neck. I breathe in his sweat and taste salt on his skin. "Stop," he laughs, "your face is all ripply."
We do not stop.
By going this way, I can get to Matthew's house in about five minutes. Leaving from my front door and sticking to roads, it would take me twice as long. When it's late and everyone's asleep, I sneak out the basement window, climb over the fence in the back of our property, cut through the neighbor's yard, and find myself in Matthew's development in no time. My heart is thumping in my throat. If my parents know I sneak out this way, they haven't mentioned it to me.
All of the windows in Matthew's house are dark. I sidle up to his, having to squeeze between two fastidiously maintained hedge bushes, and tap as quietly as can be. I press my ear to the window to listen for Matthew's stirring. The glass is cool. When I pull my ear away, the faintest ring of condensation is left behind. Tap, tap, tap. I am emboldened by the silence in the house, and this time I awaken Matthew. His face appears at the window, scrunched and half awake. He holds up one finger and moments later emerges from the front door.
He is wearing pajama bottoms and a thin, worn hoodie. We embrace. He smells faintly of sweat and toothpaste. "I missed you," I breathe into his neck. "You didn't tell me you were coming," he responds.
We walk hand in hand through his back yard and sit on the bank of Sherman's Creek, which runs between his property and a for-sale lot behind it. We have spent hours sitting on the bank of this creek, holding hands, arguing, smoking joints, and laughing. Yelling and making love. The water has carried away all of our secrets.
In the middle of July, Maryland plays home to a symphony. The peepers and bullfrogs are out in full force tonight, accompanied by a world of crickets and grasshoppers. Occasionally a katydid screeches her two cents into the night. The babbling water keeps time. Matthew and I just sit and listen for a while.
We split an eighth of mediocre mushrooms; enough for both of us to feel the effects, but not enough for things to get crazy. We sit and listen some more. "I missed you," I repeat. Matthew leans over and kisses my neck, once, then twice. "You, too," he whispers in my ear. My toes tingle.
He has been in South Carolina, where he spent the first 13 years of his life, for two weeks. When his plane landed this afternoon, he did not call, but he knew I would come to him. I always have. We are always drawn to each other without ever having to ask; it is not dramatic but the simplest thing in the world. His hand is electric in mine.
The frogs don't sound like frogs anymore as the psilocybin goes to work on our brains. A bullfrog bellows out just feet down the bank from us. "Steam boat," Matthew says softly, and he is right. I whistle a few bars of the song from Steamboat Willie. He chuckles. "South Carolina was bad," he says. I squeeze his hand more tightly and lean against his shoulder.
"How was he?" I whisper. Matthew only ever goes to South Carolina to see his dad, who is bad off in a drunken way and who never seems to have time for his kids. I have never met him, but rage followed shortly by pity grabs my gut every time I think about him. I am in love with a man who can never love enough because of a mean old drunk in a shitty house in Lugoff, South Carolina.
"It was shit, what do you think? It's always been shit, and it always will be shit," Matthew answers. I lift my face from his shoulder to look him in the eye, but he averts his gaze. "Your face is getting all ripply," he says,"Stay down there.You're freaking me out."
I lean back on his shoulder and watch the dancing, iridescent crowns on the ripples in the creek. They weave in and out of one another, forming faces and animals and so many dragons. Matthew sniffs. I pick up a rock and toss it into the creek, and Matthew follows suit. We develop a rhythm; plop in front of me; plop in front of him. The frogs near us have grown silent, trying to discover what new threat this is that has invaded their lives on such a serene, dark night.
Matthew is standing now, hurling his rocks downstream with all his might. He wobbles sometimes on the release, but the rocks fly straight and true downstream and land with satisfying splashes. He has removed his hoodie and is sweating through his white undershirt. His eyes are gleaming, wet in the faint moonlight. I watch him, enthralled with the tracers following his arm as he hurls rock after rock after rock. His energy flows through me and I stand, too. I begin to swing my arms along with his, and they fly through the air and they feel like wild things and I laugh.
Matthew is not laughing. Matthew is growling. Matthew is an animal, and he is in the creek up to his shins now, and he is beating a large rock with a fist-sized one and he is screaming, "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" into the night. A katydid answers hysterically. I sit down again on the bank of the creek and I watch Matthew slay the big island rock. I do not know if the sparks flying every time stone strikes stone are real or a product of my drug-enhanced imagination. I feel oddly satisfied watching a man beat the shit out of something immovable.
After a few minutes he stops screaming and shortly after that, he stops beating. He sits on the island rock with his head in his hands, heaving with labored breaths. At first I think he is sobbing, but when he stands, his eyes are dry and monstrous. He is a gladiator. Fire ripples through his slightly-too-long hair, and emanates from his finger tips. "I'm sorry," he says.
I run to him and leap into his arms, knocking him against the big rock and forcing him to sit. My lips are on his face and in his hair, on his neck. I breathe in his sweat and taste salt on his skin. "Stop," he laughs, "your face is all ripply."
We do not stop.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Rush and Bill Maher and Prostitute C-words
I wasn't going to write this. Everything I have to say has already been said, eloquently, by a lot of intelligent women. But there is one aspect to this thing that is driving me up the wall, and I can't not address it, and I'd rather do it here than over and over again on social networking sites.
When we are discussing whether Rush, when he called Sandra Fluke a "slut", was out of line, or how out of line he was, or whether he should remain on the air, the conversation should not include the past transgressions of random liberal pundits as evidence in support of the defendant. Logically, this does not make sense.
Yet, literally every single conversation thread I have encountered on the internet regarding Slutgate includes someone (conservative and male, always) complaining that no one got so upset when some liberal pundit did one thing or another. The most common example, and the one I want to address here, is when Bill Maher called Sarah Palin a cunt.
First of all, Bill Maher calling Sarah Palin a cunt has no bearing on whether or not Rush Limbaugh was wrong. Bill Maher could go around and personally call all of our moms cunts, and it still wouldn't have anything to do with this whole Limbaugh/slut fiasco. Are we clear?
Moving on,
These perpetual Maher-bringer-uppers claim that they are simply pointing out the hypocrisy in defending women in this situation, but not defending women when Bill Maher dropped that C bomb. You just don't like Rush, they claim.
True, most of the people who are really up in arms about this incident probably didn't like Rush to begin with. His storied career built around viciously attacking (via radio) minorities, women, the poor, non-Christians, drug addicts (while abusing pain medication and obtaining illegal prescriptions), the marriage-de-sanctifying gays (while being married four times), and countless other demographics has probably made him a few enemies. That being said, I know a few nice, Christian white girls who used to think he was ok, but after this incident think he is insane.
Now we get to the difference between what Maher did and what Limbaugh did. When Bill Maher called Sarah Palin a cunt, he was talking about Sarah Palin. He was talking about a specific set of personal traits and beliefs that led him to find her distasteful enough to use that word. Should he have said it? No. Is that an ok word for men to use to put women down? No. But was Maher making implications about all women when he said it? No. Aside from condoning the use of a word that should be long gone from the male vocabulary, Maher was committing a straight forward personal attack.
When Rush Limbaugh addressed Sandra Fluke on his radio program, he wasn't just talking about Sandra Fluke. Fluke, as the woman who addressed (and then didn't) Congress in the birth control mandate hearing, was representative of anyone who desired birth control outside of her economic reach. Beyond that, as Limbaugh expanded his attacks, he started making implications about females at large.
Limbaugh said that by asking "us" (taxpayers) to pay for her birth control, Fluke was asking us to pay her to have sex, and therefore a slut. He didn't seem aware or concerned with the fact that many women use birth control pills to treat unbearable menstrual symptoms, acne, ovarian cysts, and to prevent certain cancers, among countless other medical uses. By implying that a woman who asked us to pay for her birth control was asking us to pay her for having a bunch of slutty sex, he implied that all women on birth control are having a bunch of slutty sex.
The truth is, you have to take the pill every day whether you are having a ton of sex or a little sex or no sex at all. However, in the chance that a woman does have unprotected sex (consensual or non-) when she does not want a child, it is best for her and for society at large that she be on the pill. There are enough unwanted children in this world as it is. Rush clearly disagrees.
In the ensuing debate after Rush's initial name-calling, Rush jokingly suggested that women who are provided government-subsidized birth control be forced to post their sex tapes online. It was a very funny joke, except it wasn't, because it spoke to the unfathomable chasm between the way man-sex and lady-sex is perceived in our society. Men, who have not grown up on the shit side of this insane double standard, have trouble really identifying with this, in my experience.
To put it simply, a man who has a bunch of sex is widely considered cool, whereas a woman who has a lot of sex is a slut. Add to that the impossibly thin line we ladies have to walk between being a frigid prude and being a skank, and it's a tough landscape for sexually active young women. Men are encouraged to express and act on their lusts, while women are still largely required to maintain a virtuous appearance to be considered "good".
So, when Mr. Limbaugh spent three days basically calling sexually active women sluts, and then implied that it's ok for men to just, you know, masturbate to unwilling ladies' sex tapes...
Well, it was just really, really offensive. Offensive in a way that a guy calling one specific woman a cunt for specific reasons just isn't. It doesn't make me or anyone else who is enraged by this Limbaugh thing a hypocrite if we didn't really care about the Maher thing. Because they are not the same thing.
That is all.
When we are discussing whether Rush, when he called Sandra Fluke a "slut", was out of line, or how out of line he was, or whether he should remain on the air, the conversation should not include the past transgressions of random liberal pundits as evidence in support of the defendant. Logically, this does not make sense.
Yet, literally every single conversation thread I have encountered on the internet regarding Slutgate includes someone (conservative and male, always) complaining that no one got so upset when some liberal pundit did one thing or another. The most common example, and the one I want to address here, is when Bill Maher called Sarah Palin a cunt.
First of all, Bill Maher calling Sarah Palin a cunt has no bearing on whether or not Rush Limbaugh was wrong. Bill Maher could go around and personally call all of our moms cunts, and it still wouldn't have anything to do with this whole Limbaugh/slut fiasco. Are we clear?
Moving on,
These perpetual Maher-bringer-uppers claim that they are simply pointing out the hypocrisy in defending women in this situation, but not defending women when Bill Maher dropped that C bomb. You just don't like Rush, they claim.
True, most of the people who are really up in arms about this incident probably didn't like Rush to begin with. His storied career built around viciously attacking (via radio) minorities, women, the poor, non-Christians, drug addicts (while abusing pain medication and obtaining illegal prescriptions), the marriage-de-sanctifying gays (while being married four times), and countless other demographics has probably made him a few enemies. That being said, I know a few nice, Christian white girls who used to think he was ok, but after this incident think he is insane.
Now we get to the difference between what Maher did and what Limbaugh did. When Bill Maher called Sarah Palin a cunt, he was talking about Sarah Palin. He was talking about a specific set of personal traits and beliefs that led him to find her distasteful enough to use that word. Should he have said it? No. Is that an ok word for men to use to put women down? No. But was Maher making implications about all women when he said it? No. Aside from condoning the use of a word that should be long gone from the male vocabulary, Maher was committing a straight forward personal attack.
When Rush Limbaugh addressed Sandra Fluke on his radio program, he wasn't just talking about Sandra Fluke. Fluke, as the woman who addressed (and then didn't) Congress in the birth control mandate hearing, was representative of anyone who desired birth control outside of her economic reach. Beyond that, as Limbaugh expanded his attacks, he started making implications about females at large.
Limbaugh said that by asking "us" (taxpayers) to pay for her birth control, Fluke was asking us to pay her to have sex, and therefore a slut. He didn't seem aware or concerned with the fact that many women use birth control pills to treat unbearable menstrual symptoms, acne, ovarian cysts, and to prevent certain cancers, among countless other medical uses. By implying that a woman who asked us to pay for her birth control was asking us to pay her for having a bunch of slutty sex, he implied that all women on birth control are having a bunch of slutty sex.
The truth is, you have to take the pill every day whether you are having a ton of sex or a little sex or no sex at all. However, in the chance that a woman does have unprotected sex (consensual or non-) when she does not want a child, it is best for her and for society at large that she be on the pill. There are enough unwanted children in this world as it is. Rush clearly disagrees.
In the ensuing debate after Rush's initial name-calling, Rush jokingly suggested that women who are provided government-subsidized birth control be forced to post their sex tapes online. It was a very funny joke, except it wasn't, because it spoke to the unfathomable chasm between the way man-sex and lady-sex is perceived in our society. Men, who have not grown up on the shit side of this insane double standard, have trouble really identifying with this, in my experience.
To put it simply, a man who has a bunch of sex is widely considered cool, whereas a woman who has a lot of sex is a slut. Add to that the impossibly thin line we ladies have to walk between being a frigid prude and being a skank, and it's a tough landscape for sexually active young women. Men are encouraged to express and act on their lusts, while women are still largely required to maintain a virtuous appearance to be considered "good".
So, when Mr. Limbaugh spent three days basically calling sexually active women sluts, and then implied that it's ok for men to just, you know, masturbate to unwilling ladies' sex tapes...
Well, it was just really, really offensive. Offensive in a way that a guy calling one specific woman a cunt for specific reasons just isn't. It doesn't make me or anyone else who is enraged by this Limbaugh thing a hypocrite if we didn't really care about the Maher thing. Because they are not the same thing.
That is all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)